Sexy As Hell (Berkley Sensation)

by Susan Johnson

  “It depends what you want.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Do you want sex standing, sitting, or lying down?”

  “This is all familiar to you?”

  “Come, darling, you know what I am. Everything’s familiar to me.” He knew better than to goad her, but he was being goaded, too—and not entirely sure he liked it. Raised in princely wealth, he was a golden child, the world at his beck and call. Submission wasn’t and never would be his strong suit. But in the interests of civility along with the prospect of his future plans for the night, he chose to comply.

  Moments later, he lay on the bed, watching his wife unwind the tasseled tiebacks from the bed drapery, and fleetingly debated his choice. The green silk cord would look much better against Isolde’s pink skin, while the thought of her in bondage to him was profoundly erotic. He briefly took issue with his baffling need to dominate her; sex had always been about amorous sport, not supremacy. On the other hand, his darling wife was unusually independent. Perhaps therein lay the reason for his novel impulse.

  “You have to listen to me.”

  He glanced up to find his wife kneeling beside him, her mouth sweetly pursed.

  He smiled. “I was thinking about changing roles.”

  “You can’t.”

  It took him a second to politely respond. He didn’t mind her giving orders—within limits. “Maybe later,” he pleasantly said, this man who’d been indulged from birth.

  “We’ll talk about it,” Isolde returned, relishing her position, no longer mindlessly surrendering to passion.

  “As you like.” Amused at her air of command, he asked, “Are you enjoying yourself?”

  “Very much, as a matter of fact. Hold out your hand.” When he did, she deftly tied a slipknot around his wrist, tossed the braided cord around one bedpost, and smoothly secured it with another slipknot.

  He nodded at his wrist. “You’re handy with a rope.”

  “Anyone who deals with horses can tie a slipknot. Unlike you, though, I’m new at this game.”

  “Is that so.”

  “You don’t believe me?” She looped a cord around his other wrist.

  “I’m not sure it matters to him”—he glanced downward—“whether I do or not.”

  “Excellent. We’re all of a mind then.”

  “So it seems. When it comes to sex, we’re extremely well matched.”

  “Are you not with other women?” she asked, securing his wrist to another bedpost.

  “No.”

  “Liar.”

  Why do women always want to know about their rivals? “Not like this,” he said, competent at love play.

  “How charming you are. Spread your legs a little so these ties reach the bedposts. I’m beginning to wonder about Grandmama’s need for such a large bed,” she added, circling his ankle with a tie.

  “I’m sure the bed is simply a reproduction like everything else in this room.”

  She looked up from tethering his ankle to the bed. “You should be a diplomat.”

  I am very much at the moment. “If only I had the time,” he smoothly replied.

  “From all your debauch.”

  But she was smiling as she spoke, so he felt it permissible to say, “Yes.”

  “I’m not inclined to take issue when your expertise affords me such pleasure,” she cheerfully noted.

  “Very sensible.”

  “I think so. There.” Sitting back on her heels, she surveyed him spread-eagle and secured to the bed. “Now what should I do?”

  A number of answers leaped to mind. “Be selfish of course. I’m at your command.” Although his suggestion was not without motive, having her impaled on his cock high on his list of priorities.

  “Maybe I’ll make you wait.”

  “Suit yourself.” This from a woman who couldn’t wait.

  She wrinkled her nose. “Such composure. Do you ever get agitated?”

  He smiled. “I seem to quite often with you.”

  Mollified by his boyish smile as well as his answer, she softly sighed. “I don’t know why I’m so petulant with you. I dislike petulance. It’s so . . . so . . .”

  “Willful,” he finished. “I like that about you.”

  “In contrast to all the fawning women in your life.”

  He stopped smiling. “I’m tied to your bed—a first for me, darling. Don’t quibble about other women.”

  She grinned. “Is this really a first?”

  “In countless ways, my darling wife,” he drily said.

  Her smile was one of untempered delight. “So you’re being particularly agreeable.”

  “I’m trying.”

