Page 26 of The Music of Love

“That was—” Portia stopped. Really, what could she say that wouldn’t sound idiotic?

A slow, delicious smile spread across his face. “Yes, it was.”

The smile transfixed her more than if he’d produced a pistol. Portia vaguely heard the distant sound of male voices. The men had taken two lanterns but left one behind. There was just enough light that she could see the fine-grained texture of his skin and the pale glints of his night beard. Why did it surprise her that he had facial hair? He was a man, after all. Very much a man. Too much a man.

He cocked his head. “Are you trying to look at my eyes, Signora Stefani?” Before she could answer he lifted one gloved hand to the delicate frames, removed the spectacles, and carefully folded them, his lashes fanning across his cheeks like icicles on fresh snow as he slipped the glasses into a pocket. And then he looked up.

Portia was too awed to be ashamed of the sound that escaped her; his eyes were a translucent crimson surrounded by thickets of white lashes that seemed to weigh down heavy lids.

“Glorious,” she breathed.

His eyes opened wider, as if she’d said something he hadn’t expected. “Signora Stefani?”

“Yes, Mr. Harrington?” Her voice was at least two octaves lower than usual.

“I’m going to kiss you.”

“Yes,” she said, although he hadn’t asked question.

His kid-sheathed hands were cool and smooth on the thin skin of her jaws. He held her face firmly, his eyes heavy and hot as his mouth crushed hers.

Portia shuddered at the touch of his lips: he wasn’t cold like marble—he was hot. So very hot that he felt like fire. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him lower, slanting her mouth to take him deeper. Their tongues met and tangled as they probed and tasted, starved for each other like beggars at a banquet.

The voice of reason, so faint she could barely hear it, counseled her to remove her tongue and body from her employer’s person and return to her bedchambers with all haste.

It warned of dreadful consequences.

It chastised and pleaded.

And, finally it threatened.

Ultimately, however, the voice of reason buckled beneath the sheer weight of desire and Portia celebrated her body’s victory over her mind by rubbing herself along the long, hard length of the man she’d been unable to stop thinking about for weeks.

His hands slid down her sides until they spanned her waist and a low chuckle vibrated in his chest. “Oh, Signora Stefani—no stays.” He plunged into her mouth with renewed vigor, as if to consume her. He tasted of port and smoke and heat and she couldn’t take him deeply enough. She stood on tiptoes and twisted her fingers into thick white hair, drawing him closer, wrapping her lips around his tongue and sucking him in a vulgar, suggestive fashion.

He groaned and his hands moved lower, his strong fingers digging into her ample bottom and yanking her close. He thrust his powerful hips, grinding his long, hard erection against her soft belly.

The sinuous, rhythmic stroking snapped something inside her and the last remnants of reason dissipated like smoke.

A bolt of heat shot from his groin as she not only absorbed his thrusts but rubbed herself against him. Stacy spread his hands over her generous buttocks and thrust against her, chafing the sensitive skin of his hard cock against his leather breeches.

Logic, self-control, decency, and hundreds of other, more nuanced parts of his mind burned away piece by piece, leaving only a fierce, fevered hunger to be inside her.

So much for avoiding her. So much for keeping your relationship strictly business.

The chiding voice was barely a whisper and he shoved it into the corner of his mind.

Instead of backing away and behaving, he lifted her, propping her voluptuous bottom on the middle railing of the fence and nudging her legs apart with his knee. She spread her thighs wide and yanked up her skirts with one hand. The eager motion made him throb so hard it hurt. He ripped off his gloves, flung them to the ground, and reached for his placket.

But her hand was there before his and she tore at the buttons, sending at least one of them bouncing into the darkness.

A choked laugh broke from his throat.

Rather than be offended, she gave an odd, breathy laugh. “I’m sorry,” she gasped, but did not stop, her small, hot hand pushing into his breeches. His hips jerked almost out of their sockets as her tight fist moved down his shaft.

“Great. Bloody. Hell.” Stacy didn’t realize he’d cursed aloud until she gave a low chuckle. And then her deliciously callused thumb swirled over his leaking slit, using the copious moisture to slick his hard length.

She began to work him with firm, confident strokes and all rational thoughts fled. He shoved her thighs wider and ran his hands up smooth, shapely legs unencumbered by stockings, garters, or drawers. He was about to kneel and give thanks—and do something else while he was down there—but she had other plans.