Gorgeous as Sin (8 page)

Raising her arms, she twined them around his neck, lifted her hips into his downstroke, held on tightly, and surrendered to desire.

He kissed her then, smiling against her mouth, his anger, too, overwhelmed by sensation so magical he was inclined to consider the lady of Pre-Raphaelite splendor as a gift from the gods. She was turning out to be insatiable in her appetites—a charming attribute he’d half suspected but was nevertheless grateful to confirm. There had been something about her that morning, beyond her voluptuous beauty—perhaps her hot-tempered resistance or the brief glimpse of passion he’d seen in her eyes. And now he was here reaping the benefits of his earlier presumption and her highly charged libido.

As though in response, he felt her first little preorgasmic ripples slide up his cock, and recognizing her soft, suffocated groan, benevolent once again, he buried himself deep inside her in readiness for the approaching onslaught.

Half a heartbeat later, her climax detonated with full-scale violence and her high-pitched cry exploded like a shrapnel burst into the shadowed room.

Her voice resonated in her ears as though from a distance.

Less overwrought, Fitz heard it clearly and from very close range.

Her screams persisted, a fierce, seething climax convulsing her senses, spilling into every palpitating crevice in her body, dispersing flame-hot, soul-stirring ecstasy in rapturous profusion for seemingly endless moments.

At the last, as her grip relaxed on his shoulders and her cries died to whimpers, Fitz unwrapped her legs from his waist, withdrew, and came on her stomach in one of the more prolonged, tempestuous ejaculations of his life.

Afterward, she didn’t open her eyes for so long he began to worry; she hadn’t even moved when he wiped his semen from her stomach.

When she finally lifted her lashes, she looked up to find him propped on his elbow beside her, watching her with concern.

“What?”

“Nothing. How are you feeling?”

“Deeply satisfied,” she murmured, sleepy eyed and blissfully content.

Relieved, he grinned. “Friends? ”

“Oh yes, very much so. How do you do it, Your Grace?” Her voice was playful. “My toes are still curled, and my toes
never
curl.”

Years of practice.
“You’re easy to please,” he said instead.

She smiled. “I suspect it has more to do with you than me. I must say, I feel deliciously and sumptuously ravished. Like all those languishing Danaes male artists love to paint.” At his lifted brows, she translated, “You know a woman in the grip of an orgasm is a male favorite.”

He grinned. “And there’s something wrong with that?”

She laughed. “Touché. I’m definitely not in the mood to complain.”

“So, if I were to keep you orgasmic, you’d be disinclined to complain?”

“You say the
nicest
things,” she murmured, lazily stretching, arching her back, reveling in the sweet afterglow.

“It’s pure selfishness, darling.”

Her green gaze was sportive. “Am I your darling?”

“Without a doubt.” They were by chance or happenstance or the aimlessness of fate physically matched—as in a perfect fit. And he should know.

“I rather like the idea,” she whispered, reaching out and sliding her finger up his only marginally diminished erection. “And him, of course, and his very credible talents.”

There was something electrifying about the lush Mrs. St. Vincent, he decided, drawing in a small breath, sumptuous pleasure still pulsing through his penis and gonads—albeit in lesser measure. “We thank you for your inspiration,” he murmured, leaning forward slightly to kiss her, a politesse learned at his French governess’s knee. Literally.

“How nice you are. Thank you, too.” Rosalind smiled at the conventional courtesies. “Did we just finish a waltz?”

“In a manner of speaking.” He grinned. “You’re a very good dancer.”

“And you’ve done this once or twice before.”

“Yes, once or twice,” he said, not sure where she was going with her remark.

“I should be grateful, I suppose.”

What had she expected? That he was some saint? “I certainly am grateful for your participation.” His voice was urbane, his smile charming. “You’re quite amazing.” Women were prone to talk about their feelings after sex. Why should Mrs. St. Vincent be the exception?

“So your reputation remains intact, does it not?”

“Are you complaining?” For a woman who’d just climaxed three times, he rather thought he’d done her a favor.

She had the good grace to blush. “No.”