  An irrepressible constraint underlay his soft reply, prompting a little shiver to race up her spine. After quickly surveying his bonds, reassured, she whispered, “I promise to be gentle.”

  “I’m not sure that’s a requirement.”

  “And you would know, of course.”

  Definitely petulant. His lashes shaded his eyes. “I only meant to give you license.”

  “I believe I have all the license I need with you trussed up hand and foot,” she snidely countered.

  Already going above and beyond in terms of congeniality, he tamped down his temper with effort. “This isn’t armed combat, darling. Or at least it shouldn’t be.”

  “You’re right,” she replied, telling herself to be sensible; jealousy was a useless emotion with Oz. “Sex is sex is sex better suits the occasion.”

  “The golden rule of dalliance,” Oz said with brevity. “And my cock would prefer less talk and more action if you don’t mind.”

  One glance at his enormous erection caused a predictable flare of desire; really, she was shamelessly captivated by his beautiful penis. As was every quivering sexual receptor in her body.

  “Please,” he said, whether candidly or designedly he wasn’t sure.

  Her gaze came up and met his. “In a minute,” she answered, in her case designedly, and slipped off the bed.

  He recognized his phrase, understood her possible motive, considered breaking free, taking his pleasure of her and putting an end to this bit of foolishness. But since he intended to prolong his visit for an undetermined length of time, a certain civility was required. “Take your time,” he said with just enough impertinence to salve his pride.

  She swung around, the dish of blancmange in her hand. “You’re not in the least tractable, are you?”

  He shook his head slightly. “Resigned, I believe, is the word.”

  “I must see that you’re better reconciled to your condition.”

  “You talk too much,” he grumbled. Conversation was not a salient feature of his sexual encounters.

  “Let me remedy that,” she blandly offered, climbing back onto the bed. “As you said to me that first night, Observe.” Setting down the dessert dish, she pulled his rigid erection away from his stomach until it was perpendicular to his body, and holding it with one hand, dipped the fingers of her other hand into the blancmange.

  Controlling his breathing, his senses, the impulse to break his bonds, Oz watched from under his lashes as his wife slowly smeared the length and breadth of his upthrust cock with pudding.

  The coolness should have shrunk his penis, but under his wife’s ministrations, with her lush breasts close enough to touch under normal circumstances, and anticipation of the finale to her bedaubing inflaming his lust, the possibility of contraction wasn’t an issue.

  “If you keep getting bigger, I’m going to run out of pudding.”

  Oz gazed reflectively at his wife. “You could do something about that.”

  “Whatever do you mean?” she cooed.

  “You know what I mean. Even under the best of circumstances I couldn’t taste that pudding.”

  She resented his ability to keep his voice so normal. “I might just be amusing myself.”

  “And I might be the king of Siam.”

  “Rather than the prime stud of London.”
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br />   “Who is tethered to your bed for your pleasure,” Oz softly reminded her.

  Licking her fingers, she set aside the dish, reason restored with his comment. But beneath the reason a small unjustifiable jealousy remained. “And yours as well,” she said with a touch of acerbity.

  At her tone he unconsciously braced himself only to meet her dazzling smile.

  “Worried?”

  “A little.”

  “Good.” Her grip tightened at the base of his erection, and she bent her head.

  He flexed arms heavy with muscle, testing the strength of the silk cords.

  Glancing up, her mouth inches from the slick head of his cock, she murmured, “You’re not going anywhere.”

  “That depends on what you’re planning to do.”

  “On the contrary, it depends on the solid wood of this bed and that heavy braided silk cord. You’re at my mercy. Ah . . . you find that arousing—look at him swell. I think he wants me to kiss him.”

  He shut his eyes as her mouth closed over the swollen crest of his penis, the enigma of wanting and not wanting mystifyingly unclear when the warmth of her mouth, her tongue, the light friction of her teeth on the thin-skinned, highly impressionable nerves of his cock was obliterating rational thought.

  “There now,” she murmured, the hum of her words on the head of his erection a provocative buzzing jolt to his senses. “He likes that.”

