Broddock-Black 05 - Force of Nature

by Susan Johnson

  Incredulous, she jumped from the bed and ran after him. He was already halfway down the stairs by the time she reached the hall landing.

  “I’ll be right back,” he said, without turning around. “Don’t go away.”

  “Damn you!” she shouted. “I just might!”

  “No, you won’t.” And he turned at the base of the stairs and disappeared from sight.

  He sounded unconcerned, damn him, when she was ravenous for sex—an inclination hitherto beyond her wildest imagination. Although, if Flynn’s tone was any indication, he was entirely familiar with females in heat.

  She really should go.

  It would serve him right.

  She should march out of here, go back to the party and tell Trey he was right—Flynn Ito was not her type.

  But she sat down on the top step instead, in a pouf of petticoats and ivory silk because much as she’d like to dramatically take her leave, she was breathless with desire and longing. And the very specific object of her desire was the tantalizing Flynn.

  Reason had apparently taken a holiday.

  A disconcertingly novel state for her; she was never a slave to cravings. And for an afflicted moment, she wondered if she’d inherited her mother’s lamentable infatuation with amour after all.

  In the midst of her fretful irresolution, Flynn reappeared, holding two glasses tinkling with ice. “I brought one for you, too.”

  “I don’t want any,” she said, testy and resentful. While she was beside herself with longing, he was more interested in quenching his thirst.

  “It’s lemonade.” He began mounting the stairs. “You’ll like it. And I promise to make love to you soon.”

  “Don’t do me any favors,” she snapped. How dare he sound as though he’d fit her in after his lemonade.

  “It’s not an unselfish impulse, darling, believe me,” he said, gently. “Here.” Having reached the top of the stairs, he held out a glass. “It’s good ... an old family recipe of my cook’s.” When she wouldn’t take the glass, his mouth twitched into a faint smile. “Would you like me to feed it to you?”

  “What I’d like is you in bed with me, unclothed and not drinking lemonade.”

  He grinned. “Don’t be shy.”

  “I didn’t think it was a requirement.”

  “It’s not.” Sitting down beside her, he drank some lemonade. “And I apologize. I’m not reluctant. On the contrary, I feel like making love to you for the indefinite future.”

  “Beginning—when?” Her gaze was arch and challenging.

  He set the glasses down on the carpet, turned back to her and took her face between his palms in a not altogether gentle way. “I’m feeling very much out of control. I’m trying to deal with it. It’s not normal.”

  “I don’t mind you out of control.”

  His hands tightened on her face. “You probably shouldn’t say that.”

  “I’m not a schoolgirl.”

  “I’m very aware of that,” he said, curt and low. “That’s part of the problem.”

  “Do you think I can’t say no if need be?”

  “The question is, rather, would I hear you,” he replied, very softly.

  Her gaze held his. “You don’t frighten me.”

  He took a deep breath. “Good. At least one of us isn’t frightened.”

  He was much too close and much too beautiful and the overwhelming power he exuded was so intensely arousing she could no more sustain her anger than she could walk away. “Flynn, please make love to me,” she whispered. “Please . .. I’m desperate for you—an aberration for me like your out-of-control feeling is for you. Do you think I make a habit of propositioning men I barely know? Do you think I make a habit of indiscretion? I’ve never walked from a room like that when everyone was watching, when everyone knew what we were going to do. I never even had the urge to do something so outrageous.” Covering his hands with hers, she leaned forward and brushed her lips over his. “Don’t make me wait,” she breathed. “I want to feel you inside me.”

  It was impossible to resist so ardent a plea. Coming to his feet, he helped her up and by sheer will restrained himself from having sex with her right there in the hallway. Taking her hand, he quickly guided her to his bedroom, shut the door, but stopped short of locking it. In his current rapacious mood, it wouldn’t be wise to lock himself in a room with her.

  She was trembling with need, and lifting his hands, he cupped her shoulders, intending to calm her. But his overwrought desires weren’t so easily curbed, and her warm flesh under his palms was a violent trigger to his lust. Inexorably, his fingers tightened on her shoulders.

