Page 54 of The Music of Love

Stacy feasted on her pleasure thoroughly, like a glutton sucking the marrow from a bone. When her shuddering diminished to mere twitches he withdrew from her body.

“No, don’t leave—” Her hand shot out like a viper and caught his wrist.

“Shhh,” he murmured, kissing her clenched fingers. “I’m not leaving.”

She released him with a sigh and Stacy slid his hands beneath her bottom, positioned himself at her opening, and thrust hard, filling her as the contractions of her last orgasm tightened around him. Her lush body was flushed and sheened with sweat and he was so hard it was painful. How would he ever make this last when she was so bloody gorgeous? He sank his fingers into her hips and slowly dragged himself out before thrusting back in, his body shaking as he struggled for control.

Slow and deep. Make it last forever.

But his hips ignored him, pounding hard enough to drive her up the bed.

She gave a throaty laugh. “Yes, Stacy.” Her sheath tightened and white spangles exploded across his vision. A groan of frustration and desire broke from him and she looked up at him with hooded eyes as her hand slid around the base of his cock, circling him where they were joined, tightening around him while he moved inside her.

He shuddered and pounded into her, his fingers digging cruelly into her flesh. “Are you trying to kill me?”

Her lips curved into a wicked smile and then her beautiful, artistic fingers released him and slid between her legs. She worked herself with a skilled, almost ruthless, efficiency that told him this wasn’t the first time she’d done this. The thought of her pleasuring herself in her room down the hall all these weeks sent a punishing bolt of desire from his brain to his groin and any willpower that remained flickered and disappeared like the light from a guttering candle.

He held nothing of himself in reserve, driving as deeply as he could, again and again and again—until his mind went blank and sensation consumed him.

Portia wrapped her arms around his heaving body and smiled; this wedding night was as unlike her first one as was possible. Instead of anger and recriminations, she’d been pleasured beyond her wildest expectations. She’d never, in her entire life, been this happy. He was heavy, sweaty, and hot on top of her and she loved it. She licked the salty skin below the bandage on his neck, pleased to see his wound had not bled through with all this activity.

He laughed weakly. “You are trying to kill me.”

“Perhaps, but you will enjoy it, Mr. Harrington.”

He slowly rolled off her, his softening organ sliding out of her body. He lay on his side and pulled her closer, his face inches from hers. They looked into one another’s eyes and she became lost in his. They were too perfect, too extraordinary. She could get no sense of him by looking at them; it was like gazing into jewels. What was he like behind those magnificent eyes?

He pushed a strand of damp hair behind her ear with one finger. “I’ve always thought your eyes were black, even though I know that isn’t possible. They are velvet brown with a very light gold ring around them. I see also that you have a freckle on the side of your nose. Is it the only one?”

“I have one and a half freckles.”

“Do you?” He gave her a skeptical look. “Where is the half?”

“You’ll have to find it.”

He leaned forward to kiss her freckle and she ran a hand up the side of his body, her fingers digging into the bands of muscle that covered his ribs.

“And you, Mr. Harrington? Do you have any freckles?”

“Not a one.”

“But you have other . . . things.” Her hand moved back down his side. “Things I don’t have.”

He lifted one eyebrow and shifted his hips so she could access one of those things. His eyes fluttered shut and he sucked in a breath through his clenched teeth when her hand closed around him.

“Oh, you like that old thing, do you, Mrs. Harrington?” he asked huskily.

“Mmm hmm. This is far better than a freckle, Mr. Harrington.”

A blissful smile settled on his lips. “Portia,” the word was a sigh. “What did I do to deserve such a perfect wife?”

A chill ran down her spine at his words. She could only hope he would always feel that way.

Chapter Fifteen

Portia woke to an empty bed. She sat up and looked at the clock—it was almost ten—and then flopped back on the pillow. She should be up and about as the party would begin at two. It had been Stacy’s idea to make the day after their wedding a celebration for his tenants and everyone else who worked on the estate. Portia knew he was making the effort to be more social for her sake, and she was grateful.

“And as long as we’re having something of a public day we might as well invite the entire town.” That suggestion had given her pause. His tenants knew him, but many of the townsfolk rarely saw him unless they had a case before the magistrate.