They didn’t dance long.
They left midway through the waltz, leaving a buzz of gossip in their wake.
And retired to Blackwood’s.
“EVENING, FREMONT,” OZ said a short time later, entering the hotel with Nell on his arm. “What do you have for us?”
“Good evening, my lord. The Wellington Suite happens to be available.” It was Lady Howe’s favorite.
“Perfect. Have some brandy sent up.” He turned to Nell. “Any requests?”
“Nothing Fremont can help me with,” she murmured, tugging on his arm.
Oz shot a look at Fremont. “We know our way.”
“A pleasure to see you again, my lord,” Fremont said, knowing better than to publically address the lady.
“It’s good to be back.”
Fremont smiled as the young couple walked away. He liked young Lennox. He’d heard all the gossip, of course—about the surprising marriage, the not-so-surprising separation, Oz’s return to London. It was the lifeblood of his business to know who was with whom and when in order to avoid awkward encounters; husbands, wives, and ex-lovers were never lodged in close proximity. “You heard,” he said to a footman standing by. “Lennox’s brandy in the Wellington Suite, some champagne and petit fours for Lady Howe as well. She prefers the almond fondant icing.”
The Wellington Suite was on the garden side of the hotel, well away from the bustle of the street. Not that Nell cared for gardens or quiet. Rather, she enjoyed the overlarge bed and sumptuous marble tub in the mirrored bath. But what she enjoyed most was the man at her side.
“I’m so vastly pleased I found you tonight,” she said, slipping her arms around Oz’s waist the moment he closed the door behind them. “The trip from Cairo was endless . . . but with you as my prize it was worth every minute.”
“And you saved me from another night of boredom.”
“So very pleased to be of service,” she purred, gazing up at him with a seductive glance.
“In what way?” His smile was wicked.
“Since I thought of little else but you on my awful trip home I have several ideas. First, I’m going to undress you and admire your strapping young body,” she said with a sultry smile, sliding her hand upward over the diamond studs on his shirtfront. “Then you can lie in bed, watch me undress, and tell me how much you missed me.”
“Desperately, of course,” he said with a faint smile.
“Of course,” she whispered, profoundly grateful to have her favorite lover back.
Neither mentioned the occasion when last they’d met the morning after Oz’s marriage. This was playtime, after all, not harsh reality. Which precluded mention of the subsequent collapse of his marriage as well.
Oz had no objection to Nell’s agenda, knowing he’d be suitably rewarded for his acquiescence as would she. In the meantime, he was here to forget. As she slowly removed his evening clothes, he found her idle chatter soothing, familiar. Nothing was required of him but an occasional smile or nod, while her obvious relief on escaping her husband mirrored his own on fleeing his marriage. At base though, they were of a kind: she was as self-indulgent as he, eminently versed in the game of love and unlikely to demand anything of him other than sex—casual sex. Which was exactly what he wanted. Wasn’t it?
Fortunately, she dropped to her knees at that point to remove his trousers and he wasn’t compelled to face the vexing truth.
“Mmm . . . my lovely stud,” she murmured a moment later, his trousers and underwear cast aside, her fingers measuring the length of his erection in pleasant anticipation. “You have the most beautiful penis, darling,” she added, glancing up at Oz. “I suppose you hear it all the time.”
“Never,” he politely lied.
“I want him to wait for me, though, so go now,” she ordered, rising to her feet in a flurry of gold cloth and gardenia scent and pointing to the bed. “And think about what you want me to do for you while I undress.”
Fuck me into oblivion. “You decide. I’m amenable to anything.”
“Aren’t you always,” she dulcetly returned, reaching up to pull the pins from her hair.
“Rule one on the road to excess.”
“We agree on everything,” she lightly said, looking forward to remapping that route with England’s most talented cocksman.
