A Portrait of Love (The Academy of Love #3) - Minerva Spencer Page 0,51
his memory, either.”
She gave a choked, watery laugh, but her eyes glistened even more.
Hell.
“You mustn’t look that way—it was a long time ago. I am all healed, none the worse.” He held his hands out, palms up. “See?” But his words seemed to have the opposite effect and one fat tear slid down her down her cheek.
“Oh bugger, don’t do that,” he begged, as a second and then a third followed, until there were two solid trails.
On impulse he reached out and brushed at one tear-stained cheek with the back of his fingers. Instead of pulling away, she pressed her soft cheek against his palm.
It was all the encouragement he needed and his arms slid around her.
“Here now, shhh,” he murmured into her thick wheat-blond hair, which smelled of lemons.
“I’m sorry,” she said against his shoulder, her voice muffled. “I don’t know what is wrong with me. I always seem to be either yelling or crying around you. What is it about you that makes me so emotional?” She gave a watery gurgle of a laugh. “It’s just—”
“Yes? What is it?” he asked, not wanting to move, not wanting her to remember where she was—who she was with—and pull away.
He could feel the tension in her body as she struggled to find the words to answer.
Finally, she just shrugged. “It’s just such a horrid, horrid waste.”
Simon knew exactly what she meant. Yes, war was a waste—a tragedy for everyone involved. It stunned him that she—who had never seen it first-hand—could know that so viscerally. He pulled back and looked down at her, needing to see her face.
She blinked up at him, her lashes glittering with tears, the tip of her small nose red, her lower lip full and tremulous.
So, of course he kissed her.
Chapter Fifteen
The prudent part of Honey’s brain was hoarse from screaming Run!
Honey didn’t care if the voice was right—in fact, she was certain it was. But she simply did not care about anything other than having his lips on hers, his body against hers. He was Simon—not sneering and cruel—but the Simon she remembered.
Unlike in the maze, this time when his mouth opened over hers, she knew what to expect; she even knew what to do.
She touched his tongue with the tip of her own and his arm tightened, pulling her so tight to his body that she could hardly breathe.
Their tongues tangled as Honey invaded him as ruthlessly—and probably with as much finesse—as a marauding Viking.
Her hands were trapped between them and it was a struggle, but well-worth it, to push away just enough to slide her fingers beneath his coat. His torso was hard and hot and her body flamed at the memory of his skin beneath her fingers.
While she was frantically tugging at his shirt he massaged her back in long, hard strokes, his touch firm and strong as he traced the outline of her body, his clever fingers quickly finding the top edge of her stays beneath the thin silk of her gown.
He made a noise of frustration and, without warning, picked her up by her waist and set her across his lap, the action pulling her hands from his body.
“But—” she mumbled, her mission to expose his skin to her hands thwarted before its successful completion.
“Shhh,” he whispered, kissing her with renewed vigor. This time, when his tongue swept between her parted lips, she sucked him into her mouth.
He groaned, accepting her invitation and exploring her deeply, his thorough, demanding kisses leaving her breathless and dizzy.
Honey’s eyelids fluttered shut as he began to nibble and kiss his way down her chin to her throat, his free hand lightly stroking her midriff in ever increasing circles.
His mouth arrived at her chest and she felt the hot, slick tip of his tongue trace the top edge of her snug bodice. She shuddered as his finger inadvertently brushed over a taut, pebble-hard nipple pressed against the silk.
And then he did it again.
The third time he did it, she realized it was no accident.
Honey arched into his hand as he palmed her breast.
“So sweet,” he murmured. “But I need to taste you.”
Warm, strong fingers slid beneath the already low neckline of her bodice, pulling the thin fabric beneath her breasts, the taut material forming a shelf that pushed them higher.
A vague image of how wanton she must appear—sprawled and half-naked—coalesced in her mind but Honey ignored it, instead arching her back and presenting herself to him like a pagan offering.