  Her small cry should have stopped him.

  But he answered her with a low primal growl instead—an impossibly unnerving sound for a man who only amused himself with love. His hands abruptly dropped away. “Sorry about that,” he muttered, disconcerted at the frenzy she induced. He’d been playing at love too long to be wild and raging like this. Deliberately sliding his fingers under the decolletage of her gown, as though a familiar gesture would remind him this woman was no different from the rest, he said with deliberate mildness, “How does this come off?”

  “I’ll take it off later.” She began lifting her skirt.

  He brushed her hands away. “Take it off now.” He wasn’t interested in a quick fuck or so he told himself as though it was a measure of his self-control.

  She pouted, her dark gaze sullen. “I don’t want to wait.” “It won’t be for long. Buttons, hooks . . . what do we have here?”

  She was as imperious as he, as audacious, and she’d been living her own life for too long to play the docile maid. “Hooks,” she said, slipping her hands behind her back, gripping both sides of the gown closure, wrenching it apart with a quick jerk, ripping the hooks from the fragile silk. “There now,” she whispered, shoving the wrecked bodice down with a sweep of her hands, surprisingly corsetless beneath her gown. “Any more questions?”

  “Who put you in charge?” he whispered with the faintest of smiles, wondering how he was possibly going to last the night with this goddamned wild woman. He’d fuck his brains out by midnight.

  “I put myself in charge,” she said, smiling back, sliding her palms up his lapels, shoving him backward. “You’re too slow.” He came to a stop against a small chest and stood motionless for a few polite seconds. Then he captured her hands, forced them down, held them firmly at her sides. “You’re going to take a little getting used to,” he murmured, his gaze drifting downward to her lush breasts.

  “I know a good way to get to know each other.”

  He grinned. “I’ll bet you do.”

  “Are you really as dangerous as they say?” she purred, arching her back, flaunting her flamboyant, thrusting breasts.

  “Is that what you want?” Her nipples were hard and taut, the plump swell of her breasts perfect ripe globes, delectable, made to be sucked. Not that he needed any additional stimulus to his aching cock. “You want something dangerous?” he whispered, several lurid possibilities racing through his brain. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard that lascivious tone in a woman—the one where she was wondering if there was added fillip to sex with a killer. It was, however, the first time he’d considered responding to that bizarre inclination. “Maybe we could arrange something,” he said in a husky rasp.

  “Now .. . right now . . . please.” The strong grip of his fingers imprisoning her wrists, his potent authority, his brute promise so gently offered further kindled the lust beating at her brain, the throbbing between her legs a hard, steady, feverish ache. She struggled against his grasp. “Damn you, Flynn. I want sex!”

  He didn’t take orders, no matter how heated. “Undress first.” He released her hands. “Then if you’re very sweet to me, I might give you what you want.”

  “I didn’t think you’d like sweet women.”

  “I didn’t think you’d like rough sex”—his dark brows rose faintly—“or did you mean something else?”
>
  “Maybe this isn’t going to work out,” she said, petulantly, unfamiliar with men who didn’t fawn over her.

  “Suit yourself.”

  “I could leave.”

  “You already said that. .. and—here you are,” he said with a wicked smile.

  On the other hand, fawning men never made her feverish and insatiable and she’d never in her life begged for sex. Even now, she wondered if it were possible she’d not actually said it. She gazed for a fleeting moment at the beautiful, virile male animal called Flynn Ito smiling down at her and knew that she could no more deny her raging hunger for him than she could deny the steady throbbing between her legs.

  “You’re damned annoying,” she muttered, staring at him for a taut, heated moment, wishing she could tell him to go to hell, wishing she didn’t so desperately need what he so casually offered.

  His smile was indulgent. “And you’re one hot little bitch.”

  “I don’t know if I can manage the sweetness you require,” she said, sulkily, pushing her gown and petticoats down, the boned bodice catching for a moment on the puddled folds of fabric.

