Sexy As Hell (36 page)

“No—yes . . . no,” he gruffly concluded. “I beg your pardon again.” He smiled faintly. “I’d be very much obliged it you’d make love to me.”

“Finally,” she said. “I thought I might have to attack you.” He grinned. “An irresistible concept. If only I didn’t prefer my own rules of war.”

“War? Should I have come armed?”

“You already are, darling, in every way known to man.” And reaching out, he grasped her bare shoulders, dipped his head, and kissed her with a fierce, pent-up desire he’d held in reserve the weeks past—apparently for her alone. His erection stood waist high, horniness and lust a hard, pulsing ache so intense he could feel the rush of blood coursing through his veins, his nerves oversexed and skittish. He attributed his unique response to Isolde’s long absence, although the uncharacteristic involvement of his entire nervous system was staggering. Not that he gave a damn, though, when he was moments away from burying his cock in the hot little cunt that had haunted his dreams for weeks.

While she kissed him back with frenzied yearning, he smoothly untied the ribbon at the neckline of her chemise, unfastened the small buttons running down its front, and unwrapped her arms from around his neck long enough to slide off her chemise. “Your skirt,” he said against her mouth as she clung to him once again. “Let go a minute.”

She was feverishly panting as he freed himself from her fierce grip, the small irresistible sound ringing every randy bell in his libidinous memory as he quickly disposed of her skirt and petticoats.

Smiling up at him, her gaze heavy lidded and heated, she whispered, “No one else makes me feel this way—desperate and ravenous, weak with longing.”

“Lucky me.” He took pleasure in her admission when even the hint of exclusivity had been anathema to him in recent years. Untying her drawers, he slid them off along with her silk stockings; his weeks of deprivation were nearly at an end. Inhaling deeply, he cautioned himself to restraint—her condition and the battering ram of his libido a ruinous mix. “Are you sure ten orgasms might not be excessive?” Had he ever in his life opted for sexual moderation?

Her rampant desires running high, Isolde took a moment to fully comprehend his question and a moment more to breathlessly say,
“Excessive?”

“Considering your, er, condition.”

“Is ten too much for you?” Explicit demand in every acid syllable.

He smiled. “My darling little bitch.” He flicked a finger downward. “You tell me.”

The stretched fabric of his trousers sent an anticipatory shiver up her spine. “I thought London amusements may have sapped your vigor.”

Whether she was goading him out of spite or toying with him mattered little now that the rules were clear. Ten and carte blanche. Kicking off his shoes, he pulled off his socks and shrugged out of his jacket.

“Hurry.”

Ah, his imperious, randy wife of fond memory. “I am, darling.” Swiftly unbuttoning his waistcoat and shirt, he pulled them off and dropped them to the floor.

“Oz, have pity,” Isolde pleaded, her eyes half-shut, her hips undulating faintly, flame-hot need in her ragged whisper.

Wrenching open the last button of his trouser placket, he saw her clench her thighs together in an effort to repress the peaking turbulence. Experienced, he moved quickly, shoving her upward into the center of the bed, spreading her legs with an agile brush of his hands, and in seconds he was fully engulfed in her warm, honeyed sweetness.

Her blissful sigh echoed his soft grunt of pleasure.

“Please,” she begged, leaving nail marks on his back, urging him on with little importuning whimpers. “Please, oh God, please . . .”

Where would you like me to go?
But never one to contradict an impassioned female, he cautiously eased forward.

She gasped and he recoiled, his heart drumming in his chest.

“Don’t you dare stop!” she hissed, bloodying his back in her impatience.

Ultrasensitive to the yielding resiliency of her vaginal tissue, scrupulously unselfish even in extremis, he moved forward warily—fucking pregnant women outside his area of expertise.

Not that there weren’t decided advantages to the situation.

Coitus interruptus was no longer required.

Sex au naturel in all its glory. A first.

Less intellectually engaged, Isolde was in the grip of a hot, roiling passion inundating her senses in overwrought waves of pleasure, warming her heart and soul, offering her unprecedented rapture. Filled to overflowing, utterly gorged, Oz’s virility and power gratifying every trembling nerve and cell, beguiling every impressionable sexual receptor, she was being transported toward orgasmic bliss with an expertise that anticipated her every wish.

