A Portrait of Love (The Academy of Love #3) - Minerva Spencer Page 0,74

so much?

He closed his eyes against the unwanted thought and worked himself with ruthless efficiency.

The familiar sensation of his calloused palm dragged him back to the Continent, back to the war. He’d pleasured himself more as an adult on campaign than he had as an adolescent at Eton.

Actually, school and war were not entirely dissimilar, he thought with some amusement, his fist slicking as he stroked.

In between the mad, violent moments of terror, pain, and fear there had been long, tedious expanses of dreadful anticipation. A man could go insane worrying and waiting to die, so keeping oneself amused was paramount. And there were limited distractions when one was alone, in a tent, in the dark.

Yes, one’s priorities in life were both clearer and less elevated when one’s head might get split open by lead at any moment.

Thoughts of wars and long, cold, lonely nights gave way to the insistent pumping of his fist and Simon was building toward his climax when a tiny sound disturbed him.

He opened one eyelid a crack; there was his wife, fully dressed and ready for travel, standing in the doorway between their rooms, her eyes and mouth as round as wagon wheels.

Even in the midst of his arousal he realized this was probably the first time she’d seen a man’s penis in all its glory. Simon waited for her to realize he’d opened his eyes and seen her, but she couldn’t tear her gaze from his cock.

Which made him painfully, gloriously hard.

He liked her eyes on his body; he liked masturbating in front of her—something he’d never done for a lover before.

Bloody hell! He was ten times more aroused than he’d been mere seconds earlier.

Too damned aroused.

His body began to shake and his fist stroked faster, harder. Rational thought fled and Simon’s eyes rolled back in his head. Pleasure seized him in its brutal grasp and squeezed. His back arched off the bed and every part of him froze as heat pulsed out of him, splashing onto his belly and chest.

A short time later, after Simon finally came back from his small, exquisite, slice of death, Honoria was gone.

***

Honey couldn’t look him in the eye. Not without jabbering or fainting or otherwise giving away what she had seen.

She could not seem to keep her eyes off his body, however. At least not for long.

She repeatedly pulled her gaze back to the window and away from his muscular thighs—clad in skin-tight buff pantaloons that fueled her already rampant imagination—or his broad shoulders and powerful chest.

But then, like the hands of a clock, her eyes slowly moved back around to the same position.

Simon sat in the seat across from her, his eyes closed and his long, well-thewed legs bent and spread in the confines of the chaise.

He’d come down to the private parlor for breakfast when she was almost finished. Not that she’d eaten anything. No, she’d crumbled toast, pushed eggs around her plate, and stirred four spoons of sugar into her tea. She didn’t even take sugar in her tea.

Over and over and over again the same scene played in her mind. Simon’s scarred, muscular body, naked to mid-thigh, to where he’d shoved down his buckskins, the soles of his black leather boots planted on the bed, knees splayed wide while he did … that.

Honey realized she was staring at his spread crotch again and her eyes flew up. She almost fainted with relief when she saw he was still sleeping.

Thank God.

Because that’s all she needed—for him to catch her staring at his groin.

She massaged her pounding temples—hard—and closed her eyes.

Why hadn’t she left immediately?

Because you liked it.

Honey gritted her teeth at the sanctimonious, accusatory voice.

But it spoke the truth: she had liked it. Or at least her body had.

As she’d stood there and spied on him the same tight, hot feeling as the night before, when he’d made her—she shuddered at the memory—scream, had begun to build deep within her womb.

Unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately—the same feeling had not come at the end of all her panting and clenching, which was just as well. He would have noticed her for certain if she’d yelled as she had twice—actually three times—the night before.

Honey wouldn’t be surprised if her face was permanently stained red. She’d seen the truth in the eyes of every stranger she’d encountered that morning: The entire inn had heard her screaming last night and they all knew why.

It didn’t matter that they were newlyweds, which she’d heard Simon tell the innkeeper, and that such