Page 78 of A Portrait of Love

His lips parted beneath hers and she sank into him, slanting her mouth to reach deeper, tonguing him with a clumsy, desperate need which shamed and frightened her.

How had she ever thought she could avoid this? Not even one night—not even twenty-four hours—and she’d already given in to him.

Given in? You are plundering the poor man more thoroughly than Rome sacked Carthage.

She pulled away and he moaned.

“No, don’t go, Honey.”

He might be three-quarters of the way to unconsciousness but his arms were like iron strapping.

Honey squirmed. “Come, Simon, let’s get you up on the bed.”

He gave a low, wicked chuckle that rumbled through her body. “I thought you’d never ask.” He released his death grip and they staggered up together, until he was seated and she was standing before him.

His big hands slid around her waist and he pulled her between his spread thighs, his grip gentle but unbreakable. Not that she was struggling—how much danger could he be in this condition?

“Mmmm.” He lowered his forehead onto her belly, his arms wrapping around her. “I know,” he slurred into her nightgown, his breath hot even through the heavy flannel of her gown. “You smell just like honey.” He gave a deep groan of satisfaction.

“Simon?” she said when he remained motionless. “Is aught amiss?”

When he didn’t answer, Honey laid a hand on his shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze. “Are you ill?”

The only answer she got to her question was a soft snore.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Simon woke up coatless, shirtless, but still wearing his breeches and boots.

He also woke up with an armful of warm woman spooned along the front of his body.

The room was still dark, which meant he’d not slept that long. He was pleasantly numb, which meant the copious amounts of wine he’d drunk had yet to entirely wear off.

And he was also amazingly hard.

He nuzzled her hair, which had escaped her ugly cap, and inhaled deeply. She smelled sweet and pure and—

“Simon?”

“Hmm?”

“Are you awake?”

Part of him was. “No.”

She shook and he realized he’d made her laugh, which just made him harder—something he’d not believed possible.

She started to move and his arm tightened like a snake around its prey. “Where are you going?”

“Nowhere, I just want to turn around.”

Simon thought of his mouth, and how much drink he’d poured into it last night and knew his breath could melt iron. “No, you don’t,” he assured her. “Just lie here for a while. Please,” he added when he felt her stiffen.

She heaved a put-upon sigh. “For a little while.”

He nuzzled her neck, kissing the small hairs. She stiffened even more. “What?” he asked, although she hadn’t spoken. “I’m just sniffing you.”

“With your mouth?”