“Only at my service,” she playfully charged. “Humor me, darling,” she said to his suddenly cool gaze. “A half truth will do.”
He bowed. “Consider me exclusively at your service, darling. I shall be a monk outside your company,” he promised.
Her darling Oz—ever the graceful hunter. “How terribly sweet of you,” she said with equal urbanity. Surveying his hard, muscled body nude save for his white linen underwear, she lazily arched her back and considered her next orgasm with explicit delight. “Wasn’t it opportune that we both went to Deveral’s dispersal sale. Otherwise we wouldn’t be here enjoying—oh dear,” she murmured, “I’m dripping on your bed. I need a towel and then you, my splendid stud. Or just you if you don’t mind stickiness.”
In his current mood, he’d willingly fuck her anywhere, anyway, but he also knew where to find towels, and moments later, naked now, his arousal freshly washed, the blood wiped from his back, he returned from the adjacent bathroom with an armful of white towels. He tossed them on the bed. “Stickiness makes no difference to me. You decide.”
“How charmingly amenable.”
Slipping off his rings, he grinned. “I intend to charm the hell out of you, darling, until you cry stop or I die trying.”
Placing his rings on the bedside table, he joined her in bed, picked up a towel, glanced at her with raised eyebrows, and at her nod, wiped his semen from between her legs. “Ready?” he said, throwing the towel on the floor.
“I’m not only ready, I’m shamelessly besotted, ravenously lustful, and indifferent to everything but having your cock inside me.”
He laughed. “Tell me how you really feel.”
“Why shouldn’t I when I see you so seldom. The point, it seems to me, is to take full advantage of your splendid capacity for fornication.” Reaching up, she patted his cheek. “Now be a dear and do what you do so well.”
For a brief moment he took issue with her flippancy but quickly decided there was no point in splitting hairs. He was what he was, and realistically, sexual pleasure always took precedence over minor affront. “Speaking of seldom seeing you, allow me to scrutinize this newly maternal body of yours. I’m intrigued.”
She smiled. “You’re a neophyte, as am I. But be my guest, although I warn you, I’m much more easily aroused in my fecund state. I masturbate more.” Her brows flickered sportively. “You should come home. I could use you.”
A more tempting invitation had never been offered him. And he said so.
“But,” she murmured.
“I have my business in town,” he answered with well-mannered courtesy. “Otherwise I’d be more than willing to take over the duties of stud for you.”
She sighed with a touch of drama. “Alas, then, I must take full advantage of these hours.” She threw her arms wide, spread her thighs, and grinned. “Touch me at your risk and my pleasure.”
He laughed, her candor delightful, along with her unquenchable craving for sex. Not to mention her comment about masturbation suggested Will wasn’t a constant in her bed—pleasant thought. Lightly brushing his palms over her flat belly, he said, “Nothing shows here yet.”
“It’s too early, Pamela tells me.”
“But these are sumptuous and flourishing.” He covered her breasts with his hands, fingers splayed, and experienced a warm content as her eyes went shut and she softly moaned.
How compatible they were when it came to sex.
His cock was always at full mast when his darling wife was near.
It almost made one contemplate marriage with fondness.
“Your nipples are bigger,” he said, gently stroking the taut pink crests. “Do they feel different?”
She smiled up at him. “Everything feels different. More sensitive and tender, oversensitive at times,” she answered, arching her back against the tingling tremors sliding downward from Oz’s gentle stroking to her pulsing sex. “You’re a man of finesse, are you?”
“I try to be. Would you prefer roughness?” he asked, his gaze speculative.
“Heavens no. Whatever you’re doing is sublime. Do. Not. Stop.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he happily said.
“And you needn’t look so smug.”
“No, ma’am.”
“Arrogant bastard,” she grumbled.
“Uh-uh. Grateful as hell, darling, to have you in my bed.”
She smiled. “You can be such an absolute sweetheart.”
