Page 97 of A Portrait of Love

She shook and whimpered like a wanton.

Shame hovered just beyond the exquisite pleasure.

What was wrong with her to like such treatment?

His hand slid between her thighs, wiping her worries from her mind, and she parted for him without being asked.

“Ah, such a good, obedient wife,” he praised, the words causing a dizzying blend of mortification and lust to swirl in her belly. She was grateful it was dark—at least she could not see his face.

But then he chuckled, as if he could see her expression, his touch as light as a feather as he stroked her mound, his finger maddeningly avoiding the source of her pleasure.

Honey spread her legs a little and pushed her hips up, trying to unobtrusively lead him in the right direction.

He laughed—this time no mere chuckle, but a belly laugh. “Such a hungry little pussey.”

Honey gasped—both at the finger that flicked her swollen bud and his shocking words. “What did you say?”

“As fleet as my Feet,

Could convey me I sped,

To Johnny who many Times Pussey has fed.”

Honey could hear the grin in his voice.

“That’s—that’s—” she couldn’t help laughing. “That’s dreadful. Is that something you learned in the army?”

“No, I learned this when I was a boy—from a contraband copy of something by Thomas D’Urfey.”

Honey had heard of the infamous wit, but never read any of his work. Now she knew why.

“It’s actually a song.” He stroked her again, grazing her bundle of nerves and drawing out another sharp gasp. “Shall I sing it for you, my love?” he offered.

“No,” she said, choking on her laughter. “Please don’t.”

He made a purring sound. “Pussey needs feeding, and I have just the thing,” he whispered. He parted her lips, sliding a finger inside her entrance.

Honey’s hips rose to take him deeper.

“Mmm, so wet and eager—I like that very much,” he praised, gently pumping. “But are you too sore to take me again, sweetheart? We can amuse ourselves in other ways if you are.”

His voice was so tender and solicitous that Honey almost didn’t recognize it. She was sore, but she was also wet, hot, and pulsing for him. She spread her legs wider in answer.

He laughed, the sound low and sinful. “I love that you are so eager to be filled, darling,” he whispered in her ear, his knees pushing her thighs wider. “Take me in your hand, stroke me before you put me inside.” He took her hand and guided it to his hot, heavy length.

“Oh,” she said, stunned by how soft the skin was and how it seemed to slide over something as hard as bone.

“God that feels good, Honoria.”

Honey thought his words were almost as exciting as the feel of him, and the way he groaned when she touched him.

And then his hips began to pump. “Like that. Hold me tight. Yessss. Just. Like. That.” He punctuated each word with a sharp, controlled thrust.

And then she made a miraculous discovery: men could become wet, too.

He stopped abruptly, his breathing harsh in the darkness. “Put me inside you, lover.”

Honey thrilled at the word, her thighs shaking with want as she guided him to her entrance. When he pushed inside her, it stung, but only for a moment, and then—unlike the first time—it was deliciousness without any discomfort.