Gorgeous as Sin (23 page)

If only he hadn’t been waiting for her, such well-founded pragmatism might have prevailed.

But he was.

Lounging in all his jeunesse dorée glory against her bow window, tall and rangy in a suit of ecru linen, his dark hair shoved behind his ears as if he’d combed it with his fingers, his face so starkly beautiful her breath caught in her throat.

She screamed and began running toward him.

Propriety and prudence be damned.

She didn’t get far; he ran faster, and when they met, he swept her up in his arms and kissed her soundly, needing corporeal evidence that she was real and he was no longer bereft.

She finally whispered, “Mfphffp,” against his mouth because passersby were stopping to stare.

He raised his head politely but minimally and grinned. “Forgive me, I might be a little drunk.”

“I don’t care,” she whispered, lighthearted, content, happier than she’d ever been in her life. “But we should get off the street.”

“I brought you something,” he said with a smile, kissing her again without regard for their audience. “You’ll like it.” He winked. “Guaranteed.”

“You think so? ” she asked playfully, hugging him as if he were her salvation from the shipwreck of life, not
altogether
concerned with observers when she was beginning to believe in castles in the air.

“I know so. It’s a harem present.” He didn’t even watch her face as he spoke, the gift untainted by malice—for her pleasure alone.

But once they reached her apartment, he sat down on the nearest chair with her on his lap, took her purse and package, set them aside, and simply held her. “It’s been quite a long day,” he gruffly said, leaving a trail of kisses across her forehead and down her cheek. “Way too long . . .”

It was amazing, she thought, how happiness filled her to overflowing when Fitz was near—spilling out in a smile she couldn’t contain. Even when she should have known better than to care about a man like him. “I missed you,” she whispered, enraptured and smitten. “There. I’m like all the other adoring women in your life. And I don’t care.”

“You’re nothing like the others. Not even close.” If he hadn’t drunk so much, if he hadn’t found Madame Rivera’s intolerable for the first time in his life, if he didn’t feel as though he’d reached safe haven when he’d never so much as thought of the phrase before, he wouldn’t have added with such vehemence, “Thank God you finally came home.”

And you were here.
“I’m sorry you had to wait.”

“Where were you?” Another first—wanting to know where a woman had been, when he normally wanted to know when they were leaving.

“I went to see Dr. Swindell.”

“Christ,” he muttered, knowing he was responsible. “I knew I should have been more careful last night.”

“No, no, everything’s fine. I’d made an appointment yesterday, so I kept it, that’s all.”

He leaned back marginally and scanned her face. “You’re sure? ”

“Positive.”

He exhaled in relief. “I’ll be on my best behavior; your present can wait,” he added. “It was probably a selfish gesture anyway.”

She grinned. “You, selfish? ”

“Point taken. On the other hand,” he said, smiling in return, “you’ve been known to make a few selfish demands yourself.” His smile widened. “
Give me more
comes to mind.”

“Or how about,
Give me my present
?” Curiosity overcame politesse.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “You were at the doctor today because of me. It can wait until you’re in the pink of health again.”

“I am, for heaven’s sake. I’m perfectly fine. I couldn’t be better. Just show me. Please . . .”

Since he was here in the first place because he couldn’t resist her, he was hardly in the position to deny such an appealing plea. “It’s just a toy,” he said in dismissal.

“I
love
toys.” Had some other woman spoken in that coquettish voice?

With a reluctant sigh and a grimace, he pulled a narrow shagreen box from his pocket. “This is for later now. I don’t want to argue.”

It’s jewelry
, she thought at the sight of the leather box,
a necklace perhaps from the shape
. But as she was beginning to take issue with what she perceived as his customary gift for the women in his life, he flipped open the lid.

“Wherever did you get
that
? ” she blurted out, shocked—and intrigued.

“At a jeweler’s. It’s a Renaissance piece, but don’t worry, I was assured that it’s been thoroughly cleaned. Apparently, it’s a Cellini object d’art.”

“Are you serious? ”

He grinned. “I generally try not to be, but in this case I am.”

