Seduction in Mind (11 page)

She looked at him for a salient moment. "Surely, it's not that dramatic."

He shrugged. "I can't leave, and I told myself I should when you were outside with that damned child."

"I told him I'd see him on Friday."

"I know. He wouldn't have left otherwise."

"You've done this before."

"Probably," he said.

"And does it work?" He was importuned ceaselessly, she suspected.

"Sometimes."

"And when it doesn't?"

"You switch to another plan."

"Do you continue switching, or are you rude eventually?"

"I'm not going to tell you. You have to do what you have to do."

"But none of that applies to us, because we're going to be adults about this."

"Fucking, you mean."

"Yes. And you didn't feel the need to dress, for which I'm grateful."

"I wasn't going anywhere."

"How cool you are. Does it take enormous practice?"

The amount of practice he'd had wouldn't be something she'd appreciate, so he answered with diplomacy. "My nannies beat good manners into me. Now, come here and we'll see about you having some more orgasms."

She moved toward him, wanting what he wanted, feeling famished when she never did, feeling as though he'd been away a month.

And when she came to rest before him, he slowly unwrapped the sheet covering her, let it slide to the floor, untangled the knot in her chemise ribbon, eased off the filmy garment, and drew her close with such aching slowness, she moaned softly as he bent low and touched her mouth with his. "Now then," he said a moment later, raising his head. "Are you going to insist on the bed again?"

Wondering how he could bring her to fever pitch with a mere kiss, she drew in a calming breath. "At the moment, I'm not sure I'm capable of insisting on anything save speed."

He lifted her chin with a crooked finger. "We can do that. Is he gone?"

"Does it matter?"

"Not particularly."

A frisson of excitement flared through her senses at the casualness of his reply.

"Let's go outside and see."

"Like this?"

"What's left of the sun will feel good." He picked up the sheet from the carpet. "So your delicate skin isn't damaged."

"Or yours, and I'm not sure I can do this in daylight."

"I'll show you how." Taking her hand, he drew her out into the studio and through the terrace doors.

He moved with an uninhibited grace, at ease with his nakedness, and she regarded him from under her lashes as they moved outside. As an artist, she viewed the perfection of his form with both an objectivity and a keen eye for detail, and she wondered the degree of activity necessary to maintain the steel-hard muscle tone and the lithe grace of his limbs. He had the body of an athlete, broad-shouldered, lean-hipped, long-legged, and his hand holding hers was callused from riding.

"So you don't normally make love al fresco," he remarked casually, skirting a beautifully clipped boxwood.

"I don't even normally make love—only on occasion."

He shot a glance at her. "I would have thought your dance card full."

"I have other interests."

"I see," he said politely, moving down a grassy path alongside a trellis of flowering jasmine. "But not right now."

"You're much too smug, Ranelagh."

"Call me Sam." He smiled. "I feel I know you."

She stopped abruptly and tried to pull her hand away.

And when he turned to look at her, her temper showed.

"I've changed my mind."

He was instantly apologetic. "Forgive me. It was tactless and rude of me"—he suddenly smiled—"but I couldn't resist when you said 'I have other interests' in that decorous, prim tone. And at the risk of offending you further—why the hell did you marry two old men?"

She was every man's dream standing before him, gloriously naked, her voluptuous body as perfect in person as in the paintings she'd posed for, the auburn hair on her mons still wet from their lovemaking.

"You wouldn't understand."

She hadn't moved, but she'd not withdrawn her hand either. An encouraging sign, he thought. "Tell me anyway."

He seemed taller, standing on her grassy path—larger than life—more perhaps than she could comfortably deal with considering the scope of his wildness. But she wished to find out now that she had him… here, and while her feelings were chaotic and unsure, whether he wanted what she wanted. "Do you want to make love or not?"

"You don't wish to tell me."

"No." How could someone like Ranelagh ever understand?

