Seductive as Flame (24 page)

His nostrils flared at her words, her seductive tone. “You know the drill as well.”

“I doubt I’m in your league,” she sweetly said.

“Allow me to be the judge of that,” he said not sweetly at all. He’d never known a woman so insatiable, so wanton, so
accommodating
.

With his engorged cock tantalizingly near, she bit back her caustic reply. “Could we discuss this later?”

“What if I want to discuss it now?” he said with equal politeness. “Your, shall we say, sexual talents in particular. For instance who taught you—”

“Have you no manners at all?” she tartly said as he finished his sentence.

“I’m afraid not. Who was he?”

“You wouldn’t know any of them.”

“Them?” Ice in every syllable.

“Like your thems,” she fired back.

“I’m allowed. You know the rules.”

“I make my own rules.”

“We’ll see,” he said, sounding bland and reasonable if you didn’t look at his eyes.

“No, we won’t
see
.” A woman of beauty such as she was rarely thwarted and
never
in situations like this. “I don’t need
any
man that badly,” she said, bristling at his divine-right presumption and perhaps more for the reason he was so assured.
Women never said no.
“If you’ll excuse me. There must be something here I can use for a dildo.” She began to roll off the bed.

He stopped her in midroll, grabbed her ankles, flipped her on her back again. “You’re not excused,” he said, curt, autocratic, deeply autocratic. “And I happen to have something you can use for a dildo.” Each word was clipped and cold, his mind overcome by a pure, high white fury, the sound of those words—
You wouldn’t know any of them—
crashing in endless waves through his brain
.
His eyes half shut, his rage concealed behind the shield of his lashes, he hauled her by her ankles to the edge of the mattress, shoved her feet back so her legs were bent, so her sex was exposed. So she was available.
For him alone.

Then he drew in a ragged breath and undertook to suppress his monstrous jealousy.

And failed.

Struggling against his punishing grip, Zelda muttered, “You’re hurting me.”

“Forgive me,” he said without looking at her, and tightened his grip.

“Maybe the others like bloody male domination,” she hissed. “But I
don’t
!”

Dalgliesh’s gaze lifted from the small trail of pearly fluid glistening in her pubic hair. “Really? You should tell that to your cunt.”

“I’m quite capable of restraining myself,” she huffily replied.

His lips curled in a detestable smile. “Care to wager on that? I can practically see your heartbeat in your clit.”

“Screw you,” she spat.

“Is that an invitation?” His voice was soft as silk.

“It most certainly is not!”

“Really,” he said again in that same unconvinced tone. “From my vantage point, you look damned inviting.” Sliding his hands up her legs, he forced her thighs wider effortlessly as if she’d not been resisting and contemplated the lodestone of his lust: her pink, pouty, glistening labia; her bright pubic hair; that enticing pulse visible in her prominent clitoris; the increasing flow of pearly essence wetting her genitalia and those areas susceptible to gravitational forces.

He was going to fuck her.

Regardless of what she said or did or thought.

He was almost smiling as he let go of one leg and placed his hand palm down on the inflexible, boned satin covering her stomach. Slowly splaying his fingers in a deliberate, willful gesture, he exerted a small, decisive pressure. Making it plain that he was in charge, she was not, and she’d service him whether she liked it or not. The bewitching Zelda had shattered the established patterns of his life, and at the moment, he was very much inclined to exact payment for the anarchy she’d sown, and more primitively—demand a price for all the men she’d fucked.

She saw the cold ferocity in his eyes, knew she was powerless against his size and strength, and instead of terror, she was shamefully aroused, excited, overcome with a deep and terrible craving. Fevered and frenzied, she began to tremble, her desire for him an ache of longing, a sick, melting ache.

A sudden, knowing warmth infused his eyes. “I thought you weren’t excited,” he said, husky and low, a smile in his words. “I thought you didn’t like male domination.”

“I’d slap you if I could,” she muttered.

“No, you wouldn’t.” His grin was condescending. “You’d open your legs wider so I could give you what you want.”