“May I touch it? ”

“Certainly.”

She ran her fingers lightly over the gold engraved dildo, then lifted it from the silk-lined box and studied the amorous images. As she turned the exquisite piece to view all the scenes, the starkly erotic content triggered an immediate and heated response—which was the point no doubt of the portrayals of mythical figures engaged in amorous play. Although Fitz’s erection pressing into her bottom also contributed to her expeditious arousal. A charming combination in any event. “Maybe we could try this,” she murmured, a distinctly carnal heat warming her senses, melting inside her.

Fitz shook his head. “We should wait.”

“This is smaller than you.”

“It’s metal though—not in the least pliant.”

“I hardly think your erection is what you’d call pliant.”

“It is in contrast to this. I’m not arguing, darling.” He took it from her hand and shoved it in his pocket. “We’ll use it some other time.”

“Or you could just watch.”

He looked at her from under his lashes. “Now you’re trying to torment me.”

“At least
he’s
interested,” she said softly, shifting in his lap, his rigid length pronounced.

“Don’t be difficult,” he growled, steeling himself against his cravings, “when I’m trying to be unselfish.”

“I won’t blame you,” she replied, rubbing against his swelling erection, only the linen of his trousers and her skirt barricade to consummation. “I take full responsibility.”

He softly groaned.

“Let me just try this little toy. Please?” She’d take her pleasure where she could as per her carpe diem promise to herself. With Fitz tomorrows were uncertain.

“I’d rather not. I’m content just to hold you.” After the misery of his day, he was more than content, or maybe the contrast between Madame Rivera’s and Rosalind’s parlor was pleasure enough. “Or we could go out to dinner.”

“Or I could pout.”

He chuckled. “As you like to say to me, you can’t always have what you want.”

“You’re cruel. I had a perfect bill of health. Come, Fitz, give me either the Cellini or you. Consider, you’ve awakened my feverish desires. You can’t just ignore me. Please, please, be a dear . . .”

There wasn’t a man with a heartbeat who could have refused.

And his blood was coursing through more than his heart at the moment.

“I’m doing this against my better judgment,” he declared, rising to his feet with her in his arms and moving toward the bedroom.

“I love when you play the gallant,” she purred, raining kisses on his face and neck as they moved through the parlor, his benevolence only heightening her affection and desires. “I find it wildly provocative.”

He shot her a disgruntled look. “I find everything about you wildly provocative,” he grumbled. “And just for the record, I tried to say no.” A record in every sense of the word.

“How sweet.” She shivered, anticipating the intoxicating obverse of no, her vagina liquid with longing, well ahead of her in eagerness.

“I’m not going to be sweet for long,” he growled.

But his
long
was less precipitous than hers for once he deposited her on the bed she said, with a strong hint of her school mistress voice, “Do hurry, Fitz—please!”

It would have been better if his first thought wasn’t
Now I know why she wrote erotica.
Or if he wasn’t so personally involved, enamored, or stupid that he’d overruled his instincts and habits of a lifetime to come and see her again. Or if she hadn’t added in an imperious tone that set his teeth on edge, “Please, don’t play the dominating male right now.”

He was unfamiliar with women like Mrs. St. Vincent who were completely devoid of flattery and honeyed blandishments. But perhaps that was why she appealed to him, he more sensibly decided, tamping down his temper. There was no point in being disagreeable when she was flame hot and willing.

“Sorry, darling,” he smoothly replied, avoiding a contretemps that had nothing to do with her. She was visibly panting; only a fool would take offense at her ready passions.

“I’m sorry, too, really I am,” she whispered, aware of the brief flash of anger in his eyes. “I can wait.”

But she was shrugging out of her bodice as she spoke, her skirts were rucked up over her thighs, her drawers untied, and he decided perhaps neither of them should wait for long.

Sitting on the edge of her bed, he smiled. “You’re an insatiable little puss, but far be it from me to deny you.”

“Thank you,” she sweetly said, too close to consummation to take a chance of offending him. Dildos aside, his strong body most appealed.

“Such acquiescence, darling.”

