Seduction in Mind (9 page)

A carnal flame spiked through her senses, but her voice when she spoke trembled only slightly. "I'm afraid not."

"Are you still angry?"

"Like you, I'm not sure."

"I should have controlled my temper."

"Perhaps I as well."

"I
do
want to stay."

For how long, she wished to ask even as she understood how completely irrational her response.

"And in order to accomplish that, I'm quite willing to—"

"Perform good deeds for me?"

"Exactly." With difficulty he kept from smiling. "I couldn't have said it better."

There was no point in pretending she didn't want to make love to him. She had from the first moment she'd met him, and if he was willing to show such deference, perhaps it would be counterproductive to be churlish. And it
had
been a while since Leon. "Do come in, Ranelagh," she said, her mouth lifting in the faintest of smiles. "I apologize for my temper as well."

He stepped aside as she approached the entrance, then leaned forward to push the door open once she turned the knob. "I'm pleased you came back," he said.

"I feel the same way—about you." Her brows rose. "Although I'll probably live to regret it…"

"I doubt it."

"The voice of experience?" she observed sardonically.

Following her in, he shut the door. "Just a feeling I have."

She was walking before him, her gait sure, almost brisk, and he wondered for a moment how many other men had followed her like this—wanting what he wanted.

The hall carpet was museum quality—he'd not had time to notice before—the pine paneling a lustrous honey color in the afternoon light, the paintings on the walls small landscapes and London scenes in the airy impressionist style he'd first seen at Durand-Ruel a few years earlier. So she wasn't Leighton's protegee in matters of style, he thought, strangely cheered by this revelation. When she was posing nude for the artist, he'd assumed other things. Not that artistic differences meant they couldn't sleep together. Nor did it mean he viewed Leighton as a rival if they did. When women were only transient amusements, rivalry wasn't an issue.

But if the viscount had been more perspicacious, he might have realized his consideration of the issue, however briefly, was in itself novel.

Alex's only debate at this point was whether she could restrain her urges sufficiently to appear the lady. "Please, pour yourself a drink. I'll be right back," she said half over her shoulder as she entered the main room of her studio. "The liquor table's over by the terrace door."

Coming to rest at the entrance to the large room, Sam took in the enormous space with a discerning gaze. As a collector of sorts, he'd been in numerous studios, and while Alex's was luxurious, it had a charming intimacy despite its size. Furniture was arranged in groupings on colorful carpets, vases of flowers were scattered about, the gas lamps had hand-painted shades, an occasional bit of clothing was draped over a piece of furniture. Her paintings were stacked everywhere, a large unfinished canvas of a summer garden was on her easel. Her talent was considerable. For a brief moment he didn't know if that further indication of her superior qualities offended him or not. He'd never known a woman so far removed from average.

"What do you think?"

Her voice came from behind him, and as he turned from the easel, he saw her in the doorway of what looked like a kitchen. "You're damned good."

"Is that a problem?"

He smiled. "Forgive me. My masculine biases are showing. Your technique is masterful. You're a woman of great talent."

"There, you see, Ranelagh. I'm broadening your horizons."

"Perhaps I can do the same for you," he replied pleasantly.

"Oh, you're definitely outside my normal scope."

"I meant you might have predisposed ideas as well."

"About you."

"About men."

"About men like you."

He grinned. "I rest my case."

She smiled back. "I forgot. You have charitable impulses as well."

"Among other things. I expect you have a life beyond the superficial too."

"Would you like to hear about it?"

His smile formed slowly. "I'd love to—in about an hour or so."

"And I'd love to tell you—in an hour or so."

"You can't be accused of being shy."

"If you wish shyness, you've come to the wrong place."

His gaze slowly surveyed her. "I think we're both in the right place," he said. "And I'm not really in the mood for a drink."

"So I should hurry."

"If you don't think me too demanding."

"There are moments when 'demanding' appeals, my lord," she said softly.

"I'll be sure to remember that," he said equally softly. "And your work is better than most I've seen in Paris. I just wanted to say that… now."