"I'm sorry I asked… and I do want to make love." He dropped the sheet he was carrying and pulled her close. "I won't ask another question. I'm here only to serve you, ma'am…"

His cheeky smile matched the impertinence of his remark, but she wanted him, cheeky or not, inquisitive or not, disreputable or not, for the sheer beauty of his lovemaking. She nodded, a moment of truth for herself perhaps, or perhaps only affirmation of his statement. "Good… because I enjoy the quality of your"—she glanced down at his beautifully formed erection—" service."

He took a small breath, the provocation in her words highly arousing. "Would the grass suit you, my lady?" His voice was soft, low, touched with a tantalizing deference, artless in its single-minded purpose.

"Perfectly."

"Is the sun warm enough?"

"Very."

"The scent of the flowers—is it adequate?"

"Completely."

"Then I should see if you're ready for me," he whispered.

She felt his words in the heated core of her body, in the fevered rhythm of her heart, and when she said "I've been ready for you since yesterday," her voice trembled at the last.

He smiled. "And I've been wanting to take out these hairpins since the first time I saw you at Leighton's," he told her, reaching up to lift one of the ruby pins from her tousled hair.

"You were much too arrogant at Leighton's and last night. I told myself I wouldn't do this," she said on a small caught breath as a tress of her hair tumbled onto her bare shoulder.

He reached for a second pin. "And here we are."

"Lost to all shame."

He stood arrested for a flashing moment, the jeweled pin between his fingertips.

She smiled. "I didn't mean it literally."

He looked relieved.

And she laughed. "So you're aware of respectability."

Amusement flickered in his eyes. "Only from a distance."

"You were actually worried."

"Not worried, thinking," he replied, pulling out the second pin. "Such moral integrity is offputting."

"You mean you wouldn't be able to perform?"

He chuckled. "No, I didn't mean that."

"Because you always do."

Pulling out two more pins, he shrugged faintly. "I'm not about to answer that."

"As long as you perform for me, I'm content."

He tossed the pins in his hand onto the sheet and ran his fingers through her loosened hair. "No problem there," he assured her. Sliding his hand under her chin, he lifted her face. "How many times do you want it?"

The grass was cool on her back even through the sheet, and she trembled as he gently eased her thighs open. He was kneeling between her legs, his broad shoulders blocking out the sun, his lean torso limned by the light, and there was no explanation for the intense, fevered lust she felt. Nothing in all her past that would serve as a reference—not one lover, not one husband, not a hero from the pages of a book had ever made her feel such mindless desire. It was as if he exuded some potent allure, or cast a magical spell and, mesmerized, she was in thrall.

But he had more than bewitching allure, she realized, gazing at the enormity of his upthrust erection lying flat against his stomach. And she ached with longing to feel him deep inside her.

There was no question of his sexual accomplishments, nor of the reason he was so much in demand. Neither could she begrudge the legions of ladies in his wake. Like them, she'd been given the benefit of his virtuoso talents.

And like them, she wanted more.

He seemed to understand, or perhaps his emotions were in accord, for he entered her short moments later with a soft apology for his impatience, gliding in with a silken friction that touched her to the quick, overwhelmed her senses, gave credence to the phrase
lost to all reason
. And when at last he filled her completely, when she felt as though she couldn't breathe for the size of him, when ravishing sensation strummed outward from her tautly stretched tissue and pulsed through her body, she sobbed from the sheer, sublime, overwrought pleasure.

"Don't cry," he whispered, terrified he'd hurt her.

"I'm—not…" she sobbed, her hands hard on his back.

And then he understood and put away his brief apprehension and did what he did so well—what made him vaunted, pursued, cherished by females far and wide. He made love to her as though she were the first in his heart—in the world—taking care to please her, knowing how to please her, going slowly when she wished it and not slow at all when she wanted more. And when she came that first time—quickly, as she had before—and melted around him, the sun on his back and the heat of ardor merged in an uncommon feeling even he was forced to recognize as rare.

"You don't have to be so polite," she breathed, knowing he'd withheld his orgasm.

"It's not politeness." His voice was low, hushed, the warmth of his breath caressing her cheek. "It's a fucking game…"

She could feel him hard inside her, the smallest of tremors beginning again, rippling, shimmering up her stretched tissue. "I'm pleased you came back…"

"Not as pleased as I." He kissed the tender flesh behind her ear.

