Sweet as the Devil

by Susan Johnson

  “My mother would agree. I had to tell her it was a gift from a barrister friend in order to protect your reputation,” Sofia explained, coming to a stop beside the bed. “She knew I’d never have bought it.”

  “Barrister friend?” The faintest rebuke echoed through the words, unintentional, unwanted, and quickly ignored. Sliding up into a sitting position, he plucked her off the floor and deposited her on his lap, intent on dismissing Von Metis from his thoughts and focusing on pleasure instead.

  “Much like your female friends in Vienna,” she silkily replied, lightly kissing his cheek. “I heard you and Antonella discussing them.”

  He caught himself before he said something he’d regret, something that would characterize their relationship as different from those in Vienna. “I apologize,” he smoothly remarked. “I’m sure your barrister friend is very agreeable.”

  She grinned, a playful gleam in her eyes. “Such aplomb, Blackwood. How do you do it?”

  “Habit, courtesy, my tutor’s tendency to beat me when I was rude. And why start a fight?” he said with an amused half smile, his errant emotions contained. “Especially when you tend to scream.”

  “You’re afraid I might scream?” The impertinence in the lift of her brows wouldn’t have disgraced an actress on the London stage.

  “Actually, no,” he replied with a maddening calm, and rolling her under him with daunting speed, he shoved her skirt up in a flash, nimbly settled between her legs, and covered her mouth in seconds flat.

  “Mmmmm.”

  He smiled against her mouth, shoved her skirt out of the way, guided his erection into place through the convenient opening in her drawers, and felt her body’s usual wanton welcome. Driven by the exquisite feel of her slippery liquid heat, by wild, selfish impulse, by his prolonged wait, by the ever real specter of death, he made a point of seeing that Sofia came to orgasm quickly—always easily managed with the untrammeled libido of the lady currently shattering his eardrums.

  In his ramped-up, hot-spur mood tonight, she couldn’t have come too soon.

  And now he was restlessly awaiting his turn.

  The same orgasmic rapture rippling through her cunt pulsated up his stiff cock with such gut-wrenching, excruciatingly raw sensation that even after the alarmist events of the afternoon, he was considering coitus interruptus a burden.

  Only briefly of course.

  He wasn’t so foolish, although his discretion was being seriously put to the test with his seething, high-pressure orgasm about to explode. Calling on every shred of willpower, he managed to discipline his frenzied nerves, although the instant her heated cries faded away, he pulled out of her silken warmth, and with a muzzled grunt of satisfaction, poured a gushing deluge of semen over her stomach. Afterward, braced on his hands, he hung over her for some moments, his hair in his face, his breathing labored. Then he blew out a small breath, raised his head, and said, “Christ, that was incredible . . .”

  She didn’t hear him, or if she did, it didn’t seem to matter, for at the moment, she was suspended in a sybaritic limbo—seemingly lit from within, a residual strumming delicately palpitating her vagina, immeasurable bliss inundating her senses. Eyes shut and aglow, she whispered, “Could we just do this forever?”

  “Whatever you want,” he said, thinking, Til morning at least. “And I apologize. I usually can wait longer.” He rolled off her with a sigh and lazily stretched.

  Opening her eyes, she turned her head and smiled. “You waited just long enough.”

  “I heard.” Hopefully the rest of the house didn’t.

  “Should I apologize?”

  “To me—God no,” he answered mildly.

  “I don’t always scream, you know.” She reached for a towel on the bedside table. “Take it as a compliment.”

  “I’d prefer not discussing whether you always scream or not. Take that as a word of advice.”

  She paused in stripping off her semen-soaked drawers, her gaze theatrically wide-eyed. “Oh my—should I be frightened ?”

  “Damn right.” Coming up on one elbow, he smiled. “Because I’m going to rip off your dress, and then I’m going to fuck you until you swoon.”

  “What if that doesn’t happen—the swooning, I mean?” Sliding her legs free of the drawers, she tossed them on the floor and wiped her stomach with the towel.

  His green eyes glittered. “Believe me, it will.” Taking the towel from her, he rubbed his cock dry.