“I wouldn’t want to put you out of humor,” she said, slipping her drawers down her legs and tossing them aside.

He grinned. “At this stage.”

Her gaze was half-lidded, her hips gently swaying. “Indeed.”

“Then lie down, sweetheart, spread your legs, and let me know when you’ve had enough of Cellini.” It was at least smaller.

She immediately complied, one arm free of her blouse, the other not, and lying with her thighs open, flagrantly available, she smiled her temptress smile. “You’re such a darling . . .”

In a way he was for letting her have her way, when he’d thought better of it. But perhaps his French governess had schooled him too well—or rather, schooled him to perfection, his many satisfied lovers would attest—for he agreed to what she wanted. “Stop me if this hurts,” he murmured, sliding the smooth metal over her sleek cleft.

She nodded, and took a very small breath as the cool dildo glided over her labia and entered her. How many women had felt the pleasure of this toy in the last three hundred years, she wondered. Were they, too, in illicit affairs? Were they in love or infatuated like she? Was their lover as beautiful? Did they feel this degree of infinite bliss . . . ?

He saw her smile and smiled himself at the half-undressed woman with tousled hair and pinked cheeks who had lured him into her seductive net. And when in the past he would have balked at being caught, instead, he set out to please her.

She whimpered once and he stopped.

Her eyes opened and she looked up at him with a fevered gaze.

“More? ”

Her eyes went shut.

Understanding, he exerted a modicum more pressure, and so it went—he carefully monitoring her response, she softly moaning, catching her breath from time to time. At which point, he always stopped until she gave him leave to continue.

But orgasms never took long with the ravenous Mrs. St. Vincent, her libido on a very short fuse, her orgasmic impetuosity charmingly predictable.

But when she came—more quietly than usual—he glimpsed tears seeping under her lashes and panicked. “Christ, I’m sorry,” he whispered, carefully withdrawing the dildo, scrutinizing the gold surface for traces of blood, calling himself every kind of brute for not being more sensible.

Reaching up, Rosalind brushed his lips with her fingers. “Tears of happiness, darling,” she whispered, knowing the truth would never do. “I’m not hurt.” She was lovesick instead, craving a man she could never have, desperately enamored after a few brief days. Foolish beyond words.

“Honestly? ”

“Cross my heart.”

“Dammit, that’s it,” he firmly said, his heart still racing, not sure he could believe her. “We’re done. We’ll have tea instead.”

“No we won’t because I want you too much. And if you say no, I’ll cry. Really, Fitz, I’ll make a scene.”

She wasn’t smiling. God, he dreaded crying women. On the other hand, he daren’t do anything that might harm her. That’s what came from becoming attached to a virtuous woman, he decided with an inward sigh. They turned out to be fragile as hell. “I wish you wouldn’t cry,” he said, testing the waters. “And I also wish you’d wait.”

“We could wait until we undress,” she offered as if she were actually complying when she was in fact being bloody difficult.

He groaned. “I’m trying to be virtuous—Jesus, don’t tempt me. I’m not good at resisting temptation.”

“Nor am I. Perfect,” she brightly said.

“No it isn’t,” he grumbled. “We might end up dealing with some goddamn catastrophe.” Abruptly coming to his feet, he walked to the window and stared at her blighted garden.

“I’ll lock you in.” She swung her legs over the side of the bed. “I won’t let you go.”

He spun around.

“Come back to bed, darling,” she coaxed, “and hold me.”

He looked at the irresistible woman who drew him back against his better judgment day after day, her half undress more provocative than nudity, her heavy auburn hair framing the stunning beauty of her face. “Just hold you,” he replied.

“Yes, yes, that’s all,” she lied, playing Circe without compunction for the first time in her life. Why shouldn’t she seize what happiness she could, when Fitz was no more than a meteor passing through her life?

He approached her slowly, though, not quite trusting her, trusting himself less, and finally stopped, indecisive and restless, beside the bed.

“You’re much too nice, Your Grace,” she teased, looking up into his grave gaze.

“And you’re much too enticing, Mrs. St. Vincent.”