Captivated

by Bertrice Small

  "I should be hostile and cross."

  "Instead of hot and excited," he murmured, his gaze roguish. "I know."

  She smiled. "It must be kismet."

  "Nothing so romantically, darling," he lightly teased, his endearment a spontaneous utterance he considered with brief astonishment. But shewas darling at the moment, he thought, and damned luscious. "Carnal urges, more likely," he added. "But if you want romance, I can do that, too," he offered, his generosity equally spontaneous.

  "Are you sick, Crewe?" she teased, her grin infectious. "Such politesse."

  "Sick with a sudden craving for your hot cunt," he murmured.

  "How indecent of you," she whispered, his words triggering an unconscionable, shocking rush of pleasure deep inside her as though he'd entered her already.

  "My specialty," he said, his voice low. "I've been in training."

  "Lucky for me."

  "I'm not so sure who's more lucky," he softly declared, a small heat in his dark gaze. "So tell me, what do you want to do first?"

  "We could bathe," she murmured, gesturing toward the glistening pool.

  "Wrong answer." He grinned. "Sorry. I'm currently in rut."

  "How unusual for you."

  "Or for you," he replied, his gaze returning from contemplation of the chaise nearest the door. His dark brows formed into a faint scowl. "Actually, I find myself offended by your lascivious passions. Don't ask me why," he gruffly added.

  "Could you be…" She quirked her lacy brows. "Pardon me for using such an unpleasant wordjealous?"

  "No." His scowl deepened.

  "If it helps," she said, surveying the most sought-after lover in the western world, thinking herself grossly ingenuous to even consider honesty, "I've never physically responded to a man like I have to you."

  "You're lying."

  "I wish I were," she quietly said. "It would make everything so much easier."

  "A fuck is a fuck, you mean."

  "Something like that."

  "And it isn't now, is it," he slowly said, the faintest frowns marring his brow.

  "Not for me at least. I'm sorry," she said, watching his gaze shutter. "I should be more urbane. How tired you must be of women telling you they want you."

  He walked the few feet to the nearest chaise and put her down before he spoke, and when he did his voice was well bred but circumspect. "We're both worldly people," he carefully said, standing a prudent distance away. "We both have other lives. I'm not sure what's happened here, but the usual rules don't seem to apply. You're not nameless or faceless in the customary way." He shrugged, the fringe on his jacket moving minutely. "You know what I mean." He looked at her as if needing affirmation, and she said, "Benign promiscuity. I know."

  "All I want to do is fuck you," he murmured, the disbelief in his voice patent.

  "And you want me to tell you that aberrant feeling will pass."

  "It would be reassuring." His mouth twitched into a rueful smile.

  Perhaps she'd had to make more compromises in her life or perhaps he'd never had to make any. "You won't remember me in a month," she pleasantly declared, when she wasn't sure she'd forget him in a dozen lifetimes.

  "Really." A current of resentment underscored the word. "So a new man will be listening to your orgasmic screams."

  "Look," she quietly said, "we both know this can't go anywhere. And no, there won't be another man. But this is jealousy, Crewe, in case you've never experienced it. Mark it on your calendar."

  "I could take you with me." Single-minded, he wanted what he wanted.

  "For how long? Be practical. You'd be looking for a way out within a fortnight. I won't go into a closet until you call for me or melt into the woodwork like some doxy thrilled you've looked her way. You'd have to see me across the dinner table and consider this, Crewe, when lust isn't doing your thinking for youacross the breakfast table as well. That should put the fear of God in you."

  He smiled at her blunt depictions. "Is it really that bad?"

  "Let's not talk about that."

  "We should keep everything in the present tense?"

  "Certainly a habit of long standing with you."

  "So…" he murmured, his voice husky, a familiar touch of amusement vibrating in its depths, "are you interested in having my child?"