“Good,” he softly said, slipping a finger under her chin and holding her gaze. “Because we’re not anywhere near finished.”

As if on cue, she saw his erection begin to swell, and quite removed from reason or intellect, an answering ripple of arousal shimmered through her vagina.

“This is sheer madness,” she said much too softly.

Her equivocation in word and tone was a flashing semaphore to an experienced cocksman like Fitz. “Probably,” he said as softly. “Because I’m thinking about taking you into the country for a month.”

Her eyes flared wide. “You wouldn’t!” But even as she protested, the pulsing between her legs accelerated, her nipples stiffened, and a wild lustful flame burned through her body.

“I would,” he said, pointed and deliberate.

“You can’t.”

“I can do anything I want.”

He was a duke and rich. She understood rules didn’t apply to him. “You have no compunction about coercing a woman?”

“Until now I would have said yes.” He suddenly smiled. “You affect me differently.”

Gratified to see his teasing smile, she said, “It’s only lust. You’ll get over it.”

“I hope so. Now then, you were looking for adventure. What did I do with my tie?” Rolling off the bed, he walked toward the pile of his discarded clothing. “Maybe we’ll play harem after all.”

He didn’t ask her permission; there was something provocative in his assumption of authority. Was he her eunuch come to life? Or was he the master of the harem, or simply Groveland in the flesh? Or didn’t it matter who he was after he’d said
What did I do with my tie?
because her body had instantly responded to the lascivious suggestion in those words?

“Here we go.” Holding the strip of white silk aloft, he returned to the bed. “I’ve only heard about slave markets, so we’ll have to improvise.” Leaning over, he lifted her to her feet, drew her hands together before her, and bound them with a loose slipknot. “What is it that appeals to you about harems? Stand there.” He indicated a point near the bed with his finger.

“The exotic atmosphere, I suppose,” she said, moving the few steps. “Where women are—”

“Sexual objects, receptacles for a man’s pleasure?” His brows rose. “How does that appeal to a woman of your independence?”

She shrugged. “The departure from the norm or the blatant sexual content or—”

“Being tamed and mastered and forced to have sex?”

She took a small breath to contain the prurient rush of lust flaring through her senses, felt a need as well to meet the challenge in his soft query. “I’m not sure,” she said, holding his gaze. “Does it matter?”

He smiled. “Not to me. You’re the one on the auction block. I’m just here to make a purchase. Should I find you pleasing.”

“Then I must do my best to please you.”

This time it was he who required a small inhalation to suppress the ruttish surge bringing his penis fully erect, Mrs. St. Vincent’s whispered reply shocking in its impact. He didn’t particularly like the feeling, the lack of control she provoked. Perhaps taming her wouldn’t be exclusively a game. “Where do you come from?” His voice was crisp. “Circassia with your auburn hair?”

“Tripoli,” she said, smiling faintly, liking that she’d rattled his cool nonchalance. “And I can cook, my lord.”

“I have a cook.”

“I can also sew.”

His mouth slowly curved into a smile; the lady had an imagination. “If only I was looking for a seamstress.”

“Perhaps you need someone to warm your bed.”

“I have a large harem.”

She bit back the comment that came to her lips, his statement much too true. “I could give you fine sons, my lord.”

“What if I have enough sons?”

She held his gaze. “You don’t have mine.”

Nor did he intend to. “Open your mouth,” he brusquely said, changing the subject. When she did, he ran his finger over her teeth as if checking a horse for its age. “Adequate,” he murmured. “Turn around.”

Astonished at the fierce passion aroused by his soft commands, she hastened to comply.

He swept his hands over her shoulders, down her back and legs with a brisk efficiency. “You must not have been in the harem long; you still have muscle tone. Face me again.”

She swivelled around so quickly, her breasts quivered with the motion.

Ignoring the provocative tremor, he cupped her large breasts in his hands and cooly said, “These are serviceable. You haven’t suckled a babe, I gather.”

“No, my lord.”

“You could be barren then.”

“My late master was old and impotent.”

“And his sons didn’t want you?”

“They did, but the chief wife didn’t. She sent me away to be sold.”

