Sweet as the Devil

by Susan Johnson

  “And very pleasantly. You must be invited everywhere.” Her gratified nerve endings were still humming with his glorious cock lodged inside her.

  “This is the only invitation that interests me now.”

  “Oh sorry, you’re waiting, aren’t you? You can’t come in me, though,” she added, a sudden seriousness in her voice.

  “God no.”

  Before she could decide whether his vehemence was an insult or a courtesy, he abruptly moved, slowly withdrawing, or almost withdrawing before plunging back into the deepest depths, and she gasped instead as an unspeakable ecstasy bombarded her senses. “Do that again,” she whispered, feeling as though she were blissfully dissolving in a golden cloud of rapture.

  He understood that a degree of gentlemanly behavior was required, although he wasn’t quite sure he was capable of it. But he tried because he wasn’t a novice and he wished to please her. A startling thought at this point in his arousal. But there it was, so he did it again and then again, and several more times, drawing on his considerable experience to delay his orgasm and allow the lady to climax once more.

  But it was a damn close call.

  His eyes were shut tight in deterrent, his powerful back arched against the urgency of the rushing torrent about to explode, and a certain tension in the rhythm of his breathing was audible as he politely waited for the lady’s orgasmic ripples to wane. When at last he gauged her reasonably satisfied, he uttered a low guttural growl, set his teeth, and by sheer determination jerked out her enticing little cunt a mille-second before a pent-up flood of semen exploded in a shuddering ejaculation that laid waste every preconceived notion of sexual gratification in his canon of erotic sensation.

  Already personally aware of the rule changes in terms of sexual gratification, Sofia lay docile beneath him, basking in the afterglow while the splendid man who’d radically altered her notions of pleasure climaxed. His broad shoulders were taut under the convulsive strain, his muscles starkly defined in extremis, his hands hard on her hips, restraining her, exerting his power.

  That unequivocal display of authority was also tempering Sofia’s views on male domination—at least in the bedroom. And why not, she decided, when she was being serviced by the most sublime, blatantly virile lover she’d ever had.

  She understood more fully as well why Jamie Blackwood was such a favorite of the countess. Not only was he hung like a bull, but he was both skilled and magnanimous in managing that valuable asset. A little flurry of anticipatory ferment raced up her spine at the prospect of enjoying his attentions again; he’d promised to keep her up all night.

  How nice.

  She’d have to be polite; she wasn’t always.

  She must take pains to be agreeable, even though his seminal discharge currently pouring over her stomach was—she smiled—leaving a mess.

  Seconds later, his green eyes flicked open, and pushing the counterpane aside with one hand, he smiled sideways at her. “That was very nice,” he said, well-mannered and flattering as he grabbed a corner of the sheet and, dropping back on his heels, wiped himself off. “Thank you.”

  “I hope you’re not done!”

  His hand froze for a moment, a fresh portion of sheet crumbled in his fist. “I’ll need a minute or two,” he said, his face devoid of expression, and dropping the crushed linen on her stomach, he began sopping up his semen.

  “I’m sorry,” she said into the sudden oppressive silence. “My manners are atrocious.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Manners aren’t high on my list of priorities right now.” He tossed the sheet aside, skidded her over on the silk counterpane with a shove of his hand, dropped onto his back beside her, and exhaled a long, unhurried breath.

  His bluntness was provocative, a refreshing change after so many fawning men. More pertinent, his dismissive tone was flagrantly arousing, as if he viewed her as no more than an object of his lust. Ummmmm . . . pleasant thought. She could almost feel his huge cock gorging her full.

  Tantalized by recent memory, she came up on one elbow to view the handsome, hard-bodied man who excited and provoked her desires, who made her greedy for sex when she’d never felt such urgency—when sex had never been about compulsion . . . until now.

  Have two minutes passed? Is it too soon to ask for more?

  His eyes were half-closed, his long lashes shadowing his gaze, his strong, lithe form motionless.

  Dare I intrude? Restive and uncertain when she never was, when she prided herself on a life of spontaneity, she softly sighed.