A knock on the door broke into the amorous banter and undeterred by his nudity, Oz called out, “Enter.” Pointing to a table, he waited while the footman deposited his burden, thanked him, then immediately set about pouring himself a drink. As the door closed, Oz drained his glass, refilled it, and smiled at Nell. “Your audience of one is ready to be beguiled.” Moving to the bed, he disposed himself in a comfortable sprawl, the glass balanced on his chest, and gave her a nod. “The stage lights are up, sweetheart.”
After executing a dramatic bow, Nell struck an elegant pose that showed her stunning form to advantage. “For your pleasure and divertissement, my Lord Lennox, I took dancing lessons in Cairo.”
He grinned. “Why did I know that?”
A frown marred the porcelain perfection of her forehead. “Don’t say this is the twentieth time you’ve seen such a performance,” she pettishly retorted.
“No.” A courtesy lie. “I just knew what would interest you in Cairo.”
“Sex—if you’d been there,” she playfully replied, her good humor restored.
“And since I wasn’t there?”
“I found something else to amuse me.”
“Something or someone?”
“Really, dear, need you ask?”
“I only wish to point out that we are both faithless”—his brows lifted—“and not likely to change.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” she said with a little sigh. “I shouldn’t be pettish.”
“Nor will I,” he said with pallid amusement. “Show me what you learned.”
After she unclasped the few hooks at her back, her gown slid to her waist and her large, flamboyant breasts were on full display.
“Did your teacher take a fancy to your lovely breasts?” he murmured, wondering if her minimum clothing tonight was planned for him or anyone.
“She did as a matter of fact,” Nell said, perjuring herself without a qualm. “And I took the lessons for you.”
If so, news of his abandoned marriage had traveled fast. “I’ll have to do something for you in return.”
“All night long and often,” she said in a sultry contralto.
He smiled. “Whatever you say.”
Sliding her glittering gown down her hips, clad only in white silk stockings and gold slippers, she posed for him, arms raised, her smile dazzling, knowing she was unabashedly desirable.
“Breathtaking as usual.” She was a sumptuous, showy female with pale skin and auburn hair, flaunting breasts and ripe, rounded hips—a perfect companion in his current frame of mind. A vixen to titillate his senses without stirring his emotions.
“I expect you’ll also be impressed with my new skills,” she murmured with a little swish of her hips.
“I’m impressed already,” he said. “As you can see.”
“And I’m getting wet just looking at your huge erection,” she said softly, her gaze trained on the object of her lust—the holy grail for her long journey home.
“How wet?” he quietly asked.
Slipping her hand between her legs, she drew in a skittish breath as she slid her finger palm-deep into her vagina.
“I can do better than that for you,” Oz silkily remarked.
Lost to feverish sensation, it took a moment before Oz’s voice registered and a moment more before she held up her index finger for his perusal. It was pearled with moisture.
“I suggest you start dancing or your recital will have to wait,” Oz drawled. “We’re both primed.”
“No, no . . . don’t you dare. I want to show off my new skills.”
“By all means then, do so.”
“Because you can always wait,” she grumbled.
He shrugged. “If I have to.”
A femme fatale by nature, she objected to Oz’s self-control in the face of what was to most men her irresistible allure. “I suppose we can’t all be raised in India,” she sulkily muttered.
He smiled. “I can’t help but think you’d have been a willing pupil of Vatsyayana. But please, entertain me—and then I’ll entertain you.”
“It’s up to me to say when, though.” A sop to her inner femme fatale.
“Naturally.” Or not. He wasn’t a eunuch.
Having mastered the intricate manipulation of stomach muscles so necessary to the dance—thanks to a very charming young male instructor—Nell swiveled and rolled her curvaceous hips in a splendidly appropriate rhythm perfectly in sync with the sinuous undulations of her upper body. Her large, full breasts quivered and bobbed in provocative counterpoint to her gyrating hips, and when she twirled, her heavy breasts swung out in a spherical eddy that raised Oz’s cock an appreciable distance more.
She’d learned her lessons well; the dance was meant to arouse, titillate, and excite. And it did.