  “I’m flexible.” Taking in the delectable sight of Miss Attenborough bent over and disburdening herself of her garments, her heavy breasts swinging gently with her movements, he felt himself becoming more accommodating by the second.

  She shot him a testy glance. “How fortunate for me.” Coming upright a moment later, she stepped out of the numerous garments and kicked them aside. Beginning to untie the waistband of her drawers, she pondered the degree of Flynn’s sexual allure that she was not only willing to comply to his orders, but agree to most anything to feel that glorious hard cock inside her.

  It was a conundrum she’d never faced before.

  But then, she’d never met a man she craved with such unequivocal carnal longing. She softly swore, lust and intellect contesting for dominance in her brain.

  “Do you need help?” With a negligible gesture, he indicated the tie on her drawers she was trying to loosen.

  How dare he stand there like some cool observer of the scene and speak with that unabashed calm. “Aren’t you undressing?” she asked, nettled and huffy.

  “Maybe .. . marginally at least... it depends on what I want you to do.”

  His reply was perversely arousing, as though he were in a brothel somewhere and waiting his turn. “What the hell does that mean?” But even as she spoke, a feverish jolt of desire convulsed her vagina, leaving her breathless.

  “It looks like you already know,” he said smiling faintly. So she liked to take orders too, he reflected, not just give them. “All you want is my cock. I don’t have to get undressed,” he said, softly. “Come here. Leave that tie ... I’ll do it. Here— come here and take it out. Take it out if you want it.”

  Her gaze was drawn to the enormous bulge in his trousers, the soft fabric lifted away like a tent. Her body was screaming, Go, go, take it; the pulsing of her vaginal tissue flagrant, her silken passage sleek with readiness, every nerve in her body poised for that resplendent moment of penetration.

  How could he stand there so calmly when he’d had that towering erection since Stewart Warner’s? How could he possibly remain so cool when she was frantic with lust? She wished she could say, No, I won't; do it yourself. And if she wasn’t nearly crazed with a sharp-set need to feel him deep inside her, she might have.

  “I guarantee you’ll like it,” he said into the sudden silence, as though he knew what she was thinking.

  “I can offer you the same guarantee.” But her voice was breathy, her gaze lifting reluctantly as though she were loathe to look away from the object of her desire.

  “I wasn’t doubting that for a minute,” he pleasantly observed, as though they were discussing something ordinary and mundane. “There’s something about you, Miss Attenborough. I don’t know what it is, but I’ve never been so fucking hard in my life. And if you really like pillow books, I’m more than willing to try all forty-eight positions tonight.”

  With a sharp cry of protest, she abruptly climaxed, the thought of experiencing forty-eight positions with that magnificent cock buried deep inside her pushing her inflamed senses over the edge.

  “Jesus,” he breathed, reaching out to steady her as the orgasmic turbulence shuddered through her body. “Jesus Christ...” Moments later when she stilled, he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed. Her eyes were tightly shut, tears seeping from under her lids, and he chided himself for goading her. He had no idea why he’d done what he’d done; he wasn’t ordinarily so churlish. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, with genuine regret, gently placing her on the coverlet. “I’m really sorry.”

  Her eyes opened. “That wasn’t very nice,” she whispered with a hiccupy little sniffle. “That incomplete, stupid . .. nothingness.” Her pout was fretful, although the pique in her eyes was deliciously sultry. “You owe me.”

  He smiled, her pouty demand unutterably charming, her unabashed ultimatum tantalizing as hell in his current state of horniness. “Allow me to oblige you, Miss Attenborough,” he murmured, stripping off his coat, beginning to unbutton his waistcoat. “I can see you require compensation.”

  With such a delectable promise and the beauty of his smile, she was assuaged and the bed was lovely, soft, soft, unlike his magnificent erection—pleasant thought. “I will expect a little extra effort from you this time.”

  He laughed and tossed his waistcoat aside. “Will I be graded?”

  “Of course. In any number of areas.”