Like now.

Sliding his hands under her bottom, he lifted her slightly, drove forward minutely, and reading her shuddering response, whispered, “Now darling,
now
.”

His voice alone was enough to incite her palpitating genital nerves into an orgasmic spasm that hurtled through her vagina, up her spine, and spiked through her fevered senses in a wild, violent, long overdue climax.

She wondered after that first fast and furious orgasm whether the raw, breathtaking ecstasy was due to Oz’s long absence, her pregnancy, some flawless synthesis of hot lust and sweet love, or a combination thereof.

Then his grip tightened on her bottom, he dragged her closer, and shocked by the sudden prodigal sensation, her thoughts yielding to tempestuous feeling, she gave herself up once again to flame-hot avarice. Breathlessly clinging to him, her vagina silken with liquid desire, she melted around his hard, rigid length as he plunged deeper and deeper still, his rhythm practiced, facile, delicately expert.

In the ensuing velvety flux and flow, with her warm, soft body offering him all—bliss and ravishment, passion and raging fervor—the game of dalliance took on a capricious and volatile new scope. An unquenchable longing pricked his previous sangfroid; wistful sentiment overrode the sophisticated worldliness of carnal lust, and moments later, when he joined her second orgasm and poured his hot seed into her, the fury of his climax matched the ferocity of her screams.

Perhaps it was her wild cries that provoked his novel emotions, he decided afterward with postcoital pragmatism.

Or perhaps her voracious appetites gratified his vanity.

Or maybe she was nothing more than a rollicking change from Nell, he thought as his breathing slowed, reason returned, and he lifted his forehead from the mattress.

Isolde’s lashes fluttered upward, her gaze heavy with languor and only inches away. “I may not survive many more of those,” she whispered.

“I guarantee you will,” he murmured, a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth, amorous play replacing quixotic emotion. “As I recall, your record is more than ten.”

“Never like these. I feel as though I’ve been drugged.”

“A good drug apparently,” he drawled.

She shifted her hips the merest distance and smiled up at him. “You’re still gloriously hard.”

Oz smiled. “He likes you.”

“I can tell.” Oz’s erection was undiminished. “Take off the rest of your clothes . I want to feel your skin on mine—not just him”—she wiggled her hips—“but everywhere.”

“At your service, ma’am.” With a quick kiss, he withdrew, slid from the bed, and swiftly stripped off his trousers.

“Only at
my
service,” she playfully charged. “Humor me, darling,” she said to his suddenly cool gaze. “A half truth will do.”

He bowed. “Consider me exclusively at your service, darling. I shall be a monk outside your company,” he promised.

Her darling Oz—ever the graceful hunter. “How terribly sweet of you,” she said with equal urbanity. Surveying his hard, muscled body nude save for his white linen underwear, she lazily arched her back and considered her next orgasm with explicit delight. “Wasn’t it opportune that we both went to Deveral’s dispersal sale. Otherwise we wouldn’t be here enjoying—oh dear,” she murmured, “I’m dripping on your bed. I need a towel and then you, my splendid stud. Or just you if you don’t mind stickiness.”

In his current mood, he’d willingly fuck her anywhere, anyway, but he also knew where to find towels, and moments later, naked now, his arousal freshly washed, the blood wiped from his back, he returned from the adjacent bathroom with an armful of white towels. He tossed them on the bed. “Stickiness makes no difference to me. You decide.”

“How charmingly amenable.”

Slipping off his rings, he grinned. “I intend to charm the hell out of you, darling, until you cry
stop
or I die trying.”

Placing his rings on the bedside table, he joined her in bed, picked up a towel, glanced at her with raised eyebrows, and at her nod, wiped his semen from between her legs. “Ready?” he said, throwing the towel on the floor.

“I’m not only ready, I’m shamelessly besotted, ravenously lustful, and indifferent to everything but having your cock inside me.”

He laughed. “Tell me how you really feel.”

