Page 127 of A Portrait of Love

“Ah, you like what you do to me.”

She didn’t demur.

“You witch,” he hissed, parting her folds and thrusting his tongue into her.

Their groans blended into a primitive rumble of need.

Simon laved from her core to her pearl, her eyelids fluttering as she struggled to keep her eyes open.

“Who do you belong to?” he demanded when she began grinding and bucking against his face.

Her eyes were lust-drunk and she was panting, her pale torso passion-splotched.

“Who?” he snarled.

“You, Simon. I belong to you.”

“Mine,” he growled, lowering his mouth and showing her that she was, in every way, his to command.

***

When Honey woke, Simon was already gone. That wasn’t unusual as he preferred to ride at the break of dawn. She’d gone with him once or twice, but he was like a demon in the saddle and she’d only held him back.

He’d been like a demon in bed last night, as well.

Honey’s face heated at the memory of what he’d done—what they’d done. He’d taken her four times, seemingly insatiable.

You were more than a bit insatiable yourself.

Honey could not deny that. The last time they’d joined, just before dawn, it had been Honey who’d reached between his thighs and woken him.

She covered her hot face with her hands, shocked by her behavior in the bright light of day.

He has you so tied in knots that you’d do anything—believe anything.

She dropped her hands and stared at nothing as the words sank in. It was true what he’d said last night—about the jealousy—shameful, but true. Thinking about Simon with that woman had given her upsetting, but erotic feelings. She’d also felt violent toward him.

Her emotional response was more than a little irrational; after all, if he’d fathered a child more than a decade before they were married, why should it affect her so?

The question had an equally irrational answer: it bothered her because he was hers. He belonged to her.

Honey sighed. As he’d said, jealousy made no sense.

She rose from the tangled sheets, grimacing at the aches and stiffness. You’d think after so many nights with him that her body would no longer be sore, but Simon seemed to find new ways to stretch and bend her.

Smiling to herself, she slipped into her robe and then pulled back the drapes. It was a perfect fall day, the cerulean sky a gorgeous backdrop for the changing foliage. She would take her sketchpad and—

Something moved down by the edge of the park; it was a rider—no, two.

As they drew closer, she recognized Simon, but not the other man. He was small; perhaps it was Wilkins. The two men were as thick as—

The smaller person suddenly removed their hat, shaking out long dark hair.

So, not Wilkins, after all ….

Honey’s jaw sagged. “What in the name of—”

It was Bella MacLeish.