Susan Johnson (6 page)

“The
ultimate
naïveté, darling,” the Countess softly replied, “coming from you.” She arched one perfect dark brow. “Surely, after having pleasured most of the beautiful ladies in the Borders, married or otherwise, you’d be disabused of the notion of fidelity in marriage.”

“Point taken,” he quietly said, not about to discuss faithfulness
or
marriage with Janet Lindsay. But a small impetuous afterthought questioned whether the young Elizabeth Graham
might
have been faithful to her aged husband. And if so, he wondered, how would she respond to a man in his prime? He felt himself quicken at the possibilities. How would she respond to his touch? Would her skin be cool? Would
she
be cool … or flame-hot after years of sexual deprivation?

“
Well
 … would you?”

Distracted by intemperate visions of Elizabeth Graham in his bed, he’d missed the entirety of Janet’s query. Forcing the delicious Lady Graham from his thoughts, he
smiled his apology and said with a small sigh, “It’s been a long day.”

“I was just wondering,” Countess Lindsay said in her best rendition of a servant girl’s tone, “would you like more wine, my Lord?”

He paused for a moment, digesting her words and the sharp contrast between Janet Lindsay’s overt vice and the coolly composed Elizabeth Graham. But Lady Graham was beyond his reach at the moment, and the very delectable hot-blooded Janet was only inches away. He smiled a slow, lazy smile. “Why not?”

“Why not indeed, you incorruptible prude,” Janet facetiously retorted. “I thought for a moment I might have to tie you up and strip your clothes from you against your protests.”

His smile widened. “Maybe later …”

“You’re not tired?” It was her only truly concerned query of the evening, although her impulse was purely selfish.

“And if I were, after riding to Harbottle and back today?” he impudently reminded her.

“You’re never tired, Johnnie,” she declared like a child who believed in certainties.

And he wasn’t. Actually, now that the question of his independence had been sufficiently clarified with the Countess, he was in extreme good humor. With his hostage snug at Goldiehouse, the bargaining for Robbie’s release could begin in the morning; his brother should be home within the week.

“All right then,” he said with a grin, “if you insist—I’m not tired, but I
am
damnably hungry. Also,” he softly added, “you have altogether too many clothes on, puss, if you want to be my personal maid tonight.” And rising from his chair, he moved over to the table near the fire without a glance for the Countess.

He stood for a moment at the table as if waiting for something, and then very quietly said, “My chair, Janet. I need my chair pulled out.”

Unfamiliar with orders, unaccustomed to responding to that particular tone in a man’s voice, Janet took a brief lapse of time to acknowledge his command. But
presently he heard the soft rustle of silk and the sound of her slippers on the carpet. Coming up to him, she stood very close, so her breasts brushed his arm, and, lifting her face to him said, seductively and assuredly, “Kiss me.”

He didn’t turn to look at her, nor did he give evidence he’d heard her. Instead, he quietly repeated, “Pull my chair out so I can be seated.”

She could smell the clover-scented dampness of his hair, feel the heat of his body. “Kiss me first,” she whispered, rubbing the length of her body against his. Since her adolescence no man had refused her.

“The chair,” he said, his voice sending tiny shivers down her spine, his cool indifference aphrodisiac.

She reached up, her palm resting on his shoulder, the solid feel of his muscles beneath her hand further igniting her passion. “Please …” she whispered.

His strong fingers curled around her hand, removed it from his shoulder, and, half turning to face her, placed it at her side. “You don’t understand,” he calmly said, releasing his grip on her fingers. “I give the orders. You obey them.”

She reached for the chair.

He made her adjust his position several times until he was sufficiently comfortable with his distance from the table, saying simply, “Closer.”

“No, back a bit.”

“To the left now.”

“There.”

Until she’d worked herself into a small temper and a light sweat. And then, like the titled Earl he was, he motioned with a small gesture for his wineglass to be filled.

“Should I take my gown off first?” the Countess inquired, wishing to equalize the dynamics, her sexual allure always a potent force.

“No,” he said, leaning back in his chair, “pour my wine first.”