  “Umm,” she purred. “I’m getting hot just thinking about it, and of course looking at your large, lovely, indefatigable erection.”

  He glanced down, then up again. “You’re the one keeping me in full rut, little wanton.”

  “I prefer emancipated female.”

  “I prefer naked female.” Dropping the towel, he slid his fingers under the open neckline of her gown, closed his grip, and with a sharp jerk, tore the fine silk bodice agape to the waist. “Now then, how do you feel about being ravished?”

  He was smiling, and whether he truly meant it or not, her body responded with undisguised eagerness. A hard pulsing commenced deep inside her, a rising flush colored her cheeks, and ravenous desire drenched her vagina. “I’m not sure I’d like to be ravished,” she said, suddenly moody. He was too bloody assured, his smile shameless, knowing.

  “Really.” His gaze met hers, and a teasing light stirred in the shimmering green. “Finish undressing. We’ll find out.”

  “I don’t feel like taking orders,” she muttered.

  This wasn’t the time to point out that she’d already given in to him on numerous occasions since leaving Ernst’s—actually leaving, the first instance. “Come, darling, you may not like to take orders, but we both know that you take cock rather well. Undress and I’ll give you all you want.”

  “Arrogant man.” And his bloody seductive smile he wielded so well. “Perhaps I don’t need you.”

  “Suit yourself,” he politely said. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll take care of this hard-on myself.”

  “No!” An explosive cry immune to logic, prodigal desire carrying all before it—intellect, restraint, chafing resentment—everything.

  “Then undress,” he brusquely said, buffeted by restive, incomprehensible feelings of his own. Drawing in a conciliatory breath, he reminded himself that this was about fucking, nothing else, and he more gently added, “If you would, please, I’d appreciate it.” The lady had distinct views on women’s rights; this wasn’t the time to press her when he didn’t want to think or fight, he only wanted to fuck the night away. “And if you don’t like ravishment, we can call it something else.”

  “Love, perhaps?” She grinned. “How would that be?” In command of herself again, she understood as well as he that this was exclusively about sex.

  “If you like.” Women always did. “We’ll call it love.”

  “Lovemaking.”

  “Lovemaking it is,” he drawled.

  His gaze flicked downward again to his erection lying hard against his stomach, then back to her. “Whenever you’re ready, darling.” Her breathing had changed. He could see the hard tips of her nipples through her chemise. She was her usual hot-blooded self. As if he didn’t know.

  But it took a moment for him to steady himself as she sat up, slipped her chemise down her arms, and bared her large, plump breasts, the crests rosy pink, jewel hard, and very close.

  “Touch me. Here,” she said, brushing a fingertip over one nipple.

  “Finish undressing.” He tapped the crumpled silk of her skirt. “Then I will.”

  “That’s not very loving.”

  He smiled faintly. “Why so combative tonight?”

  “Because it shouldn’t always be a man’s world, I suppose.” More personal inclinations didn’t bear scrutiny in this world of casual sex.

  “In our case, though, I can masturbate more easily than you. So I might have the advantage.”

  “How do you know?”

  The lewd image in his brain to
ok a moment to beat down. Then he sportively said, “I suppose we could find out.”

  “Damn your impudence.” Tears sprang to her eyes. “Are you ever even remotely serious about anything?”

  Living, he thought, pragmatic as ever. For all of us. “Darling, please, don’t cry,” he said instead, gathering her into his arms. “I’m so sorry,” he murmured as she sniffled into his shoulder. “I don’t want to fight. I want to make love to you all night and for the next decade or more. Don’t ask me why. I don’t know, I just do.”

  She lifted her head and gave him a teary smile. “I don’t know either. It’s really stupid.”

  “We’re obsessed, darling. We don’t have to be rational. We probably couldn’t be if we wanted to.”

  She exhaled a long, quiet breath. “Thank you. A reason at least for this insatiable fever of mine.”

  “Ours,” he quietly corrected, his glance for a moment proprietorial. Then, because he wouldn’t allow himself such startling sincerity for long, he grinned and said, “And now I’m going to ravish you with copious and prodigal love.”

