A Portrait of Love (The Academy of Love #3) - Minerva Spencer Page 0,37

stop. The woman was obviously a virgin—perhaps even when it came to kisses, which she accepted with adorable awkwardness, but hadn’t yet returned.

Simon had not meant to touch her, but when she’d leaned toward him, bad thoughts—or good ideas, depending on which way one looked at it—had ricocheted around inside his head.

His recent amorous activities over at The George had opened a door that had been closed since that fateful day in June. Hell, for a good long while before Waterloo.

Kissing her was the least of what he’d been thinking about. He told himself that he was behaving quite well in comparison to what he really wanted to do to her.

But that other voice in his head—his conscience? —was not convinced by the argument and harangued him.

Somehow that chiding voice found the strength and volume to be heard: She’s an innocent, not a lusty bar wench intent on adding another notch to her belt by sleeping with the local lord’s feckless brother.

Simon was temporarily distracted by the observation, but he couldn’t stop himself and he didn’t want to, so he shrugged the voice away, easily dislodging his weaker, better angel from its perch.

Good God, she was sweeter than anything he’d tasted in a long, long time.

He plunged into her mouth while holding her steady, her willowy body pliable, soft, and hot in his hands, her tongue clumsy but enthusiastic to return his attentions. She was a tall woman but her bones felt as fine as those of a bird.

Her hands were awkward on his torso but her touches were eager enough to make him hot and hard with desire.

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