Jaw locked, teeth clenched, breath bated, he waited…

She slumped on his chest. Then reached up, guided his lips to hers, and kissed him.

Invitingly-or so he hoped. Prayed.

The tension thrumming just beneath his skin, the rigidity of his body, reached her. He felt her hesitate, then she reached up again-and tugged the blindfold from his eyes.

Watched him blink, then met his gaze. Held it as she stretched luxuriously against him-smiled as his hands locked on her hips, keeping her precisely where she was, fully sheathing him.

Her expression that of a cat who’d had her fill of cream, she held his gaze, and tossed the blindfold away. Lowered her arm and traced his cheek.

Whispered softly, “Take me, then.”

His senses leapt; reflexively, so did the rest of him, before he slammed his control back into place and locked every muscle again. Her eyes widened, but the tenor of the smile curving her lips-knowingly wanton-didn’t fade.

He met her eyes, dark, dreamy with spent passion, yet very much awake. Watching, waiting, for what he would do…

Their breaths mingled, his still tense and labored, hers softer in the aftermath of climax.

Yet another spur he did not need.

She’d issued an open invitation, hadn’t specified. He wondered if she could even conceive of the primitive urge riding him, evoked by her game.

He wanted to take her from behind, to position her on her knees before him, her skirts flipped up over her shoulders, a surrended captive, to drive into her and feel her open for him, yield to him.

His.

He licked his lips. Easing his hands from her hips, he reached up and around, and set his fingers to the buttons closing her gown.

Held her gaze as he undid them.

Told himself he’d have her as he wished-one day.

But not yet. Later, if he played tonight’s hand wisely, kept his head through the following days-even weeks-then one day he’d be able to let fall the reins and show her precisely what she was to him.

Precisely how she made him feel.

Shifting within her as little as possible, he drew her gown off, over her head. She helped, lifting her arms, wriggling free of the folds, aiding him in removing her chemise as well.

Leaving her naked but for her stockings.

He rolled her beneath him.

Nearly lost his mind when she pressed his shoulder back. “Wait.”

His control shivered, fractured, started to fall away…

She shifted beneath him. He sucked in a breath, opened his lips to tell her he couldn’t wait-

Instead, blinked, watched, amazed as, lifting one of her long legs high, she rolled her stocking down-or rather up and off. She caught his gaze as she flung it away. “I like to feel my skin against yours.”

He wasn’t about to argue; he allowed her to shift enough to perform the same feat with her other leg, noting with increasing fascination the ease with which she accomplished the deed.

New vistas blossomed in his mind.

But then she flung the second stocking away, twined both arms about his neck and drew his head down.

“There. Now you may-”

He stopped her words with a searing kiss.

Took her breath from her, ravaged her mouth, and sent her senses spinning-faster, harder, faster yet-until she arched beneath him, inchoately pleading… until he anchored her hips and drove into her.

Again, and again, and again.

He felt the reins slide and couldn’t grab them back, could only surrender to the storm. To the blinding urgency that drove his body to plunder hers.

Far from complaining, she arched beneath him, fingernails raking his back. Flagrantly demanding, commanding, wanting… as desperate as he in needing more.

He wedged her thighs wider; she went one step further, lifting her long legs, wrapping them about his hips, opening herself to him, giving him all he wished.

Heart pounding, he took, took her, gave himself.

Head back, braced above her, he let go, closed his eyes-and let the swirling power have him. Infuse him, drive him.

Felt it close in, sweep him up.

Shatter him.

Felt her cling as he shuddered, knew when she joined him.

Felt ecstasy flow through them, melding their bodies.

Felt it thunder through their veins and fuse their hearts.

Portia lay back, high on the pillows where Simon had lifted her once the tumult had passed.

Passed, but it hadn’t yet died. The aftermath still held them, heat slowly dissipating, languor weighting their limbs.

She could grow used to this; this sense of intimate closeness, the sharing, the fury. The bliss.

One arm draped over the pillows behind her head, with the other, she idly sifted his hair, the fine texture a sensual delight. He lay slumped half beside her, half over her, one arm beneath her, his head pillowed against her breast, his other hand splayed possessively over her stomach.