  "You've returned, darling," she playfully replied. "I think we'll both be more comfortable with the normal, profligate Hugh Dalsany. And the answer is yes." She raised her arms to him in slow, deliberate invitation, and, leaning back on the golden silk, she purred, "Let me entertain you…"

  She lay Venus-like on the willow chaise, all blooming flesh and curves, her narrow waist corseted to hand's-span width, the flowing riding skirt trailing on the floor, the braided frogs and closures on the jacket so overtly masculine, her voluptuous form seemed more perversely erotic in contrast. As though green serge and severe tailoring, all the accoutrements of military dress, could scarcely contain the lush fertility of her womanhood. And if he had any misgivings, the image before him would have tempted more virtuous men than he.

  He was slipping the bone buttons of his fringed jacket free as he moved toward her.

  He walked through the dappled light, his dark hair gleaming intermittently as sunshine and shadow bathed his form, the sculpted planes of his face cast and recast in flickering splendor. She wondered for a moment what parents begat such handsomeness, and a heartbeat later realized they might be parents someday to a similar young man.

  Past and present images raced through her mind toward a staggering unknown, and for a transient moment the stark reality of parenthood overshadowed even her husband's lethal threats. But, as quickly, those reflections were suppressed by more powerful instincts of survival.

  There were no choices in this obligatory country sojourn neither for herself nor the marquis.

  She watched him discard his fringed jacket in a pale, velvety heap on the marble floor, and when he tugged his shirt from his riding pants in one smooth pull, she found herself focusing on more immediate sensations.

  Her nostrils flared as though primordial emotion responded to the Marquis of Crewe's audacious sexuality. He undressed casually as if he'd done this numberless times in similar situations, unconscious of the impact of his lean, powerful body. And fascinated by his virility and strength, she gazed, tempted like Eve herself in the presence of such flaunting masculinity. "You show well, my lord," she murmured, his conspicuous erection garnering her full attention.

  "So I've been told," he unabashedly replied. "I expect you could silence a room without much effort. I won't ask if you have," he cheekily added.

  "We don't have the same exhibitionist impulses," she softly said.

  "Obviously you have some," he murmured, moving closer, "or you wouldn't offer yourself in such a seductive pose. How many men have seen you like that," he went on, sitting down beside her, "in that arms'-open welcome? How many have you offered to entertain in that lush, tantalizing purr?" He placed his hands lightly on her thrusting breasts, palms down, and, leaning forward, a sudden uncharitable light glittered in his eyes. "Tell me," he whispered, "how many?"

  "We don't want to start comparing numbers, Crewe," she quietly replied. "Believe me."

  His slender, tanned fingers tightened.

  "Do you like violence with your sex?" Insolence colored her tone.

  "Sometimes," he murmured, not sure himself why he couldn't overlook the men in her past. "Is your husband violent?"

  "If you're talking about sex, I wouldn't know."

  "The others then."

  "How can it matter? This is only sex, not ownership. Or do you only like women who slavishly adore you?"

  Her remark raised a smile, and, diverted from his inexplicable resentments, he said, "I particularly avoid women who adore me."

  "Then we should get along famously, and if you'd ease your hold, I could take this very constricting riding habit off."

  "Would you like help?" he lightly asked, sitting upr
ight, his hands falling away, finding himself capable once again of depersonalizing his feelings.

  "I'm here to accommodate you, my lord," she softly said. "You tell me."

  "Suchcarte blanche, Princess. It almost makes one believe in heaven."

  "A male heaven no doubt," she observed, one brow pertly arched.

  "No doubt," he murmured, taking in the lush vision of paradise before him. "Undo those fastenings on your jacket."

  His quiet voice of command made her shiver, the plain words, the authority, more seductive than a score of kisses. "And then what?"

  "Then I'll tell you what I want nextand because you're here to accommodate me… you'll oblige, won't you?"

  "Of course." She slipped the first silken frog free.

  "And you'll like it, too, won't you?" he sardonically observed.

  "You make it very pleasant." Her voice was bland.

  "How tame you make it sound. Would you prefer we go riding instead?"

  "I'd prefer riding that splendid cock of yours."

  "That's what I thought," he gently said, "and as soon as you take all those clothes off, I'll let you climax once or twice."

  "I should despise your arrogance."

  "Do you actually like fawning men?" His mouth curved into a wicked smile. "You seem as though you prefer something different."

