She clung to him, every heated cell in her body welcoming him, every pulsing bit of flesh that came into contact with him experiencing a degree of enchantment she’d not thought possible. He was huge, huge, slowly filling her, the tantalizing progress burning through her senses until he was there, solid and hard and touching her in the shimmering hot depths of her fevered body.
“Stay,” she whispered, her nails digging into his back. “Stay, stay, stay.”
He obliged her, understanding as she rose faintly against his imbedded erection and sighed and panted that he wasn’t allowed to move just yet. But he did after a time regardless that she cried, “No!” because he knew better than a young woman who had spent more time in her studies than in amour, that he could make her feel better. He withdrew and plunged forward and withdrew again in a delicate, slow flux and flow, penetrating deeply for a time, then only marginally, waiting until she was crying in little sobs of longing, before driving in deeply again to the very brink of her womb. When she was taut as a bowstring, he knew and held himself right there where she wanted him while she died away in breathy scream. Her heated cry warmed his cheek and lightly blew through the silken fall of his hair while the flutter of her orgasm rippled down his fully submerged penis like butterfly wings.
A light sheen of perspiration glowed on her face, her silk-stockinged legs fell away from his back a few moments later and eyes shut, she whispered, “I love you more than anything in the world.”
He smiled, accepting the superlatives in the manner in which they were given. “Forty-seven more to go, darling,” he murmured. “You’re going to love me even more before the night is over.”
Her eyes flew open.
“That was the most basic Somersaulting Dragons,” he said, lightly. “It gets better.”
“Forty-seven more,” she said, weakly.
His brows flickered faintly, like his smile. “Better ones, too.”
“I don’t believe you.” How could it be better? She’d practically fainted away from pleasure that time.
“I’ll show you.” He grinned, moving faintly inside her. “You know—empirically.”
Her smile was a slow, lazy unfolding of pleasure. “You don’t know how glad I am that you decided to come to Stewart Warner’s tonight.”
“I should be thanking you.”
“You don’t have to thank me yet. Under the circumstances, I mean—when you haven’t—”
“Come yet? I did.”
“But”—she shifted her hips to better feel his engorged penis.
“Orgasm and ejaculation don’t have to be the same.”
Her eyes opened wide.
“One learns,” he said, softly.
According to the classic oriental arts of the bedchamber, the female essence is inexhaustible. Around this premise, the sex manuals devised elaborate means to boost the male’s sexual stamina and thereby prolong sexual union.
Flynn Ito was extremely well trained and accomplished.
“Let’s see if you like Wild Horses Leaping,” he gently said, beginning to lift one of her legs.
“No . . . no, not just yet.” Replete and sated, she didn’t want to move.
“I’ll go slowly,” he murmured, continuing to raise her leg, setting it on his shoulder, shifting his position inside her, smiling as she softly moaned. “We’ll take our time.” He lifted her other leg, placed it on his opposite shoulder and withdrew a small distance so the crest of his penis was lodged against the front wall of her vagina.
She gasped and shut her eyes, the fevered sensation almost too much to bear.
“I’m going to move very slowly—like this . . . and this—see you are ready again.”
She could feel the rush of heat flow through her body, settle liquid and hot in the precise, shuddering spot he was slowly caressing with the protruding ridge of his penis, their most tender, sensitive membranes touching, rubbing until she was trembling helplessly once again, until she came as he knew she would in a few brief seconds more. He kept her there, powerless to resist, coming over and over again, in thrall to his expertise and her hot-blooded passions until even his disciplined emotions gave way and he ejaculated—in the interests of prudence—outside the passionate Miss Attenborough’s very pleasurable body.
“My God, Flynn,” she purred, her eyes half shut, her arms flung wide in blissful fatigue. “Women must beat a path to your door. . .”
“You liked it then,” he murmured, not about to touch the part about women beating a path to his door. Easing himself away, he whispered, “Don’t move or you’ll drip. I’ll be right back.”
