Page 80 of The Music of Love

Again he flicked her, the same light, taunting touch tormenting her while he gently but inexorably pushed her legs wider, until her hip sockets pulsed with an exquisite pain.

“Please, Stacy.”

He stopped teasing and began to stroke her in earnest. Unspeakable pleasure flooded her body and reduced every thought to one: want. He sucked her swollen bud into the soft heat of his mouth and slid a finger inside her. She tightened around him while he found the spot that seemed to be his very own discovery. While he worked her from within, his clever lips and tongue teased out her first climax.

Indecent sounds and words burst from her and her hands gripped the tub until they were numb and still he didn’t stop. A second wave of pleasure obliterated the small piece of her mind that remained and left her gasping for breath. Her head fell back and she lowered her shaking arms until her elbows rested on the rim of the tub, her body spread wantonly before him.

She was on a blissful cloud when he pushed to his feet, his abrupt motion sending waves over the high copper sides and water fanning out over the wooden floor.

In a few brusque motions he lifted her, set her on her feet, and bent her over the tub, shoving her knees wide before stroking her hot cleft with his equally hot shaft. And then he thrust into her so hard she had to brace her hands to keep from falling over the rim and into the water.

He pulled all the way out and teased her entrance with his swollen head as he wound her hair around his hand, the motion arching her back and back and back until she felt her spine might snap. He held her body taut and immobile while he breached her only with the fat crown.

The demonstration of raw power made her tighten around him and he gasped, slamming deeply into her, holding her arched, stretched, and filled.

“Have you missed this?” he hissed, his chest slick and hard against her back, his breath hot against her ear. “Have you missed my cock inside your body? My fingers? My tongue?” he taunted before pounding her with a series of savage thrusts that left her dizzy. He stopped again, buried to the hilt, his shaft so hard she could feel him pulsing inside her.

“Did you pleasure yourself, Portia?” His voice throbbed with a tangle of desire, anger, and hurt. “I did. I stroked myself raw thinking about you.” He pulled out with agonizing slowness and then impaled her with a brutal thrust.

Portia almost climaxed from his words alone.

“Did you slide your fingers inside your body and imagine they were mine? Can you make yourself wet the way I do?” He didn’t wait for an answer but rode her with a violent intensity that obliterated her wits.

She knew, for the first time in all their lovemaking, he was not considering her needs, but using her for his own pleasure.

That unexpected streak of selfish cruelty only made her want him more.

He gave a last flurry of brutal, sharp thrusts, and then hilted himself, his fingers digging into her hips, his shaft thickening and jerking as he pumped his release deep inside her body.

For one blinding moment she was complete—at one with him—but his tremors hadn’t even receded before he stepped back and left her empty.

Portia’s arms were shaky as she pushed up from the hard rim of the tub, echoes of her climax still rippling through her body. She watched through a pleasure-drenched haze as he picked up one of the towels, cleaned his still tumescent organ, and tossed the linen to the floor without looking at her.

And then he strode from the room and shut the door behind him with a decisive click.

Portia hadn’t given much thought to what Thurlstone Castle would look like but she’d assumed the country seat of an earl—and a castle, at that—would be impressive. Nothing prepared her for what greeted them when their carriage crested the rise. The house was an endless succession of structures that sprawled in all directions, more impressive for its sheer size than its elegant architecture. Indeed, it looked wholly English and nothing like the castles of Europe. The central portion—a crenelated tower that lent the edifice its name—must have served a defensive purpose in the distant past. But the once-majestic tower was now ringed by buildings and additions and resembled a squat debutante in a dress that bore too many furbelows and flounces.

The land that surrounded it, by contrast, was as meticulously and mathematically laid out as an ancient Roman military encampment. An immense formal garden extended to the south and west and a thin ribbon of blue led to a placid pond surrounded by carefully orchestrated clusters of trees.

It was closer to the sea than Whitethorn and one could hear the sound of breakers and smell the tang of salty air. As they descended the hill the ancient trees that lined the drive obstructed most of their view. The only thing visible inside the tunnel of autumn foliage was the entrance to Thurlstone some distance ahead. The entire estate was impressive, but Portia could not help thinking the less structured wilderness that held sway around Whitethorn was more to her taste.

Not that she would have cared if the place had been a hovel. After their torrid encounter at the inn and Stacy’s frigid indifference, she’d hardly been able to keep from running back to Whitethorn on foot.

When she’d finally emerged from the dressing room last night, he’d behaved toward her with the same icy courtesy he’d employed for over a month. If she’d had any feelings of remorse about lying to him before, she had an entirely different set of feelings toward him now. If a battle of wills was what he wanted, that was exactly what she would give him. Last night was the last time she would show her desire for him. Ever.

“Oh look, ma’am,” Daisy interrupted Portia’s venomous musings to point out a distant sliver of blue between two massive tree trunks. Portia ignored the sight and looked instead at her husband, who rode on that side of the carriage. He chose that moment to look at the window, as if sensing somebody watching him. Portia gave him a blinding smile and was childishly pleased when his lips parted in surprise. She turned to see Daisy watching them, a disapproving wrinkle between her eyes. Portia ignored her and stared out the opposite window.

The carriage rolled to a stop in front of two lines of people that stretched from the huge, metal-studded castle doors to the middle of the drive. It looked as if her new sister and brother-in-law had assembled every servant on the property to greet them.

Viscount Pendleton himself lowered the carriage steps and opened the door.

“Mrs. Harrington,” the viscount exclaimed, his handsome face wearing a genuine smile. “Welcome to Thurlstone.”

Prinny himself could not have received a warmer welcome.

Lord Pendleton’s wife waited for them at the top of the shallow, worn steps, her exquisite pale green gown making Portia feel travel-stained and frumpy.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” the viscountess and duke’s daughter murmured, her lips flexing into a slight smile. Her cool manner matched her icy blonde exterior. She was not as thrilled by their visit—or at least not as demonstrative—as her exuberant spouse. She was to be addressed as Lady Rowena, rather than Lady Pendleton. It appeared she preferred to use her courtesy title as a duke’s daughter.