Gorgeous as Sin (20 page)

“Really? You think so? ”

“I know so. The price just varies.”

“You’re a cold bastard.”
But gorgeous in so many ways
, her less righteous persona unhelpfully pointed out.

“And you’re one hot little piece,” he drawled.

Her smile was dazzling, cheeky, flaunting in its presumption. “But unfortunately not available to a rogue like you.”

“You didn’t seem to mind a rogue’s touch last night or the night before,” he smoothly noted.

“Perhaps I’ve had my fill, no pun intended,” she archly replied. “You’ll find someone else to warm your bed, I’m sure.”

She shouldn’t have continued to provoke him.

Those who knew him better wouldn’t have been so rash.

In a few quick strides, he circled the end of the counter, pushed her against the wall, pinioned her with his body, and bending his head so their eyes were level, said taut and low, “Don’t fuck with me.”

“Unhand me this instant,” she hissed. “Someone might come in.”

“I’ll lock the door.”

As he turned, Rosalind looked past him and froze. “Oh, God help me, Lady Harcourt’s about to come in!”

Fitz glanced at the door and swore.

“Do you know her?” Rosalind breathed, her panicked gaze on the entrance.

“Of course.”

“Hide, hide,
please
—get out of sight . . . her hand’s on the door latch!” She could visualize her entire world disappearing beneath a wave of scandal if Lady Harcourt saw them together. She read sermons for amusement and railed against the promiscuity of society.

Responding to her terror, Fitz dropped to the floor. “Get rid of her,” he hissed, sitting against the high counter facing her, his legs on either side of her feet, his head conveniently at the juncture of her thighs.

“And if I don’t? ” She took orders poorly.

“Then maybe I’ll come up from under your skirts and wish dear old Adelaide a pleasant afternoon,” he threatened, flicking the hem of her skirt in warning.

She shot him a wrathful look. “Monster.”

His smile was impudent. “Sorceress.”

“Good afternoon, Lady Harcourt,” Rosalind sang out in a voice slightly breathless at the last for Fitz had lifted her skirt, slid his hand between her thighs, and easing it between the divided legs of her drawers, rested his fingertips ever so lightly on her cleft.

“Good afternoon, my dear.” The elderly woman closed her parasol and set it by the door. “I do hope you have some new sermons from Cardinal Newman.”

“Indeed, Lady Harcourt. They’re on their usual shelf.” Unable to move with her ankle securely in Fitz’s grasp, Rosalind prayed Lady Harcourt didn’t ask for help.

“Lock the door when she leaves,” Fitz whispered.

“I will not.”

“Consider, darling, you might prefer not fucking with spectators looking on.” He was gently caressing her pouty sex, delicately inspecting the extent of the tenderness she’d alluded to, deftly arousing her passions.

“Fitz, don’t,” she breathed. “Please . . . don’t.” But she swallowed a gasp for he’d slid the tip of his finger inside her the merest fraction and made contact with the bud of her clitoris. Every carnal nerve in her body violently swooned in response and instantly quivered for more.

“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.”

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.”