“I need something to drink, something to eat. I could eat half a cow . . . and to think I was talking about leaving.”
He glanced up from the washstand in the corner. “I wouldn’t have let you leave.”
“You would have kept me here against my will?” She eased her knees up, offering him a tempting view.
“I would have kept you here for my sexual pleasure. I am keeping you here for my sexual pleasure,” he added with a smile, returning to the bed, leaning over and wiping her stomach dry with a towel. “So you needn’t try and seduce me with your luscious cunt. It’s mine and I’m keeping it.”
“If I allow you to.”
He smiled slowly and shook his head. “Even if you don’t.” His smile widened. “I have ways of changing your mind, if you recall.”
“Libertine,” she whispered.
“You’re keeping up just fine,” he said with a grin. “And now for some food and drink. I’m starved.”
She followed him downstairs where they raided the pantry, picking out food to sustain their ravenous appetites. Although a brief pause in their selections was required when Jo bent over to pull a tray from a bottom shelf and her pose was too enchanting for Flynn to resist.
“Let me help you,” he murmured, reaching around her back to place her palms on the shelf. “We’ll get that tray in a minute,” he whispered, sliding his rampant penis into her delectably exposed cleft. “I haven’t seen you in my kitchen before. Are you new on my staff?”
He was deep inside her in a single hard stroke and the exquisite pulsing began to spread through her body again as though she’d not come for days. “Do you have sex with all your maids?” she said, half breathless with rapture.
“Only the ones with luscious cunts like yours,” he whispered, withdrawing for another plunging downstroke. “You can bring my coffee to me in the morning.”
“I don’t know how to make coffee.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he softly said, his hands hard on her waist, driving in again until he was buried to the hilt, stretching her. “Just bring this pretty cunt when you wake me.”
She was panting, her hips moving under his hands, the liquid core of her body slippery around him. “Will you promise to have sex with me when I wake you?”
“Promise,” he whispered, driving deeper as she raised her bottom to further tempt him. “You could be my upstairs maid and just stay in my bed and wait for me to fuck you. Would you like that?” He moved from side to side, forced himself deeper, holding her impaled on his erection for lingering moments at the extremity of his downstroke while she panted and cried and sobbed and came. And then he repeated his delectable game with exquisite finesse, and she came each time until her legs gave way and he took pity on her. “Just once more,” he whispered, holding her up by her waist, his senses still aflame, his need for her obsessive, violent, pounding into her this last time again and again, almost coming inside her, almost—when he never did, when he never even considered coming in a woman for all the obvious reasons.
That near-disaster abruptly cooled his brain and holding her with one arm, he wiped her back dry with a beautifully embroidered luncheon napkin and lifting her into his arms, carried her into the drawing room.
“People might see,” she fearfully murmured, glancing at the windows.
“There are no lights on in here. It’s fine,” he replied, beginning
to lower her to the sofa.
“I’m going to stain the silk,” she exclaimed.
“It’s my sofa. You have my permission to stain it.” And placing her on the pale blue silk, he took his seat beside her and gently kissed her cheek. “You’re irresistible.” He smiled. “I’m afraid that’s a warning.” For himself as well. “I have this constant erection in your presence.”
“How charming. . . and fortunate, since I have this ungovernable urge to have sex with you every few minutes.”
“It’s very strange,” he murmured, half to himself.
“But extraordinarily pleasurable,” she said with a warm, open smile.
“Yes, very,” he politely replied, wondering if she’d cast some spell over him. Recognizing that was unlikely almost as quickly as the notion had come into his brain, he jettisoned his ambiguities and decided to enjoy the sexual bounty so generously offered him.
Which, as it turned out, was imminent. As they were making their way up the stairs a short time later—she carrying two glasses and several pieces of roast chicken on a plate, he behind her with a pitcher of lemonade and a coconut cake balanced on a platter—he found the enticing view directly before his eyes impossible to ignore. Jo’s lush bottom was delectably close, his hard-on was, as usual in her vicinity, at full mast and he had very little control over his insatiable hunger for her. “Stop just a minute,” he said. “You don’t have to turn around.”