"Are you planning on leaving quickly?"

"Not at all. The way I feel, you might find it difficult to push me out the door."

"So I'm not alone in my rapacious lust."

He shook his head. "I'm there."

"But exceedingly polite."

His grin was boyish. "I'm trying."

"Don't you usually?"

"Nothing about this is usual, Miss Ionides. I hope you understand that."

"I didn't. I don't. I'm not sure I believe you, but thank you nonetheless for so charming a sentiment."

"If you're basing your perceptions of me on my reputation, I don't believe 'charming' is in the description anywhere."

"
I
find it charming, and in the end, my lord, that's all that matters."

"Please… my name's Sam."

"And mine is Alex."

"And now that we're suitably introduced… Alex," he said soft and low. "Might I help you off with your gown?"

"I didn't realize you were such a stickler for protocol," she declared.

"Hardly. I'd just prefer less talk and more…"

"Sex?"

"If you don't mind."

"If I minded… Sam… you wouldn't be here right now."

He opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, and closed his mouth.

She chuckled, understanding the reason for his restraint. "How gallant you can be."

He tipped his head gently toward her. "I have my moments."

Her gaze traveled slowly down his well-formed body and settled on his obvious arousal. "Because of your erection."

"Do lady painters use that word?"

"This one does. And yours is very fine and the thought of feeling you inside me is tantalizing in the extreme."

Her words added dimension to his rigid length, and he found it necessary to take a small breath before speaking. "I'd suggest doing whatever it is you still wish to do quickly, or you're going to find yourself backed up against the wall and fucked standing up."

It was her turn to require the sustaining breath before speaking, the image he evoked intensifying the throbbing between her legs. "I'd prefer a bed the first time."

The implications in the words
first time
sent a heated rush through his senses. "Clothed or unclothed. You've about a minute to decide."

She moved from the doorway. "Unclothed," she said, and walking to a tapestry screen set in the corner of the studio, she added as she disappeared behind it, "Come and see me in a minute."

He rapidly counted to twenty and, impatient, followed her. Walking around the screen depicting Leda and the Swan against a vivid scarlet background—an appropriate subject in his current ramming-speed frame of mind—he came to an abrupt stop. The screen hid the entrance to her bedroom, and from the size of the bed dominating the small room, he'd say the lady he was about to fuck knew what she was doing. It wasn't the bed of a tyro, nor of a lady for that matter, if he subscribed to the conventional meaning of the word. The bed would be more appropriate in a seraglio, its headboard and canopy ornately carved and elaborately gilded, the entire structure swathed in diaphanous tulle and even though those silken draperies were white, it wasn't a virgin's bed.

"People tend to have that reaction to my bed."

"People?" A low, faint growl underscored the word.

"I have women friends too."

"And what the hell does that mean?"

"What would you like it to mean?"

He exhaled slowly. "You're enjoying yourself, aren't you?" She was partially undressed, standing to the left of the door, her gown at her feet, her chemise and drawers lace-trimmed silk and pristine white.

"You forget, I live outside the aristocratic world by choice."

"Not always. Not this afternoon at the races."

"Mostly I do," she corrected herself. "Because I wish to separate myself as much as possible from people who ask the kind of questions you just asked. And if I wish to have women friends who are more than friends, I will, as will I cultivate the kind of men friends I wish. I hope that's clear… Sam."

"As a bell… Alex."

"Then I'll meet you in bed."

It wasn't as though he made love only to deferential women. The range of females in his life ran the gamut. And he was the least likely man to demand submission. But this splendid woman, this image of incarnate femaleness, was so blatantly challenging, he found himself responding to her with a kind of brutish authority, as though some contest of wills were about to commence.

"If you don't mind," she said with a smile, taking note of the sudden rigidity of his stance.

"I'm trying to maintain my equilibrium, and don't say people always say that."

"I wouldn't think of it."

"Good." Kicking off his shoes, he began unbuttoning his coat because he was going to fuck her regardless of the modicum of contention she provoked, regardless of the fact that she evoked so extraordinary a lust, he should be wary, or that he found it necessary to tamp down the violence she inspired.