“Why shouldn’t I when I see you so seldom. The point, it seems to me, is to take full advantage of your splendid capacity for fornication.” Reaching up, she patted his cheek. “Now be a dear and do what you do so well.”

For a brief moment he took issue with her flippancy but quickly decided there was no point in splitting hairs. He was what he was, and realistically, sexual pleasure always took precedence over minor affront. “Speaking of seldom seeing you, allow me to scrutinize this newly maternal body of yours. I’m intrigued.”

She smiled. “You’re a neophyte, as am I. But be my guest, although I warn you, I’m much more easily aroused in my fecund state. I masturbate more.” Her brows flickered sportively. “You should come home. I could use you.”

A more tempting invitation had never been offered him. And he said so.

“But,” she murmured.

“I have my business in town,” he answered with well-mannered courtesy. “Otherwise I’d be more than willing to take over the duties of stud for you.”

She sighed with a touch of drama. “Alas, then, I must take full advantage of these hours.” She threw her arms wide, spread her thighs, and grinned. “Touch me at your risk and my pleasure.”

He laughed, her candor delightful, along with her unquenchable craving for sex. Not to mention her comment about masturbation suggested Will wasn’t a constant in her bed—pleasant thought. Lightly brushing his palms over her flat belly, he said, “Nothing shows here yet.”

“It’s too early, Pamela tells me.”

“But these are sumptuous and flourishing.” He covered her breasts with his hands, fingers splayed, and experienced a warm content as her eyes went shut and she softly moaned.

How compatible they were when it came to sex.

His cock was always at full mast when his darling wife was near.

It almost made one contemplate marriage with fondness.

“Your nipples are bigger,” he said, gently stroking the taut pink crests. “Do they feel different?”

She smiled up at him. “Everything feels different. More sensitive and tender, oversensitive at times,” she answered, arching her back against the tingling tremors sliding downward from Oz’s gentle stroking to her pulsing sex. “You’re a man of finesse, are you?”

“I try to be. Would you prefer roughness?” he asked, his gaze speculative.

“Heavens no. Whatever you’re doing is sublime. Do. Not. Stop.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he happily said.

“And you needn’t look so smug.”

“No, ma’am.”

“Arrogant bastard,” she grumbled.

“Uh-uh. Grateful as hell, darling, to have you in my bed.”

She smiled. “You can be
such
an absolute sweetheart.”

He didn’t feel it useful to contradict her; he was very much not a sweetheart, as any of his acquaintances would testify. “Thank you. We try,” he said instead. “See if this is sweet enough for you.” Bending his head, he drew her left nipple into his mouth, slid his hand between her legs, found the nub of her clitoris with his forefinger, and began to softly suck on her jewel-hard nipple.

She was right about the changes pregnancy had wrought on her sensitivity levels. It was almost too easy to make her climax; very little of his virtuoso skills were required to send her over the edge. She literally climaxed in seconds.

He glanced at the clock on the bedside table from under his lashes as he switched his ministrations from her left nipple to the right, as he redirected his attentions to her swollen clitoris once again. The image of a fertility goddess in all her voluptuary ostentation entered his consciousness, reminded him of erotic temple sculpture back home, reminded him even more vividly of his youthful pilgrimages to shrines and sanctuaries that extolled the glories of sexual enlightenment.

It took considerable restraint to suppress his selfish impulses as his erection swelled higher. But Isolde’s appreciation for his largesse was so lavishly profuse after each of her several precipitous orgasms that he honestly replied, “It’s my pleasure, darling.”

“You’re outrageously benevolent,” she breathed, brushing his cheek with her fingers. “I must be making up for lost time; I don’t how to thank you enough.”

As he lay propped on one elbow beside her, he almost said,
You’re having my child. That’s thanks enough.
But relatively sober, he wasn’t lost to all reason. “You can thank me later.”

“Just tell me what you want me to do. Really—anything.”

“You probably shouldn’t say that to me right now,” he said, his voice a low rasp.

“You don’t frighten me. You’re not at all like your reputation.”

“You encourage my better impulses.”

“In contrast to those—”

“Who don’t.” At which thought, all the untidy perversions in his life came to mind. “I need a drink. Would you like a tisane?”