  He eased her onto her back and set out to please her, kissing her rosy nipples as he stripped away the remnants of her gown, gently suckling and nibbling each taut peak as she softly writhed and moaned and lost all sense of perspective. Then he slid his fingers into her sleek, silken cunt and explored the hot, moist interior until she was squirming with impatience and softly pleading for him to enter her Now, now, now!

  “Show me where,” he gently said. “Look at me, darling. Where would you like my cock?”

  It took her a moment to fully open her eyes and a moment more to distinguish the speaker.

  “Look.” He ran his fingers up the full length of his erection and circled the swollen crest with a fingertip. “Now where would you like this?”

  Her impatient blue gaze locked on his, she spread her thighs, placed her fingers in the lush folds of her sex, and opened herself. “Here,” she said on a little caught breath, overwhelmed with a seemingly unquenchable desire that overlooked all but the burning need for surcease. “I want you here—please, Jamie, for the love of God, please.”

  For some monstrous reason he neither understood nor acknowledged, he required her submission—the perverse impulse lost in some labyrinthine obscurity. Perhaps the violence facing him tomorrow or the violence in his past was cause; perhaps it was nothing more than a dogged resistence to this enticing woman who inspired emotions he didn’t want to admit.

  Couldn’t and wouldn’t admit.

  Categorically refused to allow.

  But now with her capitulation achieved, his mastery absolute, he became the quintessential soul of benevolence. He indulged her in all things sensory and perceptive, fervent and earnest, his experience wide, varied, and vetted by grateful lovers the world over.

  He willingly gave her orgasm after orgasm. He wooed her with sweet caresses and tender kisses, with dulcet words and honeyed promises. He willingly accorded her the entirety of his much vaunted sexual repertoire, gifted her with his impressive and cultivated sensibilities, gave her unrivaled pleasure.

  Touched by her joy and gratitude, he rendered her stud service with an unparalleled solicitude that in the end enchanted them both.

  When finally, sated and content, Sofia fell asleep in his arms, Jamie lay awake, pleasantly exhausted and replete. He consciously ignored the clock ticking in his head, ignored the dangers confronting him tomorrow, ignored all the mortal uncertainties in the future, because he was gratified beyond his memories of gratification—and happy.

  CHAPTER 23

  COUNT JOHAN LATOUR von Metis was greeted at the door by a footman who, on hearing his name, took his hat and gloves and said, “This way, sir. Mr. Miller is expecting you.”

  As the count followed the young footman, he automatically studied his surroundings, taking particular note of points of egress. The house was quiet at that hour with some guests still abed, although most were in the studios or outside, painting. Von Metis had noticed several artists in the distance as he’d ridden up, all busily at work at their easels, a sunshade perched over their heads. Drawing his horse to a halt, he’d taken out his field glass from his saddlebag and studied the distant figures on the chance that one met Miss Eastleigh’s description.

  Alas, no.

  He unbuttoned his hacking jacket as he was being led toward the back of one wing of the house, twitched his shoulders to settle his twin handguns comfortably under his arms, and rehearsed the sequence of his questions. First, of course, were the requisite compliments to the artist. Then he’d allow a casual remark about the gossip in London concerning Miss Eastleigh. Had Mr. Miller heard, he’d ask. He must have of course, how startling it was, although perhaps not to the family. He’d offer a tolerant smile at that point, a mild comment about the ways of the world, a respectful query as to whether congratulations were in order—and gauge his response before going on. Then, if politesse failed to elicit the information he required, he’d resort to other means.

  He automatically shifted his shoulders again to verify the solid weight of the weapons in his holsters as he strode forward, his gait easy in his custom-made riding boots, his mind unencumbered, confident and assured.

  He was good at the cloak-and-dagger nasty stuff.

  On reaching the end of the hallway, the footman threw open a door, and walking past him, Von Metis entered Ben’s office. After quickly scanning his surroundings like a wolf on the scent, he greeted his host with a well-mannered smile. “An honor, sir,” he said, putting out his hand as he approached the desk where Ben sat, dressed in black like a funeral director, his expression unreadable. “Count Von Metis at your service.”

