Stop? Oh, he has no intention to stop. As her leg hitches and travels up his thigh, he cups her buttocks with a broad, deft hand, kneading her muscles. So lithe. Willowy. He never went for anything else, at home. Even Miquel had complained that Fiammetta looked too skinny. Malnourished, he'd scoffed. You wouldn't think she's the best-paid courtesan in Rome but a starving fishmonger's girl.
She mouths his chin, nibbles his throat, and that really gets him going. That, or the delicious sound she makes when his thumb brushes over her flower. Chasing the little nub, he seeks a better angle for himself, finding a happy bit of friction against her hip.