Page 37 of The Music of Love

He’d just finished playing the adagio sostenuto for the umpteenth time when he felt her presence. He stopped but did not turn around.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Harrington.” Her voice was hushed, not at all like her usual lively tone. He felt the heat of her body behind him. “A lovely piece of music.”

“I find it captivating.”

“You are doing quite well with it.”

“Ah, but you have only heard the first part. I’m afraid the last of it is beyond my abilities.”

“Presto agitato.” He heard the smile in her voice.

“Will you play it for me, Signora Stefani?” His voice was raw and husky, like a man who needed a drink of water. Or something stronger.

She hesitated so long he thought she hadn’t heard him. But then she sat down beside him. He began to rise.

“Stay.” Her voice was low but firm. She moved closer to him and although he gave her room on the bench their bodies still touched.

Stacy had never heard the piece played by anyone but himself. He knew how it should be played and he could hear the music inside his head, but he’d failed to imagine its ferocious beauty.

Her hands commanded, caressed, and ultimately beseeched, all the while demonstrating complete mastery of the instrument before her. The music rampaged through his body like a violent marauder intent on wrecking his peace of mind and stealing his soul.

By the end Stacy was sweating, his heart was pounding, and he felt distinctly light-headed. Whether that was from the force of the music or the pressure of her thigh against his, he could not have said.

She removed her hands from the keys and laid them palm-up in her lap. “I am with child.”

Not until she said the actual words did Stacy realize how much he rejoiced at her news—news that would surely be a misfortune for her. He turned to face her.

She was waiting for him and her hands went around his neck even as his slid around her body. He crushed her mouth under his. The kiss was the physical equivalent of the music she’d just played: fierce, unbridled, and mad. He couldn’t get deep enough inside her, couldn’t get enough of her mouth, her taste, her heat. It felt like years since that glorious night in the stables.

She made a gravelly noise in her throat and her fingers threaded into his hair and tugged painfully as her mouth moved from his lips down his face. She bit him on the chin, hard.

Stacy heard himself utter the words he swore he’d not speak. “I want you. Now.”

She groaned into his mouth. “I’ve thought about this—dreamed about it.” She removed his glasses, making the same noise she’d made the last time they’d looked into each other’s eyes. It was a noise he’d thought of each and every time he’d had to spill into his fist to be rid of her, even if only for a few hours.

He pulled her to her feet and shoved the bench back with his foot before sweeping the music off the piano. She turned, leaned all the way forward, and gripped the edges of the instrument. When she looked over her shoulder at him, her smile the most wanton he’d ever seen.

Stacy pulled up her skirts. Good Lord! She was wearing stockings and garters and a chemise so brief it barely covered her bottom.

“Mother of God,” he muttered. She tried to turn around. “Stay exactly where you are,” he ordered, drinking in the sight of her. “I believe you are trying to drive me mad,” he accused in a voice he didn’t recognize. Her answering laugh was low and wicked.

She was pink, shapely, and perfect, her bottom so like a peach he could barely resist taking a bite.

But that would have to wait. Right now he needed her fast and hard.

“Hold up your skirts.”

She grasped the fabric, leaned even lower, and thrust her hips back, offering herself to him.

“Bloody hell,” he breathed. He needed at least one taste of her. He dropped to his haunches and ran his tongue along the skin above her plain white stockings. She moaned and her feet spread wider, bringing her sex lower. Stacy ran his tongue up the back of her thigh and over her perfectly formed bottom, stopping when he reached the base of her spine. She shivered as he breathed heavily on the fine down, and then whimpered when he slid a hand between her thighs and parted her damp curls. The pad of his thumb grazed her slick, swollen bud and she jerked against him, muttering something he couldn’t hear.

An evil imp prodded him. “What did you say?” he teased, stilling his hand.

“Please. . . please,” the word came out in a hiss and she pushed against him with needy abandon.

He pushed his thumb inside her and stroked, until he found what he sought.

She bucked and bit out a very filthy word and he chuckled, reaching around her with his other hand, stroking between her swollen lips while he began to work her, pumping harder and deeper as she ground against him.