His voice was hushed, heated, and she immediately began trembling as though he had only to say stop and she was ready for sex.
Setting down the objects he was carrying, he took those she held from her and placed them on the stairs. “I’ll get them later,” he said, smoothing his hands down her plump, smooth bottom, sliding a finger over her drenched cleft. “I think it’s time again. Bend over.”
She should have taken issue with his abrupt command; she should have said, ‘I don’t have to do everything you say,’ but that soft-spoken order registered in her insatiable, pulsing vagina and she bent over and bracing herself on the stairs, waited for his long hard length to fill her as though she no longer had a mind of her own. As though she were the most wanton, lascivious tart.
“That’s a good girl,” he murmured, slapping her lightly on the buttocks as she bent over, the distended lips of the gorgeous cunt he couldn’t do without wet and glistening with desire. “Show me where you want me to go,” he brusquely said, as hopelessly enthralled as she, as unable to restrain himself, wanting to possess her over and over again with a kind of madness he neither understood nor liked. “Show me,” he said, harshly, beset with passions he couldn’t withstand, blaming her for his voracious lust.
As she quickly obeyed, reaching between her legs to trace her gleaming, pouty vulva with her finger, he still wasn’t satisfied. “Ask me to fuck you,” he said, gruff and moody, not knowing what he’d do if she refused.
But she didn’t refuse. She said the words, haltingly, wanting him too much to ignore his command, her vagina quivering with desire, her senses attuned to his slightest whim.
“I’m not sure I heard you,” he whispered, intending to chastize her for her prudery, make her repeat the phrase properly, but tormented by lust, he could no more wait than she. Ramming his stiff cock into her needy, ravenous slit, he drove in fiercely, savagely, his brute force pitching her face down on the stairs, shoving her elbow into the cake frosting. He didn’t notice or didn’t care, thrusting and pumping into her liquid heat, riding her in a frenzy of resentment and unbridled lust. But their bodies and ravenous senses were immune to their restless rage and grudging assent, to their hampered free will, and they both came swiftly with a particular seething violence that left them gasping.
“Damn you,” she whispered, her cheek resting on the stair carpet, her hair in wild disorder on the treads, his weight oppressive.
“I don’t like this,” he muttered.
“We should stop.”
He laughed out loud, a harsh, almost bitter sound. “Yeah, shouldn’t we just.” Rolling away, he snatched up one of the embroidered napkins he’d been carrying and tossed it on her back. Sitting on the step below her, his penis gleaming wet with her creamy fluids, he scowled into the stairwell.
“You needn’t use that tone of voice with me,” she said, turning over, wiping her back, finding a place to sit between the cake and the lemonade. “Or sulk like a child, either. You’re much more familiar with this carnal lechery than I.”
“No, I am not.” Clipped, brusque words.
“So rumor has it.”
He half-turned his head and gave her a hard look. “This is not sex as usual, Miss Attenborough, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“Well, that’s true.”
His gaze narrowed, his dark eyes held hers for a searching moment more and then his mouth twitched faintly and slowly lifted into a smile. Reaching out, he scooped the frosting from her elbow. “Forgive me. It’s not your fault,” he said, licking the frosting off his finger. “But you’re most unusual, Miss Attenborough.”
“You could call me Jo, considering our—well . . . degree of intimacy. Unless you prefer some semblance of propriety”— she shrugged—“for reasons that escape me.”
“Forgive me again . . . Jo.” He seemed to debate some internal issue for a pulse beat more and then shrugged himself. “What the hell. Are you still hungry?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
He smiled, thinking this delectable female he was obsessed with had a cool logical brain—sex aside, of course. “Why not indeed. I’ll bring the food. You go on ahead and make yourself comfortable on the bed.”