The moment she came close enough, he intended to assuage his lust. After weeks of celibacy, self-control was a relative term, and Nell was the perfect antidote to his collective frustration. She offered him what he realized he needed: worldly sexual pleasure and nothing more. He was grateful.
Suddenly, putting his glass aside, he set about curtailing her performance. “If you don’t come here, I’ll come there. Literally.”
She giggled. “You who can always wait?”
“It must be your new dancing skills,” he smoothly replied. It wasn’t; an image of Isolde lying in his arms had abruptly pervaded his brain and he needed to extinguish it. Quickly.
Having thought of little else for days, pleased at Oz’s rare impatience, Nell was more than willing to oblige. And Oz was so thankful for the instant obliteration of his unwanted memories that he obliged her with three quick orgasms before he found release.
“You’re absolutely . . . worth my . . . dreadfully . . . long journey,” she breathed, lying beside him, softly panting. “God, Oz . . . you’re so much better than I remembered.”
“I find it equally pleasing that you came back to London.” He meant it; she was the distraction he needed from haunting memory. Arching his back, he lazily stretched, his demons put to flight. “When you’ve caught your breath,” he gently said, “you can do something for me.”
Turning her head on the pillow, she held his gaze. “I’d love to.”
He knew she would; that’s why he proposed what he did. After two more drinks and champagne for the lady, Nell was reclining against the pillows, her feet comfortably clasped behind her head, her acrobatic flexibility beautifully show-casing her pouty vulva.
Kneeling before her, Oz contemplated the sleek, pink, pulsing flesh, the piquant offering enchanting. There was something about a creamy cunt in all its full-blown glory, ripely expectant and primed, that racheted up the pleasure scale of lust. Inhaling softly, he leaned forward, guided the swollen head of his penis to Nell’s delectable slit and penetrated her marginally. Then, once joined, he eased his hands under her bottom, lifted her slightly to allow him better ingress, and slid in another small distance.
Embedded midway in her pulsing flesh, the fullness of his cock pressed against the highly sensitive erectile tissue on the top wall of her vagina, that vividly impressionable area having been described in detail since medieval times in various Urdu texts. Since his youth, Oz had understood the subtleties of female arousal apropos that tiny spot. And he also knew what Nell liked. Remaining fixed in place and utterly still, he served as willing instrument to her pleasure as she panted and twitched in escalating delirium, absorbed the increasingly fierce, seething rapture, and eventually climaxed. Over and over and over again.
She was infinitely easy to please. But then they were well matched when it came to selfish carnality.
Their reunion turned out to be an exercise in politesse and hedonism. Careful to stay within the prescribed perimeters of urbane friendship, the night passed in a mellow exploration of ravishment and ecstasy. And when morning came, Nell decisively said, “I’m going to preempt your leisure time. Don’t argue. It’s not as though you have anything more pressing to do.”
He didn’t argue. “I’d be delighted,” he said.
They went to Blackwood’s often in the following days. Oz didn’t have to think with Nell.
He didn’t want to think. Or talk—other than suave pillow talk without substance or humanity.
And Nell didn’t care as long as Oz exerted himself to please her.
It was no exertion; it was automatic for him, and that in itself offered relief. He wasn’t obliged to face his discontent during the hours he spent at Blackwood’s. Nor was he apt to be grilled on his marital situation. It was the last subject Nell was likely to bring up.
CHAPTER 23
WHILE OZ WAS exorcizing his demons at Blackwood’s, Isolde was coping with Will’s unwanted visits. No matter what she said or did to discourage him, he refused to listen. He’d ride over with a message from his steward for Grover; their estates shared a border. Or he’d carry over an invitation from his wife for some social event when they both knew the invitation had been coerced. Will had even taken to meeting her on her morning rides, which thoroughly spoiled one of her favorite pastimes. His persistence was vexing to a very large degree.
She’d even pleaded a headache once, the ache in her temples instant and real the moment he’d been announced. She’d sent a message down by her maid only to have him come back an hour later with a cordial recommended by the village doctor. And she’d not been able to eject him for hours.