  "Meaning you."

  "Meaning me," he impudently replied. "Take your time, though; I can wait."

  She paused in her unfastening. "Maybe I can, too."

  "Suit yourself," he murmured, lightly grasping his erection, sliding his closed fingers downward so the full length reared upright, the swollen red crest gleaming. "I don'thave to come in you."

  "Yes, you do," she hotly whispered, and, swiftly moving upright from her lounging pose, she covered his clasped hand with hers and, leaning forward, lightly licked the full, stretched head. Looking up at him a second later, she murmured, "Now let's see who can wait." And opening her mouth, she drew the pulsing crest into her mouth.

  His eyes shut, a soft groan punctuated the silence, and his free hand automatically moved to cradle her head. The dynamic suddenly shifted, levels of lust instantly equalized, and for a lengthy interval, the only sound in the grotto was the light ripple of moving water and a soft sucking sound.

  When the princess raised her head sometime later and gazed at him, her lips, pinked and wet, he muttered, rampant and resentful, "You're much too accomplished."

  "You didn't like it?" she dulcetly inquired. "When it seemed as though you were"her eyes were amused"responding…"

  No longer interested in a skirmish of wills, interested only in possessing her completely, his hands clamped hard around her slender waist, and, swinging her upright in a blur of muscle and sinew, he set her on her feet facing him. "Lift up your skirt," he curtly ordered.

  She instantly obeyed, as aroused as he, as selfish, not quibbling over motive with libidinous desire torrid in her blood. Urgent, lustful, he stripped her doeskin pantalettes down her hips with a brusque, wrenching jerk.

  He swore under his breath at the delay while he unbuckled her boots and stripped them off so he could slide the sleek leather over her feet, his erection throbbing, aching, his need for this woman beyond any former concept of wanting.

  She was panting at the last.

  They were both trembling.

  "Tell me there's a rational explanation for this," he muttered, lifting her again as though she were weightless, depositing her on the chaise, sliding between her welcoming thighs a second later with the ease of considerable practice.

  She shook her head. "It's insanity," she whispered. "We're losing our minds…"

  But her last words were lost in a muffled moan as he drove into her, plunging so deep, he bodily moved her up on the chaise, and intellect and reason instantly gave way to riveting sensation. She came in seconds, as if she'd waited for this man, this hysteria, this exquisite degree of bliss, her entire life.

  And now she'd found the secret key.

  He knew all the keys; they weren't secret to him but the result of years of amorous diversion, a discriminating eye and sensitized perception. And more importantly, perhaps, he had a genuine passion for women.

  Another orgasm washed over her brief moments later and, crying out, she fiercely gripped his strong body, his erection pressed hard against the extreme limits of her honeyed passage. Intoxicating bliss, bewitchment, melted through her brain, pulsed through every nerve and cell, touched the depths of her soul and miraculously entered her heart when she'd thought all feelings of love had died long ago.

  And when he teasingly whispered, "Thereis a Cupid," she gazed up at him in wonder.

  "You're feeling this too?"

  His faint smile was close and hers, she thought with sudden revelation. "It's sorcery," he murmured.

  "Pagan witchcraft," she agreed, reaching up to touch the curve of his mouth. "But don't break the spell."

  "Never," he breathed, moving inside her, gliding against her slick, silken tissue, withdrawing just enough to make the resultant penetration more exquisite. The slow rhythm of his thrust and withdrawal overwhelmed their senses, the universe centered in their conjoined bodies, lust, wanton feeling, affectiona new, tremulous love singing in their blood.

  Perhaps the planets were all perfectly aligned or sorcery indeed had taken a hand. Or maybe biology alone was the potent force. But they both understood the unprecedented wonder of the occasion.

  "This baby is mine," he breathed, his orgasm beginning to rush downward.

  "Ours," she whispered, clinging to him.

  "Ours," he said, his eyes closing against the intensity of feeling inundating his body. And as the marquis poured into her, she met his heated climax, opened her heart and body to the awesome mystery and welcomed him with love.