He didn’t feel it useful to contradict her; he was very much not a sweetheart, as any of his acquaintances would testify. “Thank you. We try,” he said instead. “See if this is sweet enough for you.” Bending his head, he drew her left nipple into his mouth, slid his hand between her legs, found the nub of her clitoris with his forefinger, and began to softly suck on her jewel-hard nipple.
She was right about the changes pregnancy had wrought on her sensitivity levels. It was almost too easy to make her climax; very little of his virtuoso skills were required to send her over the edge. She literally climaxed in seconds.
He glanced at the clock on the bedside table from under his lashes as he switched his ministrations from her left nipple to the right, as he redirected his attentions to her swollen clitoris once again. The image of a fertility goddess in all her voluptuary ostentation entered his consciousness, reminded him of erotic temple sculpture back home, reminded him even more vividly of his youthful pilgrimages to shrines and sanctuaries that extolled the glories of sexual enlightenment.
It took considerable restraint to suppress his selfish impulses as his erection swelled higher. But Isolde’s appreciation for his largesse was so lavishly profuse after each of her several precipitous orgasms that he honestly replied, “It’s my pleasure, darling.”
“You’re outrageously benevolent,” she breathed, brushing his cheek with her fingers. “I must be making up for lost time; I don’t how to thank you enough.”
As he lay propped on one elbow beside her, he almost said, You’re having my child. That’s thanks enough. But relatively sober, he wasn’t lost to all reason. “You can thank me later.”
“Just tell me what you want me to do. Really—anything.”
“You probably shouldn’t say that to me right now,” he said, his voice a low rasp.
“You don’t frighten me. You’re not at all like your reputation.”
“You encourage my better impulses.”
“In contrast to those—”
“Who don’t.” At which thought, all the untidy perversions in his life came to mind. “I need a drink. Would you like a tisane?”
He was already off the bed and halfway to the brandy bottle. “Was it something I said?” she teased.
She seriously complicated his life, his future, and his peace of mind. Fortunately, there was a time limit to her visit, he decided, pouring himself a drink. Drinking it down, he grimaced at the odd taste in his mouth, and poured another to wash away the sour, acidic tang. Then, carrying the plate of sweets, he set it on the bed, went back to bring the carafe, a cup, and his brandy. Sprawling on the bed beside her a few moments later, he said, “Try the strawberry ones. They’re the best.”
“I will. I’m hungry all the time now. Would you like one?” She held up a small tart.
He leaned forward and she put it in his mouth.
As they ate, a small, increasingly uncomfortable silence fell.
“If you have something else to do,” she said in the awkward hush.
“No.” Curt and abrupt. “No, nothing at all,” he added in a more conciliatory tone. “I seem to be having trouble with my temper today. It’s not your fault. Please stay. You bring me pleasure.”
“The pleasure you give me is oceans wide, darling. I’d love to stay.”
“Do you sail?” He chose a subject less fraught with sentiment.
Recognizing she’d overstepped the bounds of amorous play, she gracefully said, “I’m a farmer, darling. Sailing’s outside my normal venues.”
He grinned.
“And a very lovely farmer at that. I’ll take you sailing sometime if you like. I have a yacht at Dover.”
She couldn’t say I’d sail to the ends of the earth with you without causing him alarm. “When the weather becomes warmer perhaps.” She congratulated herself on her measured reply. Her acting skills were improving.
“Anytime. Just let me know. I’ll send a carriage for you.”
If he could affect the role of bland acquaintance, she could as well. In terms of their future child, it would be useful to cultivate a cordial relationship. “Do you ever think of our child?” she impulsively asked. “Sorry,” she quickly said at his startled look. “You needn’t answer. I have no wish to provoke you with my pleasure at stake.”
“Don’t worry. I’m not exactly uninvolved in terms of pleasure. As for the child”—he lifted his shoulder in the faintest shrug—“the answer is no. I’ve not yet come to terms with the notion, although I’m sure I will with time,” he diplomatically remarked. Depending on the identity of the father. “Have you tried the almond tarts?” Picking up the plate, he held it out to her. “They’re excellent.”