She was beginning to consider threatening to inform his wife of his frequent visits if he didn’t stop. She’d finally said as much one morning when he’d met her on the downs, swung his mount alongside hers, and matched her pace. “You’re being much too attentive, Will,” Isolde fretfully muttered. “I’m tempted to talk to Anne. I doubt she’d approve of your constant calls.”
“Your husband’s taken up with his former lover. Did you know that?” he said as if she hadn’t spoken.
With considerable effort, her reply was cooly composed although the color had left her face. “Like you, you mean.”
His smile was bright with good cheer. “On the contrary, darling, I’m still only hopeful.”
“Allow me to dash those hopes. I’m not interested in renewing our friendship, not now, not ever. I hope I make myself clear.”
“Allow me to disagree, Izzy, darling,” he pleasantly countered, immune to her rebuff. “You’re a passionate woman who’ll eventually require sexual satisfaction. And from all appearances, you won’t be getting that from your wandering husband.”
“Perhaps one of the stable boys is servicing me.” The blood had returned to her face, her smile was flawless.
“Lucky fellow.”
“For God’s sake, Will. Stop. I have no interest in discussing this.”
“When you do become interested, darling,” he softly said, “I’d like to be first in line.”
She shot him a sharp look. “You certainly have tenacity. But, pray, take me off your list of hopeful conquests and don’t speak to me of this again!” Whipping her mount, she raced away from Will’s unwanted company and more from his unwanted news. She’d expected it, of course, but all the same, on hearing of Oz’s infidelity her stomach had risen to her throat. How unfortunate to have fallen in love with a wild young man who bewitched without even trying, who masterfully practiced the art of pleasing in bed untrammeled by feeling or regret. Who’d walked away without a backward glance even knowing she might be carrying his child.
Even more unfortunate, that same wild young man had spoiled her for all others. No matter she’d been trying mightily during the past fortnight to disabuse herself of the notion—there it was plain as day.
The sight of Will left her cold. Annoyed her,
in fact.
While Oz’s beguiling image was a permanent fixture in her brain.
Damn. Life wasn’t fair.
As if to emphasize that point, Pamela came to call that afternoon, looking so uncomfortable that after five minutes of prosy, pointless conversation, Isolde said, “I already heard about Oz.” With pride she controlled her anger and distress. “You needn’t feel awkward.”
Pamela didn’t quite meet her gaze for a moment, then said with a sigh, “I thought you should know if you didn’t.”
“Will was pleased to inform me of the news when he disturbed me on my morning ride again,” Isolde replied, even as she braced herself to hear another version of the gossip.
“You know then that Oz has taken up with Nell Blessing-ton again.”
She nodded. Even braced, even knowing, it hurt to hear the words. So much for logic. She was consumed with jealousy and sorrow, the thought of her husband lying with the splendid Nell, disheartening. “She’s very beautiful,” Isolde said as calmly as she was able. “And I hardly expected faithfulness from a man like Oz.”
“Or most men,” Pamela said with a sniff. “I’m so sorry for you, dear. Especially now.”
Isolde glanced up from her tea.
“I don’t know if others know, but I’ve suspected for some time.” Pamela smiled. “It’s always the breasts that give it away.” She half lifted her hand. “Your gown’s getting tight. Are you happy?”
“I am. Very happy.”
“Then the rest doesn’t matter.”
“I agree. This is my baby.”
“Is he gone then?”
“I don’t know,” Isolde said, setting down her cup. “We quarreled and he left.” She couldn’t yet bring herself to disclose their divorce plans. It was foolish, of course. Pamela’s silence could be depended on. But matters of the heart didn’t yield to reason, nor was passion so easily repudiated.
“Have you tried writing to him?”
Isolde shook her head. “I don’t relish being rebuffed. He was quite determined to leave.”
“Are you heartbroken?”
“It wouldn’t do me any good if I were. I keep busy; the child I carry brings me enormous joy. I have too much goodness in my life to be despondent.”
Sexy As Hell (Berkley Sensation) Page 24