  At the moment, he was willing to acknowledge a fondness several degrees more enthusiastic than liking, but in the grip of gut-wrenching sensation he was incapable of speech. Particularly with his wife beginning to suck on him with increasing pressure.

  Less experienced, Isolde had no way of knowing that the fierce vibrations throbbing through her vagina had more to do with the object of her attentions than the actual act of bondage. What she did know, however, was that she had no intention of wasting the gloriously large penis in her mouth when she could apply it to better purpose.

  Swiftly sweeping her tongue up the rigid length, then down, once, twice, three times, she licked off all the sweet blancmange before moving to position herself astride Oz’s thighs. “This is mine by right of marriage,” she said, brushing her fingertips up the distended length of his erection. “To do with what I will,” she playfully added.

  The residue of pudding glistening on her lips was starkly erotic, the lingering sensation of her mouth on his cock fueling his impatience. “I’d help you if I could,” he murmured, his penis twitching in expectation.

  “I like that you can’t.” Rising to her knees, she reached for his massive cock.

  Maybe he did, too, if his fierce lust was any indication. But thought gave way to feeling as she slowly slid down his turgid length with exquisite deliberateness. And when she finally came to rest fully impaled on his cock and softly sighed, rapture took on an incorruptible purity for them both.

  It shouldn’t matter who was riding his cock, he thought. Yet it did. He gave her high marks for allure.

  How was it that Oz’s erection felt more wildly arousing than anyone else’s, she mused?

  Why was every susceptible nerve ravished yet insatiable, gloating yet gluttonous, they both wondered in that brief moment before Isolde rose to her knees, slid back down once again, and made the world disappear.

  When that prolonged moment of excess passed, she moved, but without haste—unlike her usual impatience; perhaps she was taking a lesson from Oz. Or maybe the tactile sensation of slick skin-to-skin friction was so acute and prodigal, she tempered her normal impetuousness to better experience the ostentatious pleasure. Whatever the reason, each leisurely ascent left her breathless for more, each slow, velvety descent was a melting, yielding avaricious search for the sublime.

  So facilely supplied by her well-endowed husband.

  Lost in his own carnal fervor, Oz struggled for control at the very depth of her downward glide when his cock was buried in her hot cunt and paradise took on an earthly form. He resisted the urge to break free and caress her lush breasts gently bobbing and quivering as she rode him, broke into a sweat at the thought of slipping his fingers between her legs and fondling her clit, wondered how much longer he could play the docile husband. Until he reached that ungovernable moment, however, he deferred to Isolde, adjusting his rhythm to hers, allowing her to direct the activity, restively performing his conjugal obligations.

  He even graciously satisfied her first two orgasms, his legendary endurance put to good purpose. But finally, having tolerated considerable orgasmic pressure for sometime, he reached a critical point of no return. “Get off!” he gasped, breathless, every muscle taut with constraint.

  “Soon,” she said as if his exclamation was inconsequential.

  “Now,” he said through gritted teeth, curtailing his ejaculation with every cognitive technique he’d acquired in his youth and had perfected over time.

  “Hush.” Coming to rest on his thighs, she shut her eyes and with a soft moan, swiveled her hips in feverish quest for orgasmic bliss. Twisting, rocking, grinding against his rigid cock, heedless to all but the mounting rapture, she impatiently sought surcease.

  Curbing his orgasm with stubborn resolve, tense with the effort, Oz managed to repress his ejaculation if not his temper until Isolde climaxed. At which time, well beyond the cultivated graces, he rapped out in quiet fury, “Untie me or I’ll break this bloody bed.”

  Isolde’s eyes flew open and she stared at him as if coming awake from a dream. “You’re angry.”

  “Damn right. I almost climaxed in you.”

  It took a moment for his brusque words to register. “You didn’t, though,” she said, mildly—imperturbable, postorgasmic.

  “No thanks to you,” he snapped, incensed by her casual reply. “Untie me.”