“Thank you.” With talk of babies having been politely but summarily curtailed, she took a tart. “Where do you usually sail?” she inquired, as capable as he of casual conversation.
“Anywhere. North to Scotland occasionally, across to Calais at times on my way to Paris, to the Isle of Wight during race week.”
“To India?”
“No.”
His instant withdrawal was palpable. “Maybe you should pick the topic of conversation,” she said quickly.
“Or we could dispense with talk.”
“As you wish, of course.” Her faint smile was sardonic.
“You don’t mean it.”
“I want sexual satisfaction from you, and to that end,” she said frankly, “I mean it. You set the agenda.”
“Even at the risk of offending you?”
She lifted one brow. “Better my temper than yours.”
“That’s true. Are you finished?” He nodded at the plate of sweets.
“I certainly can be.”
His grin this time held a degree of warmth. “Do I detect a renewed interest in sex?”
“I wouldn’t say renewed so much as persistent. I didn’t wish to pressure you while you were relaxing.”
He beat down the resurgent image of a locked room with his wife inside, waiting for him, for sex—her unquenchable passions a libertine’s dream. “Why don’t you put that away,” he suggested with a nod at the food, “and we can get back to business.”
He watched her gather the items on the bed, taking note of the subtle changes in her body. Her sumptuous form was even more curvaceous now, her hips rounder, her waist slightly less slender, her plump breasts ripening and enlarging in anticipation of the future babe. That may or may not be his.
“Do you want me to take your glass?”
Startled from his musing, he saw her point to his glass.
“Penny for your thoughts.”
“I was admiring your beauty,” he urbanely said, handing over his glass.
“Thank you. I, in turn, appreciate your magnanimity.” Setting the glass on the silver tray, she returned and climbed back onto the bed. “You’re much, much better than my dildo.”
“I should hope so,” he negligently said, “or all my practice has gone for naught.”
“Let me assure you it hasn’t. You’re the very best, darling, not that my experience is as wide and varied as yours, but—”
“Pray desist from mentioning your experience,” he brusquely returned.
She mimicked locking her mouth. “I apologize most profusely.”
“Because you need me.”
“Very, very badly as a matter of fact.”
Such unequivocal eagerness required a moment of restraint to curb his first intemperate impulses. Would anyone assuage her sexual yearning? He didn’t allow himself to answer that question, although his temper showed in his voice as he tautly commanded, “Up on your hands and knees then.”
She immediately complied, curtness marked in his soft order. When he neither moved nor touched her for some moments, driven by her own intemperate needs, she glanced over her shoulder. “Is there something more?”
“No,” he gruffly replied, struggling to curb his treacherous thoughts. Her need for sex was insatiable, damn her, and talk of dildos aside he suspected that Will might be a frequent visitor at Oak Knoll after all. Breathe in, breathe out, relax. Keep in mind she might be the mother of your child; taking out your temper on her isn’t right, proper, or even legal anymore.
Coming up on his knees, he moved behind her. Running his hands over the soft, silken curves of her bottom, he slid one finger over the slippery wetness of her pouty vulva—what he viewed as her eternal readiness evident in the sleek, hot flesh. As if further testing her receptiveness—unnecessarily, he sullenly thought—he gently stroked her prominent clitoris, and at her shuddering gasp, a covetous jolt pulsed up his cock.
The worst kind of heavy-handed tyranny suddenly overwhelmed his senses, the feelings unnatural for a man who generally played at love. For some ungodly reason, Isolde brought out the brute in him. He should send her home before he hurt her.
Then like a sorceress inducing him to succumb, he heard her soft plea.
“Please, Oz, I need you,” she implored, impelled by her own demons, lust a constant whenever she was within sight of her husband, reason yielding to incomparable need.
He took a deep breath, still marginally in control. “I might hurt you.”
“You won’t. You can’t. Please, Oz,” she whispered. “I’m not in the least fragile.”
