Love Storm (4 page)

Alex pulled off his boots, rose languorously from his restful ease, and stretched lazily. Walking slowly to the bedroom, he shed his belt and silk shirt, carelessly dropping them on the floor as he continued his somewhat inebriated way to the pleasures awaiting him in the arms of the pretty streetwalker.

Good Lord, the woman had fallen asleep with all her clothes on! She must have been truly exhausted. Alex experienced a momentary pang of conscience in waking her, but the stirring desire in his loins would not be damped. He wouldn't keep her awake long, and, after all, he cynically rationalized, she would be well paid for the interruption to her sleep.

Zena was sleeping on her back, one arm flung out above her head, her cheeks rose-colored from the warmth of the room, tousled auburn curls lying in a riot of waves on the lace pillow. The velvet coverlet had been partially cast aside, as the heat from the tile stove in the corner of the room made covers unnecessary; her breathing was slow and light.

Alex's eyes moved from the enchanting beauty of her face to the creamy flesh of her full breasts as they rose in splendor, forced above the tight
décolletage
with each gentle breath. A throbbing hardness pressed against his trousers, the insistent erection pulsing in anticipation. He stripped off the confining trousers, and his masculinity sprang free—taut, erect, quivering. He stood naked, a sun-bronzed giant of a man, wide shoulders and chest tapering in rippling muscles to taut stomach and narrow hips. Long, firmly sinewed legs were planted slightly apart as he paused for countless seconds and stared.

The bed sagged beneath Alex's weight as he sat gently on the edge, reached over, and smoothly began releasing the line of small, silk-covered buttons marching down the front of her bodice until Zena's magnificent breasts were freed from the confining pressure of her dress. Brushing aside the lace-trimmed chemise, he bent low and softly kissed one shell-pink nipple. Zena moaned small pleasure sounds in her sleep, like the purring of a contented cat, as Alex practiced the gentle arousal at which he was so expert. He had never viewed sex as a conquest, an achievement, or a performance but rather as a pleasure to be ripened, extended, taken to its limits before consummation. With saccharine fingertips, he stroked the warm, fragrant skin of her throat, her shoulders, the soft mounds of her breasts, lightly caressing each rosy crest until it stood pertly erect.

Zena's mind floated blissfully in this paradise of pleasure, in the deep exhaustion of her sleep, finding this dream exquisite; soft sighs of pure sensation escaped her lips in response to these new, powerful, luscious pulsings of her blood.

Alex deftly unhooked the flounces of her skirt, untied the ribbons of her petticoat and drawers, and facilely stripped them from her inert form, revealing the splendid beauty of her body to him. The momentary coolness of the air washing over her bared flesh caused Zena's eyelids to flutter, but when Alex bent to gently kiss her cheek, she smiled sweetly and dropped back to sleep. With a gossamer touch his fingers moved over her belly, twined soothingly in the silken mons, and tenderly slid into the warmth of her pliant flesh. Parting the soft folds, his finely tapered fingers searched and probed the lubricious crevices until they gained the minute, sensitive place he was looking for, and with a feather-light touch he delicately stroked until Zena's breathing altered, no longer slow and peaceful but ragged and agitated, and her hips rhythmically writhed, her body reaching for the source of that compelling sensation.

Lowering his body next to hers, Alex leaned over to kiss her trembling lips, gently at first and then more insistently, his tongue darting to probe the sweetness of her mouth as he rolled her underneath him, pressing himself intimately against her.

Zena's eyes snapped open. With genuine panic, she stared into smoldering golden eyes. This wasn't a dream! Aghast with horror, she realized that these exquisite sensations were
not
a dream! An urge to scream welled up in her throat, but Alex's demanding lips drew in the sound even as his practiced hands stroked, caressed, titillated; then his mouth released hers and moved slowly across her cheek to her ear, whispering love words that brought Zena's flesh to new heights of desire.