He was heavy, hot, and oh so real. He’d withdrawn from her only moments before; her body was slowly returning to itself, to being hers, not his, not filled with him. She felt curiously alive, senses still bright with the lingering glory, her flesh still swollen, hot, still throbbing, her pulse still racing.

In the icehouse, Kitty lay cold, beyond all such feeling.

For long moments, Portia thought of all she and Simon had already shared, and of all they might yet find between them.

And silently vowed not to make Kitty’s mistakes.

She would value trust and devotion, see love for what it was, accept whence it sprang, and with whom.

And make sure-absolutely sure-he did, too.

If what lay between them was love, she wasn’t fool enough to fight it. On the contrary; if it was love, it was worth fighting for.

She glanced down, feathered her fingers through his soft, burnished brown locks, silkier than many a woman’s.

He lifted his head, met her gaze.

She held his, then said, “I’m not going to marry you unless I want to.”

“I know.”

She wondered, wished she could see his eyes more clearly, but the moonlight had faded, cloaking them in shadows.

He exhaled, lifted from her, shifted higher in the bed and settled on his back, drawing her into his arms. The bonelessness of satiation still infusing her, she rested her head on his chest, in the hollow below his shoulder. “I want to learn more, need to learn more, but don’t read it as any degree of agreement.”

After a moment, he lifted his head and pressed a kiss to her hair. Lay back. “Go to sleep.”

The words were gentle enough; his thoughts, she suspected, were anything but. He wasn’t an intrinsically gentle man; he wasn’t the sort to resign from a fight, to ride away from the field at the first reverse. He would rally-and drive relentlessly, ruthlessly on toward his goal.

Much good would it do him; she wasn’t going to bend.

But she’d warned him-and he’d warned her. A truce of sorts, complex and conditional but enough to allow them to go on. Not just in exploring what lay between them, but in facing what the next days would bring. The “gentleman from Bow Street” and the inevitable unmasking of Kitty’s murderer. Whatever came, they would face it shoulder to shoulder, bound by an understanding so fundamental it didn’t require stating.

The day had been long; its events had wrought untold upheaval.

Minutes ticked by; the heavy thud of Simon’s heart just beneath her ear soothed and comforted.

Closing her eyes, she surrendered to the night.

Simon woke her as she’d wished to be woken the morning before.

She was a sound sleeper; her body responded to his practiced ministrations even while she slumbered. Spreading her thighs, he settled between and eased into her.

Felt her arch, felt her breath catch, then she sighed, and opened brilliant blue eyes. Eyes so dark they mesmerized; as he moved within her, he felt like he was drowning in their depths.

She rose with him, clinging, clutching, lids falling at the last as she fractured with a soft cry.

A cry that ripped through him, sank talons through striving muscle and bone, wrapped about his gut, his heart, his soul, and hauled him into the void, over the edge of the world and into sweet oblivion.

Cocooned in the covers, he lay fully atop her, acutely conscious of how well they fitted, how perfectly she matched him. She turned her head and their lips met, clinging, caressing. She held him easily in her arms, cradled between her slim thighs.

Dawn was near. He couldn’t let her sleep. He roused her further, rousted her out of bed and into her clothes.

Grumbling, she gave him to understand that early morning was not her favorite time to be sneaking around country houses.

He got her back to her room unobserved, opened her door, kissed her fingers, then bundled her in and shut the door.

Portia heard his retreating footsteps, frowned at the closed panel. She would much rather have remained, safe and warm in his arms, for at least the next hour. Long enough to recoup her energies-energies he’d very efficiently drained. Keeping pace with him through the corridors had required concentration-to keep her muscles moving, ignoring the odd twinges and aches.

She had a strong suspicion he had no real idea how… vigorous he was.

Stifling a sigh, she turned and surveyed the room.

It was as she’d left it last night, the bedcovers turned invitingly down, the window still open, curtains undrawn.

She considered the bed, surely the most sensible option given her state. But if she lay down, she’d fall asleep-she’d have to take off her gown and don her nightdress, or how would she explain to the maid?

The problem was insoluble, at least in her present state; she had insufficient energy to undo the buttons down her back that Simon had just done up.