  “Ah ... a connoisseur of pillow books, I forgot. Then I must live up to your exacting standards,” he said with a grin, disposing of his shirt and tie.

  “My experience with pillow books is not empirical, I fear.” “Fortunately, mine is,” he noted, kicking off his shoes. “Perhaps I can widen your horizons tonight, Miss Attenborough.”

  She smiled. “How lovely. I just adore learning new things.”

  He stopped in his unbuttoning of his trousers, unused to such girlish delight in the boudoir. “Perhaps we can both learn new things tonight,” he murmured, gazing at the lovely Miss Attenborough gracing his bed. She was one of the more voluptuous women he’d had the pleasure of mounting. She was by far the only one he’d ever felt this curious passion for—quite separate from lust. “Would you like to look at some pillow books while you’re waiting?” he asked, because he’d prefer not thinking about passion separate from lust. It was a decidedly outre sentiment in his life, and not one he cared to contemplate.

  “I don’t plan on waiting,” she said, firmly. “I believe you owe me a debt on that score. Speed is my only requirement at the moment.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I’m only referring to your disrobing. Speed is not a criterion in lovemaking.”

  “Ah,” he said, smiling as he resumed his unbuttoning. “Thank you for the information.”

  “You needn’t be cheeky.”

  “And you needn’t give me directions,” he said, softly, sliding off his trousers and underwear.

  “Forgive me .. Her tone diminished into a purr at the end, the entire magnificent length of his arousal revealed, any mild annoyance she might have felt instantly suppressed in the interest of detente. “I’m sure you’re very competent.”

  Her comment elicited a sharp, satirical glance as he bent over to pull off his socks.

  And she was instantly mesmerized, the turgid veins on his engorged penis swelling with his movement, the motion of his upthrust erection the merest stirring, its taut rigidity a deterrent to movement. Unconsciously licking her lips at the sight of that lovely hard length, she watched him stand upright and smile at her.

  “One tangled knot remains between you and me,” he said, approaching the bed. “And I’m very good with knots.”

  She’d forgotten she still wore her drawers, her mind on more lustful possibilities, but he was already unraveling the snarl.

  She watched his nimble-fingered manipulations
in fevered anticipation, feeling as though she were aglow with heated rapture. So this is lust, she thought with fascination, this ravenous impatience, this dissolving away of inhibitions and prudence, this eager, burning compulsion that overlooked everything but the insatiable need for satisfaction. She was engulfed in a veritable torment of wanting that could only be assuaged in one way with one person—this dark, handsome, powerful man bending over her, untying her waistband with a casual competence.

  Flynn’s broad shoulders were blocking out the light, the taut musculature silhouetted against the glow of the lamps illuminating the room. His hair swung forward as he leaned over her, the silken waves almost brushing her body, its scent, like his, like that of the room reminding her of pine forests and wildness.

  And then he said, “Done,” very softly, slipped her drawers off and looking up, smiled at her with such beauty she felt as though she’d been bestowed the sweetest of gifts. “Now it’s speed that’s your initial requirement, right?” Again, that soft indulgence as though she had but to ask and he would oblige.

  “Please.” She could barely speak, the tumult of her body and brain and quivering senses like a raging storm with no beginning or end, no quiet center that allowed her to think beyond her fevered needs.

  A man of experience, he recognized that overwrought incoherence and he knew what to do when a woman was beyond the most fundamental conversation. He moved onto the bed with fluid grace, slid over her in a ripple of muscle and sinew and gently lowered himself between her legs. The ladies’ thighs were always spread wide, like now ... a constant in his experience. Scandalously handsome, virile men like Flynn Ito didn’t have to woo like men of lesser attributes.

  But tonight, he was equally enthralled; it wasn’t the usual game, and to that purpose, he took special care to please the lady.

  He entered her without preliminaries, as she wished, the word speed’ bringing a faint smile to his mouth as he eased forward, her soft little exhalation of satisfaction as he drove in, echoing in his mind. She was slippery wet, hot, sleek and deliciously tight, so they both felt the leisurely penetration with particular piquancy.