  His head didn’t move, but his eyes swivelled her way. “Two minutes more and I’ll be with you.”

  She flushed under his gaze and thought about offering demur.

  He smiled. “I didn’t know you could blush.”

  “I’m not blushing,” she said like a child caught in some obvious mischief. But treacherous longing carried her gaze downward to his upthrust penis, only marginally diminished with his orgasm.

  He followed her gaze and, lazily lifting his hand, ran his finger up the length of his turgid cock. “He likes you.”

  A wild impatience warmed her blood as his erection swelled larger before her eyes. “The feeling’s mutual,” she said on a caught breath, the veins of his penis prominent and pulsing, the prodigious increase in size breathtaking. “And I beg your pardon in advance,” she added with future gratification tantamount in her mind. “I can be outspoken at times.”

  His lashes lifted marginally as though such understatement was enough to gain his attention. “You’re absolved in advance,” he smoothly replied, future gratification on his agenda as well. “Feel free to say what you like.”

  She took exception to his careless drawl. “Because it doesn’t really matter what I say, does it?”

  He finally opened his eyes fully, turned his head, and rather than respond to her tart comment, smiled faintly. “What I meant was—nothing matters when I’m focused on this,” he said, turning smoothly on his right hip, slipping his left hand between her legs, and shoving two of his fingers palm deep into her hot flesh. “But talk if you like,” he added, gently stroking her dew-wet tissue. “I’m listening.”

  Suddenly she didn’t have enough air in her lungs to talk, to breathe, to bring a coherent thought to utterance. Resentment and umbrage vanished in a blaze of white-hot desire, and shutting her eyes, she fell on her back with a soft melting sigh.

  Such ripe vulnerability, Jamie pleasantly thought. The lady had an enticing proclivity for arousal, almost a frightening receptivity if he was inclined to question his sexual prowess. He wasn’t, though; in fact, he was debating whether to use his cock or his fingers this time. He supposed he knew the answer before he even asked the question, and climbing on top of her, he entered her slippery warmth without preliminaries or foreplay, without so much as a kiss.

  They mated that time with a wild, reckless savagery—their frantic coupling an act of blind desire, of fiery, selfcentered lust, of a reluctance to give credence to their calamitous feelings—but feeling them nonetheless in every raw, exposed nerve and throbbing bit of flesh. Feet braced, he pounded into her, and she met his hard driving rhythm with equal fearlessness, crying out in an openmouthed frenzy at every violent downstroke, clutching at his arms each time to restrain his withdrawal, their bodies sleek with sweat, both selfishly taking, not giving, as if they might never have another chance to rut like beasts, as if the world might end in the next few seconds, as if there should be a bronze marker to commemorate the occasion.

  He collapsed afterward, drained, utterly sapped, conscious thought in abeyance.

  Panting to catch her breath, Sofia reveled in the feel of his weight pressing her into the mattress, the vibrations of his heart hammering against her breast; paradise was no longer a land of mystery.

  Rarely neglectful of courtesy in the boudoir, a moment later, Jamie raised his face from the mattress near her shoulder, levered his body up a fraction so he wasn’t crushing her, and meeting Sofia’s warm gaze,
ruefully said, “Now it’s my turn to apologize. I hope you’re not hurt.”

  “What do you think?” A grin in every syllable.

  I think you’re the hottest little puss on God’s green earth. “Good,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to make you angry.”

  “Considering the night’s young.”

  He smiled. “Yes. And I’m sorry I’ve ruined your shirt.” He’d had the presence of mind the first time to push up her shirt before coming on her stomach. Not so, this time.

  They were both sticky.

  She shrugged. “I don’t care about my shirt. However”—she shut her eyes briefly before opening them again—“the thing is”—she stopped again, then blew out a breath, clearly reluctant to voice her thoughts—“oh hell, here goes.”

  He repressed his smile; she was a wild, fey spirit. He expected no less.

