Page 58 of The Music of Love

He stared down at her with a dazed expression, his lips parted and his chest rising and falling as if he’d been running. He shook his head and then took her arms and lifted her to her feet.

“Portia.”

She turned, refusing to look at him.

She hated him.

She loved him.

Stacy felt as though his head had been emptied of all rational thought as he lifted her to her feet: Holy. Bloody. Hell. She wasn’t on fire—she was fire.

She would not look at him and a hot wave of shame rolled through him. He’d just spent in her mouth, thrusting into her so deeply he’d felt the back of her throat. He squeezed his eyes shut, as if that would somehow erase his savage behavior; once again he’d used her harder than he’d ever used any prostitute.

He had to apologize; he needed to assure her this wouldn’t happen again.

He tried to pull back but she clung to him. “I’m sorry, Portia.”

She merely clung harder.

“Portia, look at me.” He could hear the exhaustion in his voice. It had been a long week.

“No.”

He gave a tired chuckle at the petulant sound and took her chin, forcing it up. “I’m sorry—I should have never done—” Christ, what did one call his behavior of a few moments earlier?

“I wanted it.”

He blinked at the unexpected words and then met her mulish look—a look that dared him to say he’d not enjoyed himself. Well, perhaps he would address the matter of his brutish behavior some other time. He held her gaze. “As much as I enjoyed the second part of this passionate interlude I still don’t understand—why are you so angry with me?”

She clenched her jaws tight enough that he could see the sinews and muscles beneath the skin.

Stacy sighed. “I don’t know what you heard today but I did not lie with any prostitutes when I went to Plymouth. I have not been with another woman since meeting you. Surely you cannot be angry about what I did before I met you?”

Her black eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“Portia?” he prodded when she didn’t say anything, “are you angry about things I did before we met?”

“No.” She sounded like she was, anyhow.

Stacy wanted to strangle her. Instead, he took her in his arms and kissed her tangle of wild black hair, inhaling the already familiar scent of her. Lavender on fire. “You are enough woman for me,” he murmured and then laughed. “More than enough; I don’t want anyone else.”

He felt her squirm and released her.

She looked up at him with eyes that were wounded and ashamed. “I’m a jealous woman.”

Stacy barely caught his snort of amazement in time.

“I warned you before you married me,” she said. “When I think about you with another woman I want to throw something. Or hurt somebody. You, I suppose.” She gave him a miserable half-smile and shoved him in the chest with her strong pianist’s hands.

“I have no plans to be with any woman other than you. I believe in fidelity. I suppose I should have told you that, but I assumed you knew that.” He stared at her, unsure of where this passion came from or what he could say or do to soothe her. “Turn around,” he finally said, his fingers going to the torturous row of buttons on her gown. “Why did Daisy not undress you?”

“I was too angry.”

“Mmm.” He decided to leave the subject alone until he had her naked in bed, where the only thing she could hurl at him was her body.

He released her from her stays and stockings and tucked her beneath the covers before extinguishing the candles and joining her. She snuggled against him, her body deliciously soft and warm.

“Why didn’t you want me tonight, Stacy?” she demanded through a yawn.