A small, heated silence ensued as they undressed, both struggling with the tumult of their emotions, both driven by ungovernable desires, both unfamiliar with such loss of control.

And then Alex swore softly, unable to untangle a knot in the ribbon threaded through her chemise neckline.

Sam dropped his shirt on the floor. "Let me do that."

"Are you sure you want to?" She had her own provocations to deal with.

"I'm sure," he insisted, crossing the short distance between them. "And I don't want to fight."

"At least not until after," she replied crisply.

He was standing very close. "We don't have to do this."

His powerfully muscled chest, nude, inches away, only added to her discomposure. "Speak for yourself. I wasn't out last night. Or the previous night for that matter." She grimaced. "Actually, it's been a fortnight now that I think about it, which accounts for—"

"Then it's not my chivalry." He smiled.

Her gaze dropped to the rampant bulge in his trousers. "Not unless
that
goes with chivalry."

"It does."

She found herself smiling back. "Definitely chivalry, then. And I'm feeling as though I might attack you soon, when I've been trying to restrain myself since—"

"Yesterday."

"Yes. Satisfied? Since the moment I saw you at Leighton's."

"I thought so."

"You needn't sound so smug."

"I'm not smug, just pleased."

"Then you may please me now as well."

"Now? Here?"

She shot him a stern look. "I'm not giving up my bed. Untie this knot."

"Is that an order?"

"It is."

He grunted softly, an almost inaudible sound.

"You don't take orders."

"No."

"You feel your authority is at risk?"

"Strangely, yes."

"We're just going to make love, not meet on the field of battle."

His mouth quirked faintly. "With you, I'm not sure."

She offered him a sportive look. "Should I be concerned?"

"You
are
all alone," he noted teasingly.

"And you are"—she reached out and ran her palm down his erection—"very large…"

He drew in a constrained breath. "You probably shouldn't do that if you want to get to your bed—"

"Do this?" She drew her fingertips up the length of his engorged penis, the soft wool of his trousers warm to her touch.

"Be careful, darling. At this point I can't guarantee politesse."

"If I were looking for politesse, I wouldn't have invited you in."

"That's it," he said, scooping her up into his arms.

"And if you feel the need to give any more orders," he added, striding toward the bed, "you're going to have to do it lying on your back."

"Hurry," she whispered, twining her arms around his broad shoulders.

He quickly looked down.

"That wasn't an order," she breathed, her eyes half closed. "Just—please…"

Her breathy plea jolted through his body, his own covetousness at fever pitch and moving swiftly, he deposited her on the bed, stripped off her drawers, and tossed them aside. Wrenching open the buttons on his trousers, he undressed in seconds, lowered himself between her open thighs, and plunged in without fore-play or preliminaries, without so much as a kiss, because she was clutching at his shoulders and rising to meet him and so damned wet, he was sliding into her yielding flesh without resistance. Whimpering, she arched up to meet him, impatient, needy, the supple strength of her thighs in counterpoint to his driving invasion. And when he was fully submerged, when he was buried to the hilt, she blissfully sighed. Gratified, he moved slightly upward so she would feel the pressure more intensely.

"Oh, God, oh, God…"

And it felt as though her breathy cry were vibrating through every pulsing nerve in his body. There was no accounting for the inexplicable feeling, for the tremulous, breath-held sensation, and he understood in those seconds that a fuck was no longer a fuck. That he wished to feel this again—that he would. And if the strength of Miss Ionides's grip—everywhere—was any indication, she was going to eat him alive.

Or he her, because this astonishing pleasure was unique in his much-explored sexual universe.

Wishing to experience the momentous rapture once again, he withdrew against her protest, and driving back in caught his breath against the awesome pleasure. "Christ," he whispered, and holding himself hard against her womb, he absorbed the shimmering ecstasy while she panted beneath him. Impaled, stretched taut, enchantment rolled over her in heated waves. And then he pressed forward that exquisite distance more, and she screamed.