Page 38 of The Music of Love

Stacy had just settled into a pleasurable rhythm when her hips jerked and then froze. She gave another low, animalistic growl and then shouted something in another language; something loud enough to be heard down in the kitchens, or perhaps even the stables.

Her climax drenched his hand and she’d not stopped contracting around his finger when she began to push back against him: She wanted more.

Stacy almost laughed at the feline sound of displeasure she made when his hand left her body. He stood up and tore open his placket. “Hold your skirts higher.” He pressed his erection against her bare bottom and groaned with pure joy, lowering his mouth to her neck and kissing, nibbling, and licking.

When she was holding her skirts up to her waist he turned her face until her profile was facing him. He traced her parted lips with the hand that had brought her to climax. She sucked his thumb into her mouth without hesitation, tonguing and stroking him with a suggestiveness that made him ache to be inside her.

“My God,” he whispered, and then slid his free hand between her legs and found what he wanted. “Tell me how I should fuck you,” he ordered, thumbing her stiff, sensitive bud. “I want to hear you say it.”

Her body shuddered at the vulgar word and Stacy guided his shaft between her spread thighs and pushed the slick crown against her tight opening, but not enough to breech her. “Tell me,” he said harshly, ceasing his suggestive stroking.

She canted her hips even more and shoved back against him. “Hard, Stacy. Fuck me hard.”

Stacy lifted her off the ground with the force of his thrust and she fell forward over the piano, one hand slamming down on the keys and filling the room with a clamor that was no match for the one inside him. He grabbed both her wrists and spread her arms until she held the edges of the instrument.

“Stay put.”

And then he grabbed her hips and tilted them, holding her just so before pulling out. She hissed and he knew he’d found the angle that would suit them both to perfection. The next time he entered her he worried he might come out the other side of her body.

“Harder,” she murmured.

Stacy used her like an insane man, his body and mind beyond his control. When she climaxed he rode the storm of pleasure right behind her, burying himself to the hilt and filling the part of her that already held his child.

Their child.

It was the most explosive orgasm of his life, an excruciating cataclysm that wracked his body with seemingly endless waves of pleasure before leaving him light-headed and weak.

It was possible he actually fell asleep while still on his feet and seated deep inside her. Her body shifted slightly beneath him and reality intruded; he was crushing her against the unforgiving hardness of the piano. He withdrew reluctantly and then shook out her rumpled, creased skirts before tucking himself into his breeches.

She gave a sigh of pure pleasure, her head resting on her forearms, which were crossed on the piano. “Mmmm. That was . . .”

“Yes, it was,” he agreed.

She laughed huskily and pushed herself upright, walking with a stiff-legged gait toward the gold framed mirror. Stacy went to the settee in the darkest corner of the room. He watched her smooth her dress and fuss with her hair, which was wild and would take far more than mere smoothing to return to its tidy chignon.

“Please come here, Signora Stefani.”

Her shoulders stiffened at his cool command, but she turned, the light behind her obscuring her face. Not for the first time did he curse the ridiculous darkness he’d imposed on his house: he would have given a great deal to see her expression just then.

As she picked her way toward him Stacy lit two candles beside the settee.

She sat and he turned to face her. “I have an embarrassing confession to make.”

She cocked her head, her expression haughty. “Oh?”

“I’m ashamed to admit I do not know your Christian name.”

Her look of surprise was priceless and her laughter made him smile. “It is Portia.”

“Portia,” he repeated. “It is a beautiful name and it suits you.” He took her hand. “I know this—” he waved his hand in an encompassing gesture, “is not what you expected when you came here to teach music, but we are beyond that now.” He paused and she remained motionless. Stacy did not know whether that was a good or bad sign, but he had to press onward. “We are not well-acquainted but I believe we share at least one passion. Well, two, actually.” He grinned and her eyes widened and flickered to his mouth; did he really smile so rarely? He shook the thought away. “There are people who marry after far less acquaintance and I do not think we are as ill-matched as many couples.” He paused and she nodded slowly, her expression difficult to read.

“Portia, would you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?” He heard her breath catch in her throat and he plunged on. “I think you are not repelled by me?”

Her lips, full and bruised from their recent lovemaking, curved. “No, Mr. Harrington. Repellant is not a word I would use to describe you. You might be the least repellant man I’ve ever met.”

Her disclosure sent blood rushing to his groin. Again.

But then the smile drained from her face. “I didn’t tell you I was pregnant to trap a proposal from you.”