Gorgeous As Sin

by Susan Johnson

  “There now, you’re getting nice and wet,” he murmured, his voice softly approving, as if she’d accomplished something praiseworthy. Her clitoris was swelling, his fingers were being drenched, her vagina was pulsing, and her protests notwithstanding, she was definitely receptive.

  “Stop, Fitz”-Rosalind slapped his head-“not now. She might see.”

  If the lovely Mrs. St. Vincent hadn’t been squirming and rocking against the deft pressure of his fingers, he might have taken her protests to heart. Glancing up, he whispered, “Hush, darling. You don’t want Adelaide to hear you. By the way, you have the most welcoming little quim. I’m getting hard just thinking about trying to get inside.”

  “Oh God,” she softly wailed, attempting to suppress the ripples of pleasure spreading outward from Fitz’s silken touch, mortified that she was melting inside when any self-respecting lady regardless of-oh Lord, what was he doing? “Don’t, Fitz, for God’s sake, don’t!”

  “I won’t if you don’t want me to, darling,” he whispered, having eased her labia open with his thumb and tucked her skirt hem into her waistband with his other hand. “It’s up to you, of course.” And leaning forward slightly, he slowly measured the length of her distended clitoris with the tip of his tongue.

  Gasping in shocked surprise, she jammed her palms against his head. But the pressure of her hands quickly relaxed as his tongue skimmed the twitching nerves of her clitoris and his long, slender fingers sunk palm deep inside her and stroked her throbbing vagina.

  A moment later, sliding her fingers through his dark, ruffled hair, she gave herself up to a wholly new gluttonous pleasure, moving against his mouth, needing to ease the uneasable ache.

  He felt her move, felt her clitoris swell, renewed his attention to her clit with single-minded professionalism, bringing her quivering little nub to full-blown, ready-as-could-be tumescence. She was slippery wet, her stimulated flesh moistening his fingers, the sleek fluid trickling down her thighs, and he hoped like hell Adelaide found her damned book of sermons quickly because Mrs. St. Vincent was getting really worked up and she wasn’t the patient type. Not that he was either, ergo his impetuous journey here after Clarissa’s. It appeared that Mrs. St. Vincent’s pussy, for inexplicable reasons, was the current magnet for his cock.

  There was no reasonable explanation for his obsession, but then again, none was required.

  Consummation alone was his holy grail.

  “Mrs. St. Vincent! I don’t see the cardinal’s books!”

  “Just to your… right… Lady Harcourt!” Rosalind called out, her voice faltering with her passions near fever pitch, with Fitz’s talented fingers inciting a frantic, shameful desire, with her senses beginning their impassioned, headstrong march to delirium. “Stop… oh God… please,” she whimpered.

  “Come first.” Maybe this was about control; maybe he needed her to be as necessitous as he. Payment as it were, for his irrational pilgrimage to her store. “Come and I’ll stop.” He smiled as she shivered and the throbbing tissue surrounding his fingers pulsed and fluttered, as she softly groaned at the soul-stirring rapture. “There… that’s a good girl. That was a nice little spasm. If you come fast enough, darling,” he huskily murmured, “by the time Adelaide finds her book, you’ll be able to breathe again.”

  As if he had but to whisper the prurient, shameless words of encouragement, she suddenly shuddered, gasped, and grabbed the counter as a white-hot flood of rapture rushed through her cunt, jolted her brain, brought her moments later-ravished and flushed-to a white-knuckled standstill. Skittish in her compromised position, she drew in a deep breath, forced herself to a semblance of calm, and smashed Fitz’s head with her fist. “Damn your rashness,” she hissed.

  He looked up, his gaze amused. “You always come so fast I didn’t think it was a problem. And admit, you feel much better now.”

  “Smug bastard,” she grumbled.

  “Just be a dear and get rid of Adelaide.”

  “And if I don’t?” She felt as though she should resist him, as if her virtue were at stake.

  “Then I’ll get rid of her,” he quietly said.

  “Don’t you dare!”

  “You have no idea what I dare,” he drawled.