She should hate him for his arrogance and assurance, for his cheeky insolence, for all the women before her. Instead, delirious with longing, flame hot and seething, heedless to all but her desperate need, she opened her legs wider while he watched, a faint smile on his face. And she almost said,
I love you,
too, despite that smile, because he was the most beautiful, desirable man she’d ever known. But she wasn’t completely lost to all reason, and he’d probably walk away if she did, which wouldn’t do at all. So she addressed him with similar cheekiness. “Give me what I want, and I’ll decide if you’re accommodating enough.”

His smile widened. “Am I being graded?”

“Did I say that?” she replied as he had earlier.

He laughed. “I’m going to have to pick up my game.” He adjusted her bottom minutely on the bed as if half inches mattered and, looking up, met her gaze with a look of innocence. “I’m hoping for a high score.”

“I’m hoping for a little more speed.”

“You always do. Have you ever considered a change of pace?”

“Have you considered how it might affect your score?”

“I’m planning on it. Stop wiggling.” He was guiding his erection into her liquid cleft.

“I’m not wiggling, I’m trembling. There’s a difference.”

“Here’s another difference,” he murmured, entering her only marginally and stopping. “Now do your multiplication tables,” he drolly said, intent on inhibiting the lady’s normal tempestuous rush to orgasm. “We’re going to slow this down.”

“Don’t be cruel,” she panted.

He was unprepared for his cock’s sudden independence, and as his erection surged and another small measure of her sleek, silken warmth engulfed his rigid length, a brief question of who or what was in charge ensued. And was quickly settled.

Fornication was, after all, Dalgliesh’s speciality.

Zelda’s breathing had quickened at the increased penetration; she softly moaned, whimpered, wanting more. “God, Alec, don’t do this to me,” she pleaded, trying to raise her hips to lure him in more deeply.

“Wait,” he whispered, holding her down.

Another whimper, her body was melting, turning liquid with longing. “I can’t.”

“Try . . . for me.” His voice was gentle. He felt her relax under his hand, felt her yield. “There now,” he murmured, sliding his massive cock in another small distance. “Better?” He was watching her, an unreadable expression in his eyes—an exile in a strange land questioning custom and usage and moral equivalent.

Her lashes lifted fractionally. “More.” A pouty little sound.

His sigh was imperceptible; was there a prorated price for anarchy? “What do I get if I give you more?”

“My gratitude.”
My undying love.
The last forbidden words.

He glanced at her with a small smile. “I’m not sure that’s enough.”

“Then what do you want?”

I want to own you and keep you like some goddamn benighted sultan.
“Let’s start with a kiss.” He sighed aloud this time. “Damn witch.”

But their kiss was brief, the merest token. They were both too ravenous and far beyond sweet caresses. Although he could wait longer than she. He smiled. Perhaps anyone could. In the end though, he didn’t make her wait because he wished to please her more than he wished to punish her. An aberrant concept—punishment—in any event, prior to his meeting Miss MacKenzie. Furthermore, he wasn’t particularly self-denying, his cock was aching, and time was at a premium.

There was no time in fact; they should be next door right now.

“Try not to scream,” he whispered, sliding his hands around Zelda’s corseted waist. “Katy’s next door.” His grip was firm but gentle now, without prejudice—a temporarily tamed bluebeard who understood with the clarity of the morally degenerate that his life was going straight to hell. He should leave, he should send her home, he should return to his bluebeard castle and pull up the drawbridge. Instead, he slowly, deftly, with highly professional skill, penetrated her hot, welcoming body while she panted and shivered and arched up to meet him. And when he reached the deepest depth, when his cock had nowhere else to go, he flexed his legs and, with a low animal sound, pushed.

Gorged, glutted, crammed full, she gasped, pleasure exploded and shuddering, and softly moaning, she surrendered to the raw, wild ecstasy rippling outward from her overwrought vaginal tissue.

For protracted, heart-stirring moments, the world disappeared and the lovers absorbed the seething, tumultuous, transcendent impact of cock to womb. Perhaps their nerves were overstimulated after hours of sex, or sensation was amplified by excess; perhaps the depth of Dalgliesh’s invasion was to blame for their disorientation.

