Page 90 of A Portrait of Love

She hesitated, and then said, “No.”

The soft word sent blood thundering through his veins. “Did you like it?” he asked, his eyes raking over her like red hot nails pulled from a forge. “Did you?” he repeated when she only gaped up at him.

She gave a jerky nod.

More telling than her nod was the way her pupils flared.

“You know that I’ve been away from polite society for a decade and a half. I lived among my men, many of whom were from the lower orders. What that means is that I am blunt and vulgar and less than gentlemanly in some ways.” He snorted. “Likely in many ways.” He flexed his jaws as he took in her flushed cheeks. “I daresay I’m especially raw when it comes to sexual matters.” She jolted at the word sexual. “You must tell me to stop if I ever do something you do not like. Do you understand?”

The pulse at the base of her throat was fluttering madly by the end of his ungentlemanly speech. She gave an infinitesimal nod.

“No, this is too important, Honoria. Please answer me.”

She cleared her throat. “I understand.”

“Good.” He took her hand and placed it over the obscene bulge beneath his towel. “Do you find this repellent?” he asked, his second question an echo of the first.

Her eyelids lowered and she swayed slightly. But she did not pull away. “No.”

“I am pleased and relieved to hear that.” Simon leaned forward and kissed the fine down of her jaw. “I want to put it inside your body.” She shuddered, but still did not move away. “I want to make love to you, Honoria,” he said, using a French phrase he’d heard for coitus—one he’d thought pretty for such an earthy act.

“Ma-make love?”

“Mmm-hmm.” He kissed her neck beneath her ear, grazing the madly pounding vein in her throat, his hands moving to the back of her dress where he encountered—thank God—only a short row of buttons.

Her palm rested limply over his cock.

“Stroke me,” he ordered.

Finesse, you dog. Show some damned finesse. This woman is an innocent—or near enough.

I won’t hide my true self from her.

Even if he could pretend to be somebody different—a cool, bloodless, elegant dandy, for instance—he wouldn’t do it, especially not with somebody important to him.

Simon wanted to know this fascinating woman—the real Honoria Keyes—and he wanted her to know the real him, warts and all.

The sexual part of marriage was important to him and he refused to go to her under the cloak of darkness and hide their actions beneath blankets.

Just when he started to believe that his raw command might have repulsed or frightened her, her fingers traced jerkily up his shaft.

Simon grunted with pleased surprise. “That feels good,” he said roughly, his clumsy fingers coming to the last button of her gown. He leaned back so he could see her. “Open your eyes, Honoria.” He wanted her to know who it was she was giving herself to—every step of the way.

Her pupils were huge and her breaths were uneven and shallow, but her hand continued to move.

“Yes, like that, but harder.”

They stood that way for a moment: Simon struggling to seize control of his desire and her driving him to the brink of madness.

“Remove your hand. I want to take off your pretty dress,” he said through clenched jaws when he could bear her stroking no longer.

When she jerked away, as if he’d rejected her, he realized that he needed to do better—to explain what was happening.

“Look at me, love.”

He’d guessed correctly: she had taken his rough words as a rejection of her touch.

“I cannot recall ever wanting a woman as badly as I want you, Honoria. It is difficult for me to go slowly—to stop myself from rushing.”