  Suddenly aware of his implacable rage, her contentment dissipated beneath the savage fury of his anger. But equally quick-tempered, as disinclined as he to take orders, she snapped in return. “What if I don’t?”

  “This game’s over.” His voice was grim, a heavy pulse beating in his neck. “Do as you’re told.”

  “I don’t think I like your tone.”

  Any of his late enemies would have recognized the danger in his gaze. “I don’t care. Untie me or this bed goes.”

  “You’re not that strong.”

  He drew in a breath through his nostrils, his gaze hard and intent. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  Reining in his temper, understanding when it came to a fight she was grossly outmatched, he softly sighed. “Could we please stop? Just untie me.”

  “No.”

  “I’m asking nicely,” he said not entirely nicely after her crisp refusal.

  “And I’m telling you no nicely,” she replied, looking smug.

  Flexing biceps that would have been the envy of a galley slave, Oz came up off the bed in a brute, explosive lunge that snapped the bedposts like matchsticks. Grabbing the silk cords, he checked the rocketing trajectory of the shattered posts, shoved Isolde onto her back, slipped his wrists free, and extricated his ankles a second later. A second after that, his wife was pinioned beneath him and his fingers were lightly circling her neck.

  “Just for the record,” he said, glowering, “I have no intention in hell of fathering a child on you.”

  “Nor would I wish you to,” she hissed.

  His fingers tightened. “Then you should have gotten off me when I bloody asked you to.”

  “It wasn’t a good time,” she insolently retorted.

  His eyes went shut, and when his lashes lifted he said in a dangerous voice, “That was deliberate?”

  “It was not! I couldn’t move if you must know. Is that better?”

  “Fuck no.”

  “Well, I’m sorry. Apparently, we can’t all be as responsible as you.”

  “This isn’t going to work out,” he muttered, unclasping his hands from her throat and beginning to rise. “I’m
not going to ruin my life because you’re irresponsible.”

  “Wait,” she cried, shocked and confused, her feelings in tumult.

  But he didn’t; he swung his legs over the side of the bed. “I’ll never do that again. I promise,” she impulsively blurted out, overwrought, her body still tingling. “Don’t go! Oh hell,” she muttered, disconcerted to feel tears welling in her eyes, embarrassed and wretched and not altogether sure she wasn’t coming apart at the seams for indefensible reasons.

  Turning back he saw her pale and distraught, her eyes wet with tears, and hesitated. He was uncomfortable with women’s tears; he normally gave them wide berth. But then Isolde sniffled in an attempt to stifle her little hiccupping sobs and she looked so innocent, her pale hair tousled and disheveled, her cheeks flushed, that he recklessly disregarded the dangers in her overwrought passions. Turning, he lifted her into his arms, settled her on his lap, and as his cock instantly came to attention, he found himself overwhelmed by lust.

  Even then, he may have suppressed his impetuous libido if Isolde hadn’t slipped her arms around his neck and lifting her tremulous, wet gaze to him, artlessly whispered, “I’ll be better. I’ll be good. Please don’t go.”

  It was no contest.

  He softly exhaled, silently denounced himself for a fool, and then heedless of precedence and practicality, quietly said, “Don’t cry. We’ll work something out. Although,” he added, gently wiping away her tears with his knuckles, “I can’t do this alone.” He smiled faintly. “You have to help.”

  “I know,” she said, sniffling. “I will. Word of honor.”

  He accepted her promise when he wouldn’t have given it credence even as a callow youth. And years past such folly, he knew better than to trust her discretion. But then he was operating outside the pale, in some never-never land of sexual delight, and in that fantasy world he understood that the responsibility for not impregnating his wife was primarily his. Obviously she wasn’t trustworthy—solemn promises notwithstanding. “I’ll be more cautious, too,” he kindly remarked.

  “Thank you,” she simply said, her smile radiant. “Thank you for understanding, for giving me such unbounded pleasure. I don’t even care that I’m like every other woman you know who’s enamored of you. I don’t, and I am—so there,” she said with a pretty moue.