A silent cry pierced her pleasure-ridden senses: What was she doing? Determinedly she endeavored to struggle free of the sensual stimuli that were bombarding her pulsing body, but when Alex lowered his head to a swollen breast and touched it with a light, exploring kiss, new pleasures began exploding in her belly, sapping her resolution.

Weakly Zena attempted to protest. "Please, my lord," she whispered faintly, "this is a dreadful mistake. Please . . . stop. You must!"

Alex lifted his head briefly in mild astonishment. He exhaled softly as a slight shudder gripped him. "My sweet," he said gently, "it's too late to stop." He tenderly brushed her hair back from her forehead and bent to kiss her lips, and in that moment he felt in her the hesitation that presaged capitulation.

Violent tremors of fresh desire warmed Zena's melting flesh as Alex's mouth touched a rosy nipple and his long, lean fingers insinuated themselves into her damp, moist inner warmth, stroking the tiny seat of pleasure until her hips arched involuntarily, stretching for more of that unutterable joy that was encompassing her. Her mind gave way as her body took over. Nothing seemed to matter at the moment; reality, conscience, anxiety receded. The only reality was his touch, his caress, his burning kisses tasting of the spicy punch he had consumed, and instinctively, instead of trying to pull away from this unscrupulous, dangerous man, she reached out for the strong, lean body poised above her, wrapping her arms around his broad, muscular shoulders and feverishly drew him closer, wanting to press her warm, soft flesh against his.

His responses rising to a throbbing urgency, Alex lowered his body, settling his weight upon her, his quivering penis probing her wetness as her hips moved in a dance as old as time. He met resistance, and his inebriated brain briefly registered perplexity, but his fevered, insistent passion ignored the minor hindrance; he desperately wanted to lose himself in her flesh, accommodate her breathless passion, gain relief for his engorged penis. He surged forward.

An anguished shriek of pain filled the small room, shocking Alex back to an unwonted sobriety.

Sweet Jesus—a virgin!
his befuddled mind discerned.

Zena sobbed quietly as Alex's arrested, pulsating organ filled her. A moist warmth enclosed him, arousing an already volatile passion. God, she felt good: tight and enveloping, her nipples pressing into his chest, her silken skin beneath his fingertips. Almost instantly he shrugged away the momentary dismay. Virgins were not in his usual style; he preferred experience in bed, but it was too late now— too late for both of them.

His lips brushed her cheeks, kissing away the salty tears, as he moved, more slowly now, inside her sensuous warmth. Gently, deliberately, rhythmically he teased the interior places until her sobbing ceased, replaced by small gasps of pleasure, building each wave of sensation leisurely, lingering at the top of his stroke and then withdrawing so as to allow the piercing sweet tremor to reach fever pitch. He took his time, noting with a sensualist's expertise when Zena moved and squirmed and when she thrust herself at him, matching his rhythm to hers until he saw that she could no longer wait, and then, when he felt the climax break over her, he poured his warm seed into her.

Zena felt no guilt at that moment; the pleasure was so complete she only felt drained, content, unable to move, wishing never, never to leave the soft, warm bed.

Alex rolled over, pulling her into his arms; and, their bodies sated, they lay tranquil in each other's embrace.

All too soon, reality crowded in. What in the world had she done? How could she have allowed such freedoms? Was she truly depraved? Her aunt had constantly reminded her that her Circassian mother was little more than a savage, coming from a primitive mountain tribe. Was it true? Then Zena's sensible, practical nature overcame the mild hysteria. For heaven's sake, it wasn't the end of the world—and considerably better than having to bed that despicable fat old general! If that was chaste, respectable love, she would very gladly forgo the conventionalities. But Zena experienced a frightening feeling of vulnerability when this darkly handsome prince touched her; it was as though she no longer belonged to herself, as though he controlled her passion with his merest touch.

The prince must think her the most degraded wanton to allow him such liberties, to actually beg for release in his arms. A deep sense of humiliation swept over her as she tried to reconcile this astonishing, unprecedented sen-suousness with the acceptable behavior required of young society debutantes. How could she have permitted these rapturous feelings of hers to overcome her genteel upbringing? Certainly the prince would never respect her now.

