Page 39 of A Portrait of Love

She had elegant but strong fingers and Simon wanted to feel them on his bare skin.

He yanked the long tail of his shirt from his buckskins, took her by the wrist, and shoved her hand beneath the fine muslin. For a moment he thought she might bolt, but then her fingers slid up over his belly, toward his chest. He released an explosive sigh at the feel of her long, cool fingers on his hot skin.

His cock was full and cramped in his snug leathers and he shoved it to one side—as if that would somehow ease the discomfort of his condition—before resuming his own explorations.

Her gown was made of some light, summer-weight fabric and designed to be loose-fitting. He could feel the boning of her stays beneath it as he lightly caressed up her side. She shivered but did not pull away. In fact, her second hand joined the first beneath his shirt and she shifted her body to better access him.

He shivered when a touch softer than a fluff of down trailed over his hardened nipple before drifting to the wreckage that was his left side. The disfigured skin had suffered extensive nerve damage but the tissue-thin skin remained oddly sensitive.

She made a noise somewhere between a choke and a gasp; Simon pulled away just enough to see her face.

Her dazed gray eyes were coal black, the pupils enormous. While she stared up at him her hands widened their range of motion, stroking from his nipples to the waist of his buckskins, the tips of her fingers slipping beneath the leather and brushing low on his sensitive belly, coming tantalizingly close to the swollen head of his prick.

“Mmmm, that feels so good,” he praised, leaning close to kiss her parted lips, penetrating her with a teasing flick of his tongue.

He stared, transfixed, as innocent lust transformed her features, her raw desire making his erection ache so hard it hurt.

Simon knew that he could mount her right where they sat; he could lift her onto his lap and sheath himself balls-deep in her tight, virginal heat.

Yes, he could take her, but he wouldn’t.

Not even he was such a dog as to deflower a woman on a cold, stone bench.

Simon had just sucked in a ragged breath to do his gentlemanly duty—even though he’d stopped being a gentleman years ago—when she once again found his right nipple and commenced to circle the sensitive nub with erotic insistence.

A low, animal groan escaped him and his hand moved up her side and over her stays until he cupped the gentle swell of her breast. He despised himself and what he was doing, but then despising himself was nothing new.

He flicked his thumb over the thin bodice that could not conceal her taut bud and her hands froze on his body as every particle of her being focused on where his thumb was touching. He could feel the rapid palpitations of her heart beneath his palm and it reminded him of a hummingbird. A trapped, powerless hummingbird.

Christ.

She was breathing so hard and fast Simon thought she might lose consciousness.

He drew in every ounce of will he possessed and was just about to pull back, to release her, when her hands tightened on his torso, her fingernails grazing his nipple.

He almost screamed at the jolt of pleasure that ripped through him. The leash he’d kept on his desire snapped and he claimed her mouth again, harder and deeper this time, both his thumbs teasing and circling her small, thrusting nipples.

“Open my breeches,” he murmured in a voice that was thick and hoarse, licking and sucking the hot, damp skin of her throat hard enough to mark her.

She stiffened as if somebody had inserted a rod up her spine and snatched her hands from his body.

Simon closed his eyes and exhaled noisily. Part of him—the hard part—wanted to howl in sexual frustration. But the rest of him congratulated himself on avoiding the despicable, and ultimately unwise, action of deflowering a virgin.

Simon brushed her delicate jaw with the back of his fingers. “It was the right decision, Miss Keyes. I have nothing to give you that is worth having,” he whispered, leaning in to deposit a light peck on the cheek.

He stood and began tucking his shirt into his buckskins. Her eyes dropped to his distended breeches and the thick, hard ridge that was the only thing he had to give her.

Her lips were swollen and slick from what was—he wagered—if not her first kiss, then certainly not far behind. Her sharp, jerky motions as she put herself back together told him that she was not just embarrassed, she was angry—at both Simon and herself.

Later, when she was alone with her thoughts, he knew that she would start hating him for exposing her to such mortification.

Simon felt a pang that she would hate him, but that was just as well; he had nothing to give her and everything to take.

He held out a hand. “Come,” he said, more brusquely than he felt, “I will assist you out of the maze.”

Simon wasn’t surprised when she ignored his hand and stood without his assistance, her eyes like daggers made of gray ice.

“I can find my own way.” She snatched up her satchel, her delicate nostrils flaring with suppressed fury, pink slashes of color high on her cheeks.