  “Anyway, I have the strangest feeling, about you, us—no, mostly about me . . . that I’m somehow losing myself, my independence, my will.” The fear had come over her suddenly, like a dangerous undertow in an otherwise calm sea, that the outrageous happiness she was feeling was in violation of all her rules against entanglement. Amorous play was a game after all—or had been. Now, damn it, some unwanted magic was in play. “Sex is never like this for me,” she grumbled, her face pinked with emotion. “Men ask and I decide if I want them or not. But I never do for long, and now”—her nostrils flared—“I don’t like feeling so out of control, so dependent on”—she pointed at his penis resting against her thigh—“that.”

  “Don’t worry. There’s nothing wrong with feeling good.” His mind was moving quite coldly and calmly now. He could manage this. “It’s not a personal crisis. It’s one night or—”

  “Don’t forget about tomorrow. You promised you’d ride with me, damn it. Blackwood?” Her brief moment of uncertainty was effaced.

  “I heard,” he said. He was trained to deal with crises—or noncrises, as it were in this case. “I’ll ride with you. I said I would and I will,” he added in a reasonable voice. “And you needn’t be concerned about losing your independence. This is simply about pleasure—yours and mine. We’ll stop to visit your mother, we’ll stop overnight once or twice more, you can give me all the orders you want.” He smiled. “And I won’t complain. We’ll find you some clothes tomorrow, too. I’ll take you shopping.” It never failed, promising to take a woman shopping.

  She grimaced. “You’re way too smooth.”

  “No. This feels different to me, too.”

  She snorted. “See? You’ll say anything.”

  He shook his head rather than explain that he’d never felt this way before. But mostly he didn’t want to lie because he knew he wouldn’t feel this way next week or next month. He’d fucked a lot of women; he understood time limits. But he spoke with genuine affection when he said, “I’m more than willing to be accommodating when it comes to your pleasure, until such a time as you make that decision you always make with men.” He smiled. “Although I’m willing to bet I can keep you interested longer than most.”

  She reached up to touch the fine straight bridge of his nose. “Arrogant man. Although I’m not about to take issue with you,” she said with a sudden smile. “I’d rather think about what we should do next?”

  Crisis averted. “I’d suggest we start by taking off your wet shirt.”

  And after quickly wiping himself off, he did just that with fastidiousness and dispatch.

  There was nothing clumsy about him, Sofia pleasantly thought, as he eased her back on the pillows after disposing of her shirt. She was reminded of that first fateful morning at Countess Minton’s when Jamie had navigated the perilous currents between Bella and Lily Chester with ease. He knew how to handle women.

  “I’ll be right back. Don’t move.” Jamie slid from the bed with her shirt and riding pants in hand.

  “What if I did?” she said to his back.

  He shot a grin over his shoulder. “You couldn’t go far.” He stopped in the doorway to the bathroom, turned, and held up her clothes.

  A small unsettled feeling gripped her. “Am I your prisoner?”

  “Of course,” he said. “You have been from the first.”

  When he returned from the bathroom, he carried towels, one of them wet. “Should I or would you like to?” He offered her a wet and dry towel.

  She scowled at him. “I don’t wish to be your prisoner.”

  “I’ll be very kind. You won’t notice.” Ignoring her scowl, he started wiping away the residue of their lovemaking from her stomach.

  “Don’t talk to me like I’m a child.”

  “Then stop acting like one.” He shoved her legs apart and shot her a look from under his lashes as he began wiping away the stickiness.

  “Does the Countess Minton like you to do this?” Sulky and fretful, she swept her hand downward to indicate his swabbing.

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means it’s none of your business.”

  She slapped his head—hard, and he jerked upright, frowning.

  “Do I have to tie you up to do this?” he muttered.

  “Does the countess like to be tied up?” She was greeneyed with jealousy when she had no right, when she should be worrying about the duration of her imprisonment.

  “I couldn’t say. Do you?”

  “It depends,” she replied, oversweet and provocative.

  He didn’t like her answer. There was no godly reason why her answer should matter one way or another, but it did. “What does it depend on?” he asked in a tone of voice that would have put anyone who knew him on guard.

  “On the mood I’m in, I suppose,” she flippantly declared.