  Ben came to his feet, but he didn’t extend his hand.

  Strange. The count almost heard the phrase fix bayonets in his ear, and a moment later he knew why.

  A familiar voice said, “You’re a long way from home, Johan.”

  He slowly turned. James Blackwood had come in silently and was shutting the door behind him. “I might say the same of you,” Von Metis said in an affected drawl, a fleeting smile on his handsome face.

  “I’m on holiday. Ben’s my relative,” Jamie lied, hoping the fabrication might put Von Metis off the scent. He preferred the count think Sofia was with Ernst, although at base, it was an unnecessary precaution. The man wouldn’t be leaving the farm alive.

  “Ah, I see. Are you just nursemaiding then, or planning on marrying into the family? Or should I say both families.” Miss Eastleigh’s various lovers had been discussed at White’s with admiration and unconcealed longing, while Blackwood was a legend in the boudoir. He’d bet a fortune the couple had found common interests. And Blackwood was no more Miller’s relative than he was unarmed.

  “I’m just doing my job,” Jamie said, dismissing any false hope that Von Metis thought Sofia elsewhere.

  “In any case, Wharton’s going to be pissed. He’s out for your blood.”

  “He’ll have to get in line.”

  Von Metis laughed.

  Jamie glanced at Ben; he was supposed to have left when Jamie came in. “I can handle this from here.”

  “I’m not in a hurry,” Ben replied, unmoving and plainly unmovable.

  Oh Christ. Someone else in the line of fire. “You didn’t actually come here for a portrait, did you, Johan? Tell Ben you didn’t so he can get on with his day.”

  Von Metis grinned sardonically. “Actually I did. I came into some funds recently and decided to indulge my vanity.”

  “I wouldn’t waste your money.”

  “Is that so?”

  “It is.”

  For all his composure, Von Metis was balanced like a cat, ready to move, and it was clear to everyone that something ugly was about to happen.

  “I’m going to have to ask you to come with me,” Jamie quietly said.

  “Not likely that.” A grin creased the count’s handsome face, a nonchalance resonated in his voice, his swagger emerging
in the tilt of his shoulders and the wicked gleam in his eyes.

  A toe-curling silence fell.

  Then the door suddenly opened and Sofia said, walking in, “I’d like to—” “Get out.”

  Jamie glared. “Get out.”

  “Go,” Ben added without Jamie’s snarl.

  She’d stopped on the threshold. “First, tell me what—”

  “Jesus Christ,” Jamie growled. “Do what you’re told once in your life.”

  “Why not let the lady stay?” Von Metis pleasantly suggested, his voice soft as velvet.

  Sofia looked at the visitor for the first time, met his sinister gaze, felt a cold chill of fear, and realized she’d stumbled into danger.

  She turned to leave.

  Too late.

  Von Metis’s hands flew up to his weapons.

  Faster than thought, driven by instinct, Jamie hurled his body toward the door, wrenched his Mauser from its holster, and threw himself between Sofia and Von Metis’s eight-millimeter rounds.

  A volley of shots rang out, Sofia screamed, Jamie grunted as two rounds tore into his shoulder, and Von Metis fell dead, shot multiple times in the head and once in the heart.

  Jamie preferred head shots.

  Ben’s forty-five round had blown out half Von Metis’s chest.

  Sofia’s hysterical screams pierced the air in an unremitting, shrill, earsplitting cacophony of terror—her gaze riveted on the bloody gore that had once been a man.

  Shoving his Mauser back into its holster, Jamie came upright out of his dive, pushed the shrieking Sofia aside, slammed the door shut, and locked it. There was blood and shredded flesh everywhere, Ben’s large-caliber round having made mincemeat of Von Metis’s torso, Jamie’s nine-millimeter rounds leaving a cleaner albeit just as deadly path of destruction. What was left of the count lay facedown in a widening pool of blood. Dragging Sofia to a chair, Jamie put his hand over her mouth. “Stop!” He pushed her into the chair. “We don’t need witnesses.”