The siren in her took staggering pause. Was she suddenly as inconspicuous as a servant? Unobtrusive as the furniture? Petulance drew her dark brows together,
and her bottom lip turned sulky. But then the Laird of Ravensby uncrossed his legs, and the soft wool of his trews, raised conspicuously over his arousal, gave her heady pause.

She poured the wine, leaning over with courtesan expertise so her bounteous breasts, quivering above her tightly laced stays, offered an enticing display. A natural coquette, she understood the finer points of seduction.

“Kindly keep your breasts out of my face,” Johnnie told her. “I prefer more discretion from my servants.”

“You’re rude,” she pouted, dropping the decanter on the table with a thud.

“Servants’ opinions are of no interest to me,” Ravensby’s Laird curtly said. “Unless you’re asked a direct question, remain silent.” Leaning back in his chair, he held the Rhenish wine up to the light of the candelabra and studied its golden hue for a contemplative moment as though he were alone in the room.

“You’re hateful.” But her voice held a trembling huskiness; his nonchalance was sensual, challenging. And she stood suddenly quiet before him, like a reprimanded servant.

“Whether I’m hateful or not,” he murmured, looking at her finally, his gaze insolently raking her body, “or autocratic and demanding—I think those were the words you suggested,” he softly went on, “is of no significance to your …”—he paused—“
position
.” His blue eyes held hers for a significant second, the exact nature of that position blatantly clear. “And if I decide I wish to fuck you later, after you’ve fed me, you have the choice of submitting or losing your post in my household. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” the Countess whispered, her body on fire, her hand deferentially covering her deep décolletage in recognition of her employer’s wish for less display.

Moving her hand aside, he lightly brushed his fingertips over the swell of her breasts. “I didn’t say I didn’t
like
your breasts,” he said, sliding his hand inside her gown to touch the hard tip of her nipple through the sheer silk of her corset. “I just don’t care for them in my
food.” His hand fell away as he settled back in his chair, and his voice when he spoke held a distinct remoteness.

“Now kindly disrobe, and I’ll assess my interest in you for purposes other than serving my meal.”

Nerveless, inaccessible, he gazed at her like a stranger.

A small shiver of excitement raced down her spine, and her hands trembled as she reached for the hooks on her gown. She found it difficult to concentrate with desire flaring like wildfire through her blood, but she managed finally to unfasten the small silk-covered hooks, and the silver tissue fell in a whisper to the carpet. Like an expensive harlot, she stood before her master in red silk stockings, flowered garters, violet velvet slippers, and a crimson corset laced so tightly, her breasts rose above her compressed waist like silken globes.

“A shame you’re so large-breasted,” the Laird, sprawled at his ease, lazily drawled. “I prefer smaller women. Perhaps I should send you away.”

“No! Please, my Lord!” Panic swelled her voice. She was peaking already, her blood pulsing in her ears and deep inside her, the rhythm of her heart counterpoint to the steady hard throbbing between her legs. “I’m sorry,” she abjectly apologized, pressing her hand against her breasts in an effort to hide their abundance. “I could wear a chemise, Your Grace, and not offend your eyes.”

He seemed to consider for a moment, lounging like an Eastern potentate, his finger tracing the base of his wineglass in idle half-circles. He glanced at the tall case clock in the corner briefly, as if contemplating his options against time. “It
is
late,” he said at last, “you’re conveniently at hand, and regardless you have those enormous breasts, I do have need of a servant.” He sighed. “You might as well stay.” A touch of reluctance graced his voice, and then his tone flattened as he added, “I wish to be served without conversation. Take off your corset. Leave on your slippers and stockings. I like red silk stockings.” With that same lack of inflection one might say, “I like sugar with my tea.”

At the present state of her desire she would have
agreed to anything, her hunger for him desperate, ravenous. So she struggled with the laces at the back of her corset while he leisurely drank his wine. Normally, a lady’s maid or a helpful lover was on hand for such occasions; she had never undone a corset.

Long, frustrating minutes later she was at last free of it, flushed and heated, her hair tumbled about her face, her need for sexual release flagrant.

“You may feed me,” he said then as she stood before him, lushly nude except for her violet slippers and red stockings. And he pointed at a small plate of fruit scones.

