Susan Johnson - Gorgeous As Sin

That and nothing more.

No thoughts of property negotiations or winning entered his mind. No further nebulous uncertainties about subversive emotion clouded his thinking. Not even a scintilla of sexual triumph registered in his brain. All he felt was an exaggerated sense of pleasure.

“Thank you for calling me back.” His smile was very close, urbanity stripped from his voice. “I’m extremely happy and I don’t exactly know why.”

“I know less why I called to you,” she answered so softly he had to lean in to hear her.

“It doesn’t matter. I’m glad you did.” Simple words simply spoken, a sense of inevitability so sweet he could taste it.

She was agitated, uncertain.

He knew better than to make a sudden move and frighten her.

Then she swayed forward an infinitesimal distance; to anyone not involved in the fevered encounter, the movement would have gone unnoticed. “I’m very pleased you came tonight,” she whispered.

“Then we both are.” A velvet soft utterance freely given, knotty issues dismissed.

She knew he wasn’t alluding to the art show or the paintings he’d purchased, and drawing in a small breath, she wondered how long it had been since she’d lain with a man. Or more to the point, a man of unparalleled physical perfection and immoderate charm, a man for whom she felt a fierce, wild passion unlike anything she’d ever known.

“Perhaps kismet actually exists,” he offered with a smile.

Her eyes flared wide. “Do you think so?”

He was about to say no, but she looked so genuinely artless, he didn’t have the heart. “I do.”

“You’re not just saying that.”

“No.” A kindness not a lie. “People more clever than I subscribe to the theory. And consider how many thousands of years the concept has shaped people’s destiny.”

“So you’re saying destiny is involved tonight.”

By any standard her smile was flirtatious, her uncertainty suddenly replaced by a playful drollery. “All I know is there’s no place I’d rather be,” he said very softly, astonished at the pleasure he felt quite apart from lust.

“Well put, although I suspect you’re better acquainted with these situations than I.”

“Not this particular one.” His brows rose. “I have no explanation.”

She smiled. “How sweet-and generally effective, I expect.”

“On the contrary, I’m quite sincere.” He had no idea why he felt compelled to such frankness when prevarication had always rendered better service in circumstances such as this.

She held his gaze for a second, weighing her preconceived notions against Groveland’s candor. Quickly deciding that truth or pretense mattered little when their desires were so clearly aligned. “I suppose,” she said, perhaps just a trifle briskly for the world of dalliance, “we shouldn’t just stand here.”

A teasing light instantly warmed his eyes. “I know I’d rather not.” He couldn’t accuse her of coyness. She was so obviously unfamiliar with the game, it was going to be like deflowering a virgin.

Not that he had personal knowledge, having always avoided virgins. But Mrs. St. Vincent was definitely an innocent when it came to amorous play. Of that he was certain.

“Should we go upstairs?”

But she’d balled her fists again when speaking as though facing the hangman instead of a night of pleasure, so he decided kisses might be in order first for the widow. “In a minute,” he murmured, and dipping his head, he kissed her gently in reassurance and even more gently placed his hands on her shoulders and slowly drew her close.

Allowing her ample time to change her mind should she wish to.

But when her soft, warm breasts first came in contact with his chest, she didn’t pull away, and as his erection immediately sprang to life, surged upward, and pressed into her stomach, she didn’t flinch.

Instead, she gasped-in astonishment and wonder. Had he known…

But he didn’t. And he debated how long he would be obliged to play the modest lover and restrict himself to kisses. Sweet as they were, he thought with an equivalent astonishment.

But suddenly, she threw her arms around his neck, melted into his body, and breathed against the warmth of his mouth, “Forgive me for being so brazen, but you make me feel ever so good…”

“I’m glad,” he whispered, sliding his hands downward, cupping her bottom, holding her hard against his cock.

Another little gasp, and she breathed whisper soft, “You’re… enormous!”

Suppressing his impulse to say, “The better to fuck you with,” he kissed her less sweetly, with the novel urgency Mrs. St. Vincent inspired even as he searched for the door to her upstairs apartment. Finally-there-stairs were visible through a half-opened door in the far corner. Quickly lifting his head, he swept her up in his arms and said with a smile, “I’m taking you upstairs. Feel free to stop me at any time.” A politesse only; God himself couldn’t have stopped him.

“I won’t,” she whispered, clinging to his neck, her words excusing him from possible sacrilege. “I want you too much.”

“I want you more,” he said with an easy smile.

“Impossible.”

“I doubt it.” The lady smiling up at him was a restorative to his jaded soul, tremulous and needy, dew fresh and beautiful.

Her brows rose. “Care to make a wager?”

He almost took her right there, the possibility of dueling lechery racheting up his libido another ten notches. “Anything you like, darling,” he said, controlling his lust with effort.

“Do you feel lucky?”

He laughed. “Damned right.”

“Me, too.” Tonight was serendipity, pure and simple, she thought, reveling in the blissful illogic. After a lifetime devoted to undeviating steadiness, she was experiencing a degree of covetousness beyond the perimeters of memory.

The rapturous feel of his hard, muscled body against hers, the intoxicating, soul-stirring passion warming her body and soul were unutterably joyous. Perhaps Sofia was right; perhaps it was time she began to live again or finally live or flamboyantly live. Or resist such base urges, a muted voice of reason obstinately submitted.

But muted voices were easily brushed aside when under the spell of high-flying lust and fevered desire. And who better than Groveland to satisfy her salacious urges-a man who was a byword for vice?

And while she’d not yet experienced the full extent of his sexual renown, the hard, splendid length of his erection against her thigh suggested satisfaction on a grand scale.