  “The dear man has written two new tracts,” Lady Harcourt cheerfully exclaimed, holding two books aloft as she walked toward the counter. “Isn’t he the most exciting religious mind of our time! Such insights, such profundity. It quite enlivens my life.”

  “Each to their own,” Fitz drolly muttered.

  Shooting him a heated warning glance, Rosalind shook down her skirts and said, “Indeed, Lady Harcourt, Cardinal Newman’s works are very popular.”

  “My dear, the heat must be bothering you. You’re quite flushed. Perhaps a cool glass of water would do you well.”

  “I believe I’ll take your advice, my lady. The temperature is most vexing.”

  “You wouldn’t want to suffer from heatstroke, my dear. My late, dear husband was brought low by just such an occurrence. He was never quite the same after.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it. Rest assured, I shall drink a glass of water.”

  Rosalind quickly wrapped the two small books and handed them over.

  “If you’d send a note to the house should more tracts arrive, I’d be most grateful,” Lady Harcourt said.

  “Indeed, I shall. Enjoy your reading, Lady Harcourt.”

  WHILE ADELAIDE WILL be grateful to hear of Newman’s new work, I’m grateful she finally left,” Fitz said, coming to his feet as the door closed on the noblewoman. “This time I’ll make sure the door is locked.”

  Sated and replete, Rosalind was once again capable of clear thinking. “You should go instead.” Cooler postcoital reason prevailed, as did varying degrees of self-reproach for her shameless behavior.

  Fitz rather thought it was his turn. As for the lady, she climaxed so easily he understood why Edward St. Vincent had written erotica. And that might be another less rational reason why he wasn’t about to leave. “I’ll be right back,” he declared, moving from behind the counter and making for the door.

  Directing her testiness at Fitz rather than admit that she’d not only succumbed to his seduction but also had done so with barely a struggle, Rosalind irritably remarked, “Really, Groveland, I wonder how you ever get any women into bed with your despotic manner.”

  He turned his head at the preposterous comment. She had just climaxed thanks to him, had she not? And pursuing women were a constant in his life. “Maybe you could give me lessons,” he drawled. “You seem to have gotten the hang of it.” Locking the door, he flipped over the Open sign to Closed.

  “Go to hell,” she said, his recognition of her eager response exasperating and embarrassing. “Get out of my store.”

  “Darling, bitch at me later,” he pleasantly replied as he returned to the counter. “In all fairness, it’s my turn.”

  “It certainly is no such thing!” Having fallen prey to his deft persuasion only served to harden her resolve. Then again, postorgasmic, purified motives were more easily managed. “For your information,” she haughtily announced, “I am a nonconsenting adult.”

  Her ridiculous protest amazed him, but then he’d not led a conventional life. Perhaps people who conformed to society’s rules fought their natural impulses. He inwardly smiled. Until they didn’t of course-to whit, her recent climax.

  Moving behind the counter where Rosalind stood defiant and watchful, he picked up the jar of salve from the counter and shoved it in his pocket. “If you’re still nonconsenting ten minutes from now, I’ve lost my touch.” And having just brought her to orgasm, he was pretty sure he hadn’t.

  “You could at least ask nicely,” she muttered, struggling with the abiding temptation of wanting him when she shouldn’t.

  He glanced at her flushed cheeks and grinned. “Would you like to fuck, Mrs. St. Vincent, or rather, how much would you like to fuck? There’s no question you like it.”

&n
bsp; She tried to kick him, but he moved too fast.

  His lips twitched into a mocking smile. “Save your energy for the main bout, sweetheart. I’m in the mood for a brawl.” He had his own reasons for not wanting to be here. His own struggle with compulsion. Holding out his hand, he said, thin-skinned and edgy, “Let’s see who wins this match.”

  She took a step back.

  “My darling little bitch,” he whispered. In a flash, he lunged and swept her up in his arms. “Now mind your manners.” His voice was gruff; it was an order.

  No, no, no, she silently cried. She would not respond to his brute behavior. She would not allow her body to turn ravenous at his growled command as if she didn’t have an ounce of restraint! She would remember who he was-a disreputable rake-and who she was and how she had everything to lose and nothing to gain by continuing this purely physical relationship!