“So you’re relatively untried.” He lifted her breasts slightly, weighing them in his hands. “Were you beaten?”

She wasn’t sure how to answer; a certain ambiguity echoed in his voice. “Very little, my lord.”

“For what infractions?”

“Speaking out of turn.”

He laughed, let his hands drop away from her breasts, and said, “I’m not surprised. Perhaps I could teach you obedience.”

“Perhaps you could.”

“Are you being impertinent?”

“No, my lord. On the contrary I’d find obedience to you most interesting.”

“Why don’t we find out. Turn around, bend over. Brace your hands on the bed. Let’s see if you’re worth buying.” His instructions were gently put, a mildness in his voice as if he were ordering a cup of tea.

But an underlying command echoed beneath his words, and her senses instantly responded to that unspoken presumption, as if knowing how delectable the compensation. Quickly moving into position, she suddenly understood the true meaning of unslaked lust, the concept directly related to Groveland—or rather, his highly rewarding cock, she decided with a frenzied little shiver.

Walking up behind her, he surveyed the pale expanse of opulent female flesh with rich satisfaction. That Mrs. St. Vincent offered him the ultimate submission was gratifying after her parting words this morning. That he was pleasantly anticipating having sex with her an even better feeling after experiencing a surfeit of ennui of late. “Are you ready to show me your usefulness?” he mildly inquired, even as his penis swelled larger at the prospect.

“Yes, yes.” Flushed and feverish, ravenous for him when she’d only written of the feeling before but never felt it, she breathlessly added with a quick look over her shoulder, “If it please my lord.”

“That depends. Show me what you can do.” He didn’t touch her, not so much as a steadying hand on her hips before he entered her in a swift, hard thrust and buried his erection deep inside her.

With his huge cock straining every frenzied sexual receptor in her pulsing vagina, motivated by inexorable orgasmic pressures, she quickly obeyed, swinging her hips in a swift, rocking rhythm, back and forth, side to side, undulating her bottom with hot-spur urgency. Shuddering at each thrilling, exquisitely tight downstroke, drawing in a sustaining breath at each slow withdrawal, subject to a pleasure beyond her wildest dreams, Rosalind had crossed the impressionable boundary into the untrammeled world of Lady Blessington.

By ordering Mrs. St. Vincent to service him, Fitz sought to gain control over his unnerving cravings, restore normalcy to this sexual encounter, persuade himself that her submission acquitted
him
of involvement.

But his involvement couldn’t be long denied, no more than Rosalind could pretend that it was someone else and not Groveland who aroused her every pleasure center and made her greedy for what he offered.

“Faster,” he murmured, thinking selfishness would absolve him of entanglement.

Shameless in her need, she complied, her lower body pumping like a piston, every swinging back stroke eliciting a little ecstatic gasp from her parted lips.

“Roll, spin . . . that’s it, that’s better—just like that,” he directed, gently guiding her plump bottom with his fingertips. “Good. Perfect. You follow instructions well.”

It was clearly Groveland’s voice she heard—no fantasy lord or sultan.

If his resplendent cock wasn’t sliding in and out of her, ramming and cramming her full, if she wasn’t so near to orgasm she could see nirvana through a rosy haze, she might have disputed his gross absolutism. Or ignored the flame-hot spasms of lust spiking through her body.

“Don’t you dare climax,” he growled. But leaning forward as he spoke, he freed her hands with a tug on the slipknot, slid his palm over her belly, and delicately caressed her clit.

Whether it was his rough threat or his tender touch, she felt as though he’d pressed some orgasmic button, and with a skittish, suffocated cry, she came.

Just as he knew she would.

With scarcely less restraint, he waited only until her first orgasmic frenzy had swept over her before he jerked out and climaxed in a violent, unruly trajectory. “Sorry about . . . that,” he murmured, breathing hard.
Christ. What a mess. Although better than coming inside her.
“Where are... your towels?”

She’d collapsed facedown on the bed so her reply was muffled.

Finding his underwear on the floor, he wiped himself off, used a portion of the sheet to do what he could to clean up his semen, and went in search of a bathroom and towels.