Zena's eyelashes fluttered up and she gazed surreptitiously from under their shield at the man who had so casually taken her virginity. He was disturbingly handsome: fine, aristocratic features; full, sensitive mouth; dark, long, wavy hair; smooth bronze skin. The brilliance of a huge emerald caught her eye as his hand rested possessively on her hip, making her acutely aware of the contrast between their circumstances. He was handsome, rich, charming, seductively expert, she ruefully noted. Plainly she had made a fool of herself, and her mortification was absolute. But then she reminded herself sharply that
anything
was superior to having to wed that odious toad of a general, and the prince
was
taking her away from St. Petersburg.

The emerald twinkled in the subdued light as Alex gently brushed the damp curls from Zena's cheek. "I'm sorry for hurting you,
ma petite,"
he whispered softly. "I had no idea this was your first evening as a streetwalker. Had I known, I could have been more gentle."

At which point Prince Alexander was presented with some fascinating information, most of which he would have quite willingly remained in ignorance of.

"I'm not a streetwalker, my lord."

Alex's black brows snapped together in a sudden scowl.
Bloody hell, what have I got into?

"I'm the daughter of Baron Turku from Astrakhan."

The scowl deepened noticeably.

"My father died six months ago, and my aunt began trying to marry me off to General Scobloff."

The frown lifted instantly, and Alex breathed a sigh of relief. At least, he mentally noted, there was no irate relatives to reckon with immediately. "Sweet Jesus! That old vulture must be close to seventy!" he exclaimed, horrified.

"Sixty-one, my lord, and he's managed to bury two wives already," Zena quietly murmured. "I didn't want to become his wife, but my aunt was insisting, so I simply had to get away. My little brother and I will—"

"Little brother?" Alex sputtered. "The young child isn't yours?" he asked in confusion, and then remembered. Of course he wasn't hers; Alex had just taken her virginity! A distinct feeling of apprehension and, on the whole, disagreeable sensations struck the young prince.
Merde!
This just wasn't his night! "You deliberately led me on," he accused uncharitably, choosing to ignore the fact that he had drunk so much in the past fifteen hours that his clarity of thought was not at peak performance.

"I did not lead you on!" Zena returned tartly, angry that the prince should think she had contrived this entire situation. "Modest young ladies of good breeding do not lead men on!" she snapped.

"Permit me to disagree, my pet, for I've known many modest young ladies of good breeding," Alex disputed coolly, "a number of whom have led me on to the same, ah, satisfactory conclusion we have just enjoyed. They're all quite willing once the tiresome conventional posturing has been observed."

The prince's obvious competence in an area of connois-seurship completely foreign to Zena's limited sphere served to squelch her ingenuous assertion.

Alex sighed disgruntedly.
Good God, for which of my sins am I paying penance?
"What am I to do with you—a damnable virgin? Of all the rotten luck! You try to be helpful and come to the aid of what appears to be a nice, ordinary streetwalker and look what happens. She turns out to be a cursed green virgin with a baby brother to boot, not to mention a respectable family."

"No, my lord, no family," Zena quietly reminded him.

A faintly pleased glint of relief momentarily shone in the depths of the golden eyes. "Thank God for small favors. Nevertheless, you, my dear, have become a vexatious problem," Alex censoriously intoned.

"You could take the honorable course of action and marry me, my lord," Zena timidly suggested.

The prince laughed harshly. "Ha! You don't know the Kuzans, my little dove," was the disdainful rejoinder. "Marrying deflowered virgins is unusual and extraordinary punishment for a rather ordinary occurrence, and not wishing to deny the excessive faults we philandering Kuzans possess in abundance, stupidity is not one of them."

The prince entertained the usual male practical assessment of such trifles as virginity. "Surely, my lord prince, you'll wish to marry someday," she persisted.