  “Do you like whips, too?”

  This time she recognized the extent of her danger in his low, carefully controlled tone. “What are you going to do?” she quickly inquired, conscious once again of his size and power, of the temper in his eyes. And if it had been possible to take a step back, she would have.

  The fear in her voice stopped him, although it took another second before he was able to speak composedly with the graphic image of other men making love to her roiling in his brain. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” He bent his head to kiss her but stopped midway when she shivered. “Here, you finish,” he said, tossing her the towel. “I’ll sit over there”—he pointed—“so you needn’t be alarmed. I’m sorry, I’ve been in the wrong job too long.”

  There was something in his voice, an underlying weariness that touched her, that instantly eclipsed her resentment and fear. She watched him walk away, drop into a chair halfway across the room, slide down on his spine, and shut his eyes. He looked afflicted, if a body that strong could display suffering. But he did at least appear to be bearing a heavy cross.

  A moment later when she slid off the bed, he opened his eyes.

  “You look unhappy,” she said, moving toward him.

  “I’m just tired. I haven’t slept much lately.”

  “Would you prefer sleeping now?” Coming to rest before his bare outstretched feet, she met his gaze. “I know how to be obliging, although I haven’t acquitted myself well with you. I’m sorry for that.”

  “You needn’t apologize.” But he spoke the words automatically, as if his mind was elsewhere.

  “Would you like to sleep? I won’t bother you if you do.” She wanted his attention, though. She wanted him to say no; she selfishly wanted him to fix his priorities on her.

  He looked up at her, his green eyes somber as if pondering his answer, as if wanting to respond honestly.

  “I’d understand whatever your answer,” she said.

  His gaze traveled up her body, slowly, leisurely, stopping for a moment on her breasts. Her breathing was disordered, agitated, and her breasts were quivering slightly. He could have driven a bargain with her when she was in that state. He could have asked for anything. But he wasn’t that sort of man—or at le
ast not with her, or at least not tonight.

  Hauling himself upright in the chair, he put aside his fatigue and held out his hand. “Come here, brat. You can try to be obliging, and I’ll try not to frighten you.”

  She promptly launched herself at him with unbridled delight, and his reflexes supple, he caught her in midair, set her on his lap, and held her close. Tomorrow he’d worry about the pointlessness of all this.

  Snuggling against his warmth and power, his strong, muscular neck, Sofia exhaled a blissful sigh. “I adore feeling this way,” she murmured. “Head-over-heels joyful. You’ve bewitched me.” Lifting her head slightly, she met his amused gaze. “Don’t laugh. I’m serious. You don’t know how I normally deal with men.”

  He grinned. “I can guess. You tell them jump and they jump.”

  “And you refuse to,” she said with a playful pout.

  He dipped his head and touched her forehead with his lips. “You’re just not used to taking orders. You’ll get used to it,” he roguishly said.

  “What if I don’t?” She wasn’t entirely teasing.

  “You forget that I’m large and you’re small,” he said, smiling. “And,” he added, a jaded note suddenly evident in his voice, “I’ve been giving orders for a very long time.”

  “You sound as though you’re tired of it. Are you?” She paused a moment. “I expect taking care of my father can be trying.”

  “Yes,” he said realistically. “And you’re like him in more ways than you’d care to acknowledge,” he gently added.

  “I am not!” she bristled.

  “Tell me about your mother.” He didn’t want to fight again. At least not tonight. “Will she be surprised to see us?”

  She had to admire how deftly he changed the subject. “Mama and Ben always have a great many guests.” She, too, was more than willing to shift the topic to one less fraught with contention. “We’ll be welcomed along with all the rest.”

  “They won’t think it strange when we suddenly arrive?”

  She shook her head. “The farmhouse in the summer is a favorite destination for all their friends. Artists come and go, some are invited, some aren’t, but no one seems to care. The house is big, and everyone’s familiar with unusual living arrangements since finances are uncertain in the art world. My parents are well-off, though. Mama sells anything she paints, and Ben was a successful artist before he met Mother.”