But inherently attuned to female responses, he’d heard her gasp, recognized the nature of the sound, and given his size, understood he might have done damage. Moments later, rallying first, he kindly asked, “Did I hurt you? Should I stop?” The last a magnanimous offer, considering the state of his arousal; perhaps an impossible offer.

Zelda’s eyes opened so slowly he braced himself for affirmative answers and the personal dilemma to follow. Then she smiled a familiar, sensual smile; he nodded and smiled back. “I’ll be gentle.”

“Not too gentle.”

His grin was warmly boyish. “Yes, ma’am.” And he proceeded to give the lady what she wanted in range, scope, pacing, and carnality. He knew what
not too gentle
meant for her.

She began to climax quickly like she always did.

After a swift, cursory debate that only briefly considered consequences, he climaxed with her and in her.

“Sorry,” he said afterward, clearly not meaning it, not knowing what he meant, cavalierly shrugging off his indecision. Applying himself instead to more practical functions like withdrawing from a saturated cunt without staining his trousers. Pushing himself upright, he carefully eased out. “I didn’t want to change again,” he said, although added reason for his fully clothed performance had to do with complicated, untidy sovereign power.

“So practical,” Zelda murmured. “And you needn’t worry about climaxing in me. I just had my menses.”

He suppressed his surprise.
Why hadn’t she said that before?
“I might do it again then.”

“I’m extremely amenable right now.”

He looked up from wiping himself with his handkerchief. “You probably shouldn’t say that.”

“Do we have time?”

He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then sighed. “I wish.” Dropping the handkerchief, he began buttoning up.

“In that case, I need a towel.”

He stopped for a moment, his fingers arrested; he didn’t take orders well, particularly from women.

“Please, your lordship, sir,” Zelda playfully said. “Is that better?”

“Sorry. You’re different.” He abruptly grinned. “In so many charming ways.”

He turned out to be extremely versatile as a lady’s maid. But then he’d had considerable experience—generally taking off clothes, but reversing the procedure wasn’t demanding. After his fetching and carrying, hooking and tying bows, slipping on shoes, clipping on jewelry, handing over hairpins, they were only ten minutes late to the nursery.

They arrived hand in hand, breathless and laughing.

Chris looked up, then instantly raced toward his father.

Alec picked him up, swung him into his arms, and cheerfully said, “First, I think you should show Miss MacKenzie how to stoke those fire boxes. She’s going to be amazed.”

“It’s real fire!” Chris exclaimed, swinging his gaze toward Zelda, his eyes wide with excitement, pleased he had his playmates back. “Put me down, Papa, and I’ll show her!”

Zelda
was
amazed and mildly alarmed as the coal-stoked engine box turned bright red and little puffs of smoke erupted from the engine. She glanced at Alec in silent query.

“Only under supervision, darling,” he murmured. “No one wants the house to burn down.”

A servant came in with drinks for the adults—whiskey from Alec’s Scottish estate, although he didn’t say where it was and she didn’t ask. They were both more guarded when not in full rut. While Chris kept up a running commentary, Alec and Zelda sat side by side on a wooden bench pulled up to the train table, kept Chris company, exchanged fondly benign glances when Chris wasn’t looking, and drank their whiskey.

A garrulous six-year-old didn’t require more than the occasional word of agreement or encouragement from his audience and he was happy. Although Alec did say once, “That’s enough coal, Chris. I don’t want another engine to explode. It did once,” he said to Zelda under his breath. “Chris was thrilled. I was less thrilled. The servants weren’t thrilled at all. The draperies caught on fire, then the carpet, then—Chris, no, stop—that’s quite enough.”

When a servant came to announce dinner, Alec turned off the main switch, Chris ran ahead to announce their arrival, and Alec and Zelda walked downstairs hand in hand. Like lovers. Like lovers who’d known each other longer than two days. Like lovers in love, those at the table thought with varying degrees of interest as they observed the couple enter the dining room.

Creiggy pleasantly thought,
Will wonders never cease?

James was amazed. Presents were one thing. But this? Having served Dalgliesh both in South Africa and England, having always opened all the earl’s mail, having been instructed to use his own judgment with regard to the perfumed billets-doux arriving at Dalgliesh’s door, he considered himself privy to his lordship’s attitude toward women. And now, this sudden breach of custom.