“In the event you turn out to be wrong, scream or hit me if I get out of hand,” he cautioned. “I mean it.”
“I’ll hit you if you don’t give me what I want,” she hotly retorted, swiveling around to glare at him, wanton desire an irrepressible pulsing ache inside her. “I don’t need politesse. I need you now!”
Could any man refuse? Although the fact that she suddenly reached behind her, grabbed his erection in a fierce hard grip, and swung her hips back to meet the swollen crest of his cock served as added incentive.
And quickly resolved his qualms.
At which point, he obliged her or she obliged him; it wasn’t absolutely clear who ultimately did what to whom. But he rammed into her luscious cunt as he’d promised himself he wouldn’t, and she welcomed the hard, lusty pounding with an equally gluttonous fervor.
Neither had ever felt such desperation, nor equated sex with violence, or felt the smallest impulse to engage in wild, brute fornication with others. But then neither had ever felt the faintest jealousy with anyone else or cared so much as to be desperate—not that such outré emotions were acknowledged in the course of the fiery, tempestuous mania that resembled a combat zone more than what passed for dalliance in the fashionable world.
When Oz eventually climaxed, his ejaculation left him momentarily lightheaded and gasping for air.
Isolde hadn’t thought her orgasms could get any better, but this one did, shocking her senses with a hot, intense blaze of glory and a flying-too-close-to-the-sun ferocity that left her prostrate.
“I should move,” Oz murmured, semicollapsed on her back, his weight lightly supported above her.
“Don’t,” she breathed, shifting slightly to better feel his hard cock. “You feel wonderful.”
“Speaking of wonderful.” Flexing his thighs, he forced his erection deeper, gently testing the limits of her vagina. “You keep me in constant rut.”
“And that’s a good thing.”
“How good.” He drove deeper.
“Better than anything.”
“Damn right,” he whispered, his voice husky. “I’ve been thinking of locking you in a room and keeping you here for sex.”
“I might let you.”
“You might not have a choice.”
“Better yet.” Sh
e felt his laugh on her back and inside her, and if it were possible to measure pleasure and happiness, hers would run off the charts.
“My bewitching little wife. How the hell do you do it?”
“I could ask the same of you. Perhaps it’s karma.”
She wondered afterward what in those few words had irrevocably altered the mood. She never did know, but he suddenly withdrew, shoved a towel between her legs, and left the bed to pour himself another drink.
He didn’t throw her out; he wasn’t so discourteous. He just reverted to the charming, practiced rogue who enjoyed sex, who gave pleasure in full measure, who amused with cool versatility and politesse.
Whether he actually counted her orgasms or not, there came a time when she saw him glance at the clock twice in a short span of time.
“Grover’s going to be wondering what happened to me,” she tactfully noted, kissing him lightly on the cheek as he lay beside her, resting from their most recent climax. “I can’t thank you enough for your hospitality this afternoon.”
His dark lashes lifted, and turning his head, he smiled at her. “Come again. You’re always welcome.”
A dismissal, however gracious.
In the course of their dressing, he spoke of trivialities with an urbanity that bespoke of other times like this when leave-takings had turned awkward.
He helped her with her toilette, laying out a brush and comb, shaking the wrinkles out of her skirt with a practiced hand, offering to have his servants iron her gown if she wished.
“No, that’s not necessary,” she said, thinking he always knew the right tone to take. “The long drive home will only add more wrinkles anyway.” And she accepted the comb he held out to her with a smile.
CHAPTER 27
A SHORT TIME later, standing utterly still in the vast entrance hall devoid of servants, Oz said, “I’d be happy to accompany you back to Perceval House.” He was barefoot, dressed only in a shirt and trousers, his hands loose at his sides, his gaze completely shuttered.
Like his heart, Isolde thought. “Please don’t,” she said, conscious of the dearth of servants, wondering if he’d been expecting a scene. “It would only make things worse.”
Sexy As Hell (Berkley Sensation) Page 27