  Moments later, prostrate on the silken chaise, they lay panting, heated, touched by a rare sense of closeness.

  "Now what are we going to do?" the marquis murmured, post coital unease reassessing such injudicious feeling.

  "I thought we might cool off in the pool if you'd help me take off these yards of serge."

  His sigh of relief was audible. "You're damned adorable," he murmured, his smile dazzling.

  "While you have a very winning charm, my lord," she lightly returned, extricating them both from the Byzantine trap of too ardent feeling. "Are you as… resourceful in the water?"

  "Let me know, Princess," he said with a teasing grin, rolling to his feet. Lifting her from the chaise, he carried her to the pool, stripped away her clothing with a deft expertise, eased them both into the cool water, and said, "Now I'll see if I can keep you warm."

  He did.

  With great skill.

  And it wasn't until Gregory banged loudly on the door hours later that they noticed the day had vanished with the setting sun.

  Twilight shadow filled the grotto with a suffused lavender ambiance, creeping darkness settling in the remoter corners of the chamber. "Do you want to stay or go?" he softly asked, kissing her gently as she lay on the mossy bank.

  "You decide…" she whispered, blissful lethargy pervading her senses.

  "Ten minutes!" Hugh shouted, but they found themselves reluctant to leave the enchanting grotto, and it was nearly an hour before they appeared outside in the falling dusk. He carried the princess cradled in his arms, her eyes shut like a drowsy child.

  "She's tired," the marquis laconically announced, his gaze sweeping the mounted troop in mute challenge. "And we don't need company," he brusquely added, his glance settling on Gregory. "Two hundred yards," he reminded him.

  On the ride back, the evening dusk seemed to enfold them in a gossamer warmth, the air velvet on their skin, the quiet of the night like the contentment of their souls, and when he whispered, "Thank you" in a husky murmur, she smiled up at him and softly breathed, "You bring me joy…"

  It pleased him that he could bring her joy and he realized with a small exalting gladness that he adored her.
And more, he knew, for love had crept in past the boundaries of his selfishness and avoidance in the hours past, or perhaps only the revelation. "Do you believe in fate?" he softly queried.

  "Only if it's good." She didn't want to risk the bliss enfolding her. She wanted only agreeable speculations.

  "Do you believe in love?"

  She hesitated because before today, she hadn't and too, the marquis was hardly the kind of man susceptible to declarations of love. "Why do you ask?"

  "So cautious," he said with a faint smile.

  "I live my life with caution."

  "Then I'll say it first. I love you, darling Sofia."

  "Are you drunk, Crewe?" Playful and teasing, she couldn't afford for him to love her or she him.

  "It wouldn't matter if I were. I love you drunk or sober, in the dark of night or in the morning light. I love you," he murmured, jubilation in the rich depth of his voice. "And you must love me back."

  "I can't."

  "But you do." He knewperhaps that knowledge had prompted his own gratifying realization. His dark gaze held hers in the gathering dusk. "You do."

  Only the sound of frogs and crickets disturbed the silent evening for a lengthy interval.

  "I do," she whispered, her eyes wet with tears.

  They stayed together that night in the princess's room, making love in endless, leisured variety, both of them drowsy and oddly awakeelated, as though their minds were contending with their tumultuous feelings of love in alternate and parallel planes. And they made plans or Hugh made plans for their life together.

  She awoke first at dawn's light and lay in blissful quiescence, understanding true happiness for the first time, her gaze traveling over the finely modeled features of the man who'd made her believe in love during the long hours past. He breathed quietly like a young child, his chest barely moving, his long lashes like black shadows on his cheeks, the curve of his mouth both sensual and tender like his kisses, his bronzed body half uncovered, as if he'd been too warm during the night.That arm held me, she thought, her gaze trailing down the tanned, muscled length,and those fingers touched me, the smallest quiver of excitement warming her senses at the memory of his skilled touch. And his long, powerful legs had twined around hers or served as firm support when she sat or lay on him. Her gaze traveled down the flawless perfection of his lean, rangy form and then back again to come to rest on his face. She liked his smile best, she reflected. When he smiled, he seemed to offer her boundless joy.