  But no matter that she tried to ignore his hard-muscled body pressed against hers as he took the stairs at a run, or the scent of his cologne in her nostrils, and his stark classic beauty close enough to kiss, her traitorous libido was undeterred. Or more aptly, adamant and frantic, as if her senses recognized the feel, scent, and sight of their perfect mate. With electrifying speed, a hard, steady pulsing began to throb deep inside her, her nipples went taut, her skin flushed in a Darwinian signal of readiness, and her overwilling sex turned ripely moist.

  On this particular occasion, she would have preferred being in ignorance of the new landmark studies in the developing field of sexology: Krafft-Ebing’s Psychopathia Sexualis and Havelock Ellis’s Man and Woman and Studies in the Psychology of Sex. She would have preferred not knowing all the pertinent signals of female receptivity. She might have better girded her loins as it were and repulsed Fitz’s advances.

  Not that she could seriously forestall him with his physical superiority. And such reflections on his formidable strength and power served only to further excite her already highly charged libido. Her wanton senses shifted their attention to the central instrument of pleasure-his glorious penis at full stretch, perfectly formed, trained to the inch, capable of giving the most exquisite sexual satisfaction. Really, it was impossible to fight her vaulting urges. And considering the delectable reward, perhaps, in the end, absurd. “You win,” she said grudgingly, but honest at least. “I wish I could resist you, but I can’t.”

  “Nor can I you,” he muttered, reaching the top of the stairs.

  “Does this happen often?” she asked, clearly bewildered by her feelings that seemed impervious to scruple or prudence or even a scintilla of reason.

  “Never.”

  “Are you sure?” She was struggling with irrepressible desire when she’d always prided herself on logic.

  “Bloody right, I’m sure.” He strode into her parlor.

  “Because you’re stud to all of London,” she snapped back, inexplicably jealous of every woman he’d ever know.

  “Damn right.”

  “Don’t have me make you do something you don’t want to do,” she pettishly asserted.

  “Believe me, darling”-the word more curse than endearment-“you’re not making me do anything. Or at least not rationally. I’m pretty much out of control.”

  “Don’t blame me.”

  “I don’t know who else to blame,” he growled. Then quicksilver, he made a course correction. “Forgive me. You’re quite blameless in all but your prodigious allure. I’m like a moth to the flame,” he added with a smile. “So just bear with me.” He shoved open her bedroom door with his foot.

  She sighed. “We’re both operating outside the pale.”

  “But it’s an enchanting land nonetheless.”

  “Enchanting beyond belief.”

  He gazed at her for a moment as he stood at the side of her bed, both avarice and wonder in his eyes. “Enchanting in a thousand ways,” he softly agreed. Setting her down a moment later, he dropped into a sprawl beside her, his head resting on his hand. “I must take care not to hurt you. Or hurt you anymore.” Leaning over, he gently kissed her cheek. “For which I’m vastly sorry.” As if recalling something, he pulled the jar from his suit coat pocket. “Although, there’s this if you wish.”

  “I don’t need it. I feel extremely well.” She suddenly frowned. “Although, you’ve no doubt dealt with this problem before.”

  He hesitated for a fraction of a second, debating how best to answer. The women he played with weren’t novices. “Actually, no,” he said. “You’re the first”-he smiled-“in a variety of ways. All of them good by the way. I expect your fair skin might be the problem,” he politely added. “As for me, I’m dark as the ace of spades; my skin is impervious to wear and tear.”

  “Him, too.” Reaching over, she touched the bulge evident beneath the linen of his trousers.

  He grinned. “The Black Corsair if you like.” He ran a fingertip over the skirt fabric covering her mons. “And you have the sweetest little pussy. We’ll have to see if they can play together later.”

  “How much later? ”

  He laughed. “Greedy puss.”

  “I wish I could say no.”

  There-the proper Mrs. St. Vincent again. But rather than speak his mind, he politely said, “I’m glad you can’t.”