I CAN PERFECTLY well walk upstairs,” Rosalind said as Fitz began mounting the stairs.

“But why should you?”

Her first thought shouldn’t have been that Edward never could have carried her up the stairs so effortlessly. Or at all. He wasn’t tall and powerful like Groveland, nor corded with muscle. Shameful thought; why was she comparing her husband to Groveland? And then, as if the devil were whispering in her ear, she heard Mrs. Beecham’s voice saying, You’re not getting any younger, and she found herself thinking, I deserve this.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Fitz murmured, aware of the lady’s reflective silence.

“Do you think I’m old? Oh Lord, pretend I didn’t say that,” she quickly declared, blushing furiously.

In the dim stairwell lit by a single electric light sconce at the top of the stairs, he glanced down and was charmed to see the most fetching, rosy-cheeked mortification. Mrs. St. Vincent was a rare delight; no aristocratic lady he knew would have called attention to her age. “I think you’re absolutely gorgeous,” he murmured, smiling, “and what-eighteen or so?”

She laughed, a bright silvery sound. “You’re a darling.”

“Wait,” he said with a grin. “It gets better.”

“So I’ve heard. Sofia tells me you’re celebrated for your expertise.”

“Hardly,” he modestly replied. “But I’ll contrive to amuse you in whatever fashion you prefer.”

“Is this about amusement?”

Uncertain of her tone, he gracefully replied, “It’s about whatever you want.”

“Because you’re versatile.”

There was that trifling pettishness again. “No, because I very much wish to please you. You’re quite exceptional; this evening is exceptional. Nothing about this-us-is about versatility or amusement. I apologize for my choice of words. You’ve been a constant in my thoughts today.”

Her expression turned guarded. “Because you want my store.”

“No.” He didn’t even take issue with her comment. “Because I find you fascinating.”

“And you want what you want.”

“Good God, don’t fight with me.” He smiled. “You don’t know how much I’m out of my element.”

She drew in a small shaky breath. “We both are.”

“Then we’ll navigate this unknown terrain together. You lead and I’ll follow.”

She couldn’t help but smile at his flattering candor. “It might be wiser if you lead and I follow.”

Since he rarely contradicted a lady when it came to making love, he whispered, “Whatever you say.” Although, he rather thought she was right. Having reached the top of the stairs, he crossed the small landing, walked through the open door into a parlor illuminated by another simple light fixture, and halted. “Which way? Over there?” He nodded toward a closed door on the far side of the sparsely furnished room.

“Oh dear.”

Looking down, Fitz met her wide-eyed gaze. “Is something wrong?” There was no mistaking the doubt in her voice.

“I don’t know-maybe… probably. Oh Lord, now I’m not sure.”

Faced with such tremulous reluctance, he debated his course of action. Toying with a squeamish woman could turn out to be a disaster. Sophisticated females with a flair for the game were more his style-like Miss Baldwin. She’d been more than willing.

And yet, there was no question it was Mrs. St. Vincent he wanted.

Notoriously self-indulgent, and highly motivated, he decided the lady’s uncertainties were open to interpretation. She clearly hadn’t ordered him to put me down this instant and leave. A good sign.

So, attuned as he was to the nuances of female acquiescence, he carried her toward what looked to be a bedroom door. Crossing the small parlor in a few strides, he shoved open the door with his shoulder and stepped over the threshold.

Rosalind shivered-in anticipation at this point, Groveland’s celebrated reputation was one of excess.

“Are you cold?” he gently asked, coming to a halt, although he knew better. Aroused women were not without precedence in his life.

“No, quite the opposite.”

“I’m delighted to hear it,” he said.

A brief flash of amusement shone in her eyes. “I’m hoping you delight me as well.”

He laughed. “I shall strive to fulfill your hopes.”

“Do you ever get complaints?”

His look of surprise was quickly shuttered. “Not about this,” he said.

She shouldn’t ask personal questions. Even unfamiliar as she was with dalliance, she knew better. But she found herself intrigued by the man behind the prodigal reputation. “What complaints do you get?” she impetuously asked, the words coming out in a rush.

He looked at her so oddly, she immediately said, “Forgive my curiosity, but you’re a constant subject of the scandal sheets.”

“Does that interest you?” His voice had taken on a cynical edge. Was her innocence a pose? Was she looking for something out of the ordinary tonight, like the others?

His gaze was cool. “I apologize again,” she quickly said. “I’m new to this.”

Illogically, he felt a sense of relief. Maybe he was turning into a romantic. Or maybe Mrs. St. Vincent was as lush a female as he’d ever had the good fortune to bed and he should stop overintellectualizing her motives and his. “New is good,” he smoothly observed, and began walking toward the bed.

As he moved, the solid length of his erection nudged her right hip and bottom, sending a heated shimmer of excitement racing along every impatient little nerve ending in her body. She’d been aroused for some time-if she was honest with herself, since he’d walked into the exhibition. Without so much as a word or gesture from him, she’d immediately turned dewy wet in readiness. It was astonishing how he could tempt her to such madness with so little effort-with none. Her wanting him was a kind of extravagant delirium. “No, no, not there,” she blurted out, wrenched from her musing as he stopped by her bed.

Since at this stage of their acquaintance, politesse was required, he swiftly surveyed the small room, searching for some other piece of furniture or surface capable of holding them both. In the light from the open doorway, the shadowed interior revealed a flimsy dressing table, a too-high chest of drawers, a narrow fragment of carpet before the hearth, the shabby interior provoking a sudden, inexplicable resentment toward Edward St. Vincent. How could he gamble away his money and force his wife to live like this?