"I haven't had a playmate before."

He smiled at his good fortune when it shouldn't have mattered, when he'd had playmates galore. "I haven't either," he whispered, understanding he spoke more truth than lie. She fit perfectly, they fit perfectly, the notion of play had taken on a degree of pleasure hitherto unknown—the fluid rhythm of his lower body a gratifying case in point—and hedonist that he was, he wasn't about to let her go. "I'll be staying…" he said, sliding in deeper, holding himself hard against her womb.

"I'll… let… you." Breathy pauses punctuated her words, her fingers tightened on his back.

"Much obliged," he drawled softly.

But she didn't hear him, or if she did, the impudence in his tone didn't matter with another orgasm beginning to overwhelm her. And her soft cry a moment later drifted up into the bank of yellow roses tumbling overhead.

After a time, the scent of crushed grass rose in the balmy air—and the aroma of sex, and were it possible, the fragrance of bliss would have mingled as well in the sweet-smelling air.

She was insatiable, he thought, indoors and out, and he wondered if she'd truly been without a man at all. From a personal point of view he wouldn't have thought it possible, but after her fifth climax he was no longer so sure. Although, perhaps the lady was just hot-blooded.

No matter the reasons for her demanding sexuality, the mutual ravishment couldn't be faulted, and much later, when he considered his gentlemanly duties sufficiently performed, he finally allowed himself release.

Gazing up at him, she smiled sweetly and said "Thank you. I've really enjoyed myself" as though it were over.

"No need to thank me yet, I'm not finished." And grabbing a corner of the sheet, he wiped the come from her stomach, rolled away, and lay spread-eagle under the sun, content. "This is much better than being polite to the Prince of Wales all afternoon…"

"Your politeness to me can't be faulted," she replied, a small drollery in her tone.

Turning his head, he offered her a lazy smile. "But then, I'm having fun too."

"Fun?"

"Isn't it?"

Quicksilver, she rearranged a lifetime of perceptions. "Does anyone ever disagree?"

A transient pause brought the trill of birdsong suddenly to the fore.

"I've never actually—"

"Talked to a woman?"

He rolled upward into a seated position, the play of his abdominal muscles dramatic. "I'm not so sure I like your insinuation," he said, frowning faintly.

"Answer my question."

He exhaled softly. "If you must know, most women aren't interested in talking."

"Or you don't give them time."

"There're better things to do."

"What if I wanted to talk?"

A sportive grin lifted his mouth. "What do you mean 'what if?"

"I mean really talk."

Leaning back on his hands, he tipped his head. "Talk away."

"You'll listen?"

"I've plenty of time."

A small silence fell while Alex mentally scrambled to find a suitable topic.

"There. You see?"

"I dislike smug men."

"Do you dislike men who can make you come another dozen times?" His gaze flicked downward to his erection and then back again to her.

"That's
exceedingly
smug, Ranelagh."

"Answer my question," he said as she had only moments before.

"I suppose I don't," she noted grudgingly.

"You
suppose
?"

Her glance fluttered to his rampant erection and as quickly away.

"Why let this go to waste?" He looked up at the sun as though gauging the time.

"Is your schedule busy?" Taut, thin-skinned, not wishing to feel so needy and overwhelmed, she sat up quickly. "Don't let me keep you."

His laugh was beguiling. "I don't have a schedule, and if I did, I'd change it to stay here with you."

She found her temper subsiding under the charm of his reply.

"I'll have to mind my manners," he observed playfully. "Your temper is damnably quick."

"I'm sorry."

His eyes widened in feigned astonishment. "Have I finally done something right?"

"You've done any number of glorious things right, as if you didn't know," she said with a sudden grin. "And perhaps we really
shouldn't
waste our time."

"Are we done talking, then?" His voice was smooth as silk.

She nodded.

"Thank you, ma'am." Leaning over, he lifted her onto his lap, minutely adjusted her as though it mattered where their bare flesh met.