“Later,” she said, as dismissive as he, no longer concerned with obedience or compliance, the aristocrat born and bred in her disposed to immediate gratification. “Make love to me now,” she demanded. Aflame with desire, she moved very close, the sight of him fully clothed in contrast to her nakedness intoxicating; his composure, his careless detachment, tantalized like a favorite dessert almost within reach, like ungentle surcease to the fire within her.

“But I don’t want to eat later,” he replied, a distinct edge to his voice. “I want to eat now.”

“Lord, Johnnie,” she whispered, her breathing unsteady, trembling on the brink. “I can’t …”

He looked up at her. “Do it,” he simply said.

Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she reached toward the plate and broke off a crumbly piece of scone.

“Come closer.” His voice was very low.

She moved forward, closing her eyes for a moment against the heady friction walking induced, so near was she to climax. She felt his hand drift up her thigh. “Are you hungry?” he conversationally inquired as if he were suddenly a courteous host, and his hand, inches from the damp heat of her desire, was no more than a commonplace gallantry.

She shook her head, too overcome to speak.

“Open your eyes,” he softly ordered. And when she did, gazing down at him, aglow with heated passion, he said in a low, level voice, “Open your legs.” She yielded instantly, humbled by her need, and the warmth of his
palm slid upward until his fingers touched the damp evidence of her carnal hunger. She moved against the light caress, urging him to enter her.

“Stand still,” he quietly commanded.

She whimpered but meekly obeyed.

“Excellent,” he murmured, his fingertips delicately stroking her swollen labia as if testing her readiness, the softly uttered word ambiguous comment on her compliance or the state of her receptivity. He seemed satisfied on either count apparently, for he slipped a finger inside her.

“Now feed me that,” he murmured, as though he didn’t hold her prisoner at his side, a nod of his head indicating the bit of scone in her hand.

His stroking fingers continued their arousal, the slow, luscious invasion, the widening penetration echoed in her soft sighs.

“Feed me,” he softly repeated when she hadn’t immediately responded, sliding two more fingers inside her, driving in so deeply, she caught her breath. “You must mind me,” he calmly murmured, “or I’ll send you from the room.”

It was unthinkable in her current state, and wrenching her mind back from voluptuary sensation, she obeyed, unable to keep her hand from trembling as she carried the small portion of food to his mouth.

He spoke while she stood with her arm extended, forcing her to wait a moment more. “I want you to watch me eat. Keep your eyes open. When I’m finished, I’ll want more.” He opened his mouth then, allowing her to feed him, and he slowly chewed the delicate flaky morsel as if time had no meaning, his fingers buried inside her, her bare hip against the velvet of his shoulder. His touch was exquisite, skilled. Accomplished.

She had great difficulty properly focusing her attention.

Enormous difficulty keeping her eyes open.

But his warning impelled her.

And her peaking orgasmic state.

“So obedient,” he murmured a short time later, her breathing erratic, her entire body above the red silk of
her stockings flushed a delectable pink. “Feed me some of that apple cake over there, look, I want you to look … that’s a good girl. Here, take the knife and cut me a piece. If you follow my instructions completely, I’ll make love to you all night.… Have you ever been with a man who made love to you all night?”

She had. They had. Memories of excess flooded her mind, and she climaxed with a small smothered cry.

Bending his head, he leaned over and gently suckled her rigid nipples, intensifying the slow-ebbing pleasure. Then, satisfied her orgasm was complete, he gently withdrew his fingers, relaxed in his chair, and, reaching for an appliquéd linen napkin, slowly wiped his hand.

Only the sound of the Countess’s ungentle respiration broke the silence of the small paneled chamber until, some time later, her feverish breathing abated and her sensibilities returned to a degree of normalcy. Her dark lashes lifted; she drew in a deep breath and glared at Johnnie. “Damn your smug competence. I hate you!” And swiveling her arm back, she swung at him.

He caught her vicious blow easily, his reflexes honed to a fine pitch. “Really,” he said with a grin, holding her wrist with a gentle strength. “And it looked like you were enjoying yourself.”

“Are you saving that erection for someone else?” she hissed, shaking his hand away, flouncing down in the chair opposite him, her pout and glowering look stormy.