  “Are you?” She shouldn’t have asked; it was gauche to ask a man about his feelings. Particularly a man like Fitz who was known far and wide for his disdain of the tender emotions.

  “Yes, very much,” he softly said. “Because I can’t say no either.” He looked away for a second before meeting her gaze again. “I lectured myself against coming to see you, and yet here I am”-he grinned-“and bloody glad to be here.” His voice dropped low. “I was serious about dinner, too. Come dine with me afterward. My wealth and title insulate me from censure and by extension, you as well. You needn’t worry.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not sure.”

  “About dinner or the dispensations allowed a duke? ”

  She grimaced. “About everything.”

  “At the risk of offending your virtuous sensibilities-” He paused abruptly as she gave him a skeptical look. “I’m speaking in general terms; you must admit you’re of a conventional bent, other than your flame-hot passions,” he added with a smile. “But back to my point. Life is to be lived, darling. Maybe not as prodigally as I do, but nevertheless lived. How sad it would be to grow old without ever knowing-”

  “This bewitchment? ”

  He nodded, neither willing nor able to define his feelings. He’d avoided sincere emotion too long. Or perhaps having been raised as he was, he had never learned to recognize it. “Are we done talking? ” he asked, malelike in his avoidance.

  She smiled. “If you like.”

  He grinned. “You know what I’d like.”

  “The same thing as I. We are obsessed, or at least I am.”

  “We both are. I was thinking of taking you home with me and keeping you locked away.”

  “And I’d go if life allowed. But unfortunately, I have a store to run and a living to make.”

  “I could take care of that for you.”

  For a brief moment, silence fell.

  Fitz cringed. He shouldn’t have even thought it, let alone said it.

  Rosalind knew better than to take seriously what was expressed in the heat of passion, although the notion was enchanting. “Thank you, but I prefer my life as it is”-she smiled-“especially when you come calling.”

  “Speaking of calling-only if you’re sure you’re well enough-why don’t we put some of this salve on my cock and he’ll come call on your pussy? ”

  “It sounds like a lovely experiment. Smell it, too. It’s lavender scented.”

  He grinned. “Then I’ll be bringing flowers when I call.”

  “At the risk of adding to your conceit, you needn’t bring anything but yourself and I’m content.”

  He held out the small jar. “Should I do it or you? ”

  “Me, me,” she playfully said, flutteri
ng her fingers.

  “God Almighty,” Fitz whispered, “you’re the most endearing little bookstore owner I know.”

  “And you’re God’s gift to women,” she replied with a smile. “But handsome men and carnal pleasures aside, Fitz, darling, just for the record, I have no intention of selling my store. I want to be perfectly plain about that. Sex is just sex.”

  “Then, just for the record, I, too, intend to keep pressing my suit.” He flickered his brows and grinned. “I’m hoping you’ll finally see the light.” And sex is just sex was his gospel.

  “I don’t want to talk,” she whispered, the subject too contentious. It was better to concentrate on sex and nothing more.

  “I never do when I’m with you.” He smiled and brushed a fingertip over the soft curves of her mouth, as practical as she about what brought them together. “Now kiss me and make me happy.”

  It turned out to be a kiss that wasn’t about sex.

  It was a happy-to-be-together kiss.

  There was a certain innocence in their kiss as well, as if they both hadn’t had others in their life before. As if the world was fresh and new.

  “You can’t keep smiling like that when I’m kissing you,” Fitz teased. “I’m losing my concentration.”

  “You should talk,” she said, trying not to smile and failing. “I don’t know whether to kiss you back or ask you what the joke is.”

  “No joke, darling. I just never knew sex could be so much fun.”

  “You’re just pleased because you’re getting your way.”

  He always did. But he also knew that having everything didn’t bring happiness. “You decide then.”

  “About what? ”

  “About anything? ”

  “Don’t be so generous. I might take you up on your offer.”

  “Please do.” Realizing that he was actually willing to give her anything, he quickly stepped back from the brink of such unreserved sentiment and said with a grin, “Would you like the shirt off my back? ”