“You’re sure now? The bed won’t be a problem?”
My God, she was delightfully straightforward. “No, it won’t be a problem. I’m quite over my rare fit of judiciousness.” “I’m relieved . . . and hungry.”
He came to his feet and began gathering up the food. “After you,” he politely said, as though they weren’t both naked on his staircase. “And thank you, by the way.”
“You’re entirely welcome. Might I offer you my thanks as well.”
He tipped his head and smiled. “Yes, you may.”
❧
Seated cross-legged on the bed a few moments later, Flynn’s rare fit of introspection and Jo’s testiness supplanted by more pleasant activities, they ate the food and drank the lemonade and kissed occasionally with coconut frosting on their lips and talked of the most casual, nonsexual things like painters they liked or books or horses or plays or people who made them laugh or who didn’t. No longer troubled with obsession, or inclined to debate internal issues having to do with discretion versus spontaneity, they were past the point of caring, more intent on enjoying the wonder of their mutual and highly charged sexual appetites.
They paged through Flynn’s portfolio of Utamaro’s colorful prints that depicted the wonders of love with great beauty and charm. The set of shunga prints from 1660 that Flynn owned, showing the forty-eight sexual positions he’d spoken of, was extraordinary, imaginative and breathtaking.
And when they’d finished eating and drinking and their bodies were revived, they took pleasure in recreating a goodly number of those impassioned couplings—with intoxicating rapture and wildness, with irrepressible delight.
Chapter 11
Waking at dawn, Flynn carefully eased himself from bed. Jo was deep asleep and if he didn’t have a point of honor to deal with, he would be as well. After quickly washing and dressing, he walked the few blocks to Hazard’s home and entered through the kitchen door. Waving away the few servants who were up, he made his way to Hazard’s office at the back of the house. Hazard was an early riser; anyone who had done business with him knew that.
Outside the closed door, Flynn ran his hands over his still-damp hair, straightened the cuffs of his shirt, and briefly wished he’d thought to put on some cologne. The scent of sex was still pungent on his skin.
But he was here now; it was too late. And gossip concerning J
o’s whereabouts last night would have reached Hazard long ago.
Raising his hand, he rapped in a brisk tattoo and opened the door without waiting, without checking to see if Hazard had company or more aptly a gun pointed at his head.
A fact he took note of a moment too late.
“Shut the door,” Hazard said, brusquely as he entered the room, the weapon in question pointedly within reach of Hazard’s clasped hands resting on his desktop.
“She’s safe.”
Hazard’s brows rose infinitesimally. “I would hope so.”
“She’s sleeping. She didn’t want me to come.”
“But you were more sensible,” Hazard murmured, his eyes flinty hard.
It wasn’t an adjective often used to describe Flynn. “Yes.”
“You sobered up?”
“I wasn’t drunk.”
Hazard tipped his head in the merest of movements. “I’m relieved.”
“She asked me, not that I’m trying to avoid responsibility. I just wanted you to know I tried to say no. I actually did say no.”
Hazard didn’t answer for a very long time, his dark gaze unreadable. Then he unclasped his hands, leaned back in his chair and said with a soft sigh, “I gathered as much. Trey told me.” He indicated Flynn sit with a jab of his finger at a nearby chair. “She’s of age,” Hazard noted with another small sigh, “and outside my control. That’s not to say, I’m still not concerned about your . . . er . . . friendship”—his brows arched faintly—“for a variety of reasons. I think you know what most of them are as well as I do. The question is, what are you going to do now?”
“Make peace with you.”
Hazard wore a white linen shirt open at the neck, the sleeves rolled up, well-worn cavalry twill trousers and moccasins. But regardless of his casual attire, no one would mistake him for anything but a man of authority. “And what about Jo?” he asked, flatly.
“I’ll marry her if you wish.” The answer slipped out, capricious and unforeseen, shocking Flynn as much as Hazard.
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