Susan Johnson - Gorgeous As Sin

“The chair perhaps.”

Her voice intruded into his rancor, and casting aside his irrational concern, he said with a smile, “The chair will do nicely.” Or at least until such a time as he could coax Mrs. St. Vincent into her former marriage bed.

Another first for a man who was more familiar than many aristocratic husbands with their marriage beds.

But then tonight was alive with firsts. Most significant, his outrageous interest in a woman who had been, at best, inhospitable to him only a few hours ago. Perhaps the challenge of overcoming Mrs. St. Vincent’s initial distaste fueled his lust.

Or maybe the lady’s ripe opulence struck some primal nerve.

Or maybe the whys didn’t matter when it came right down to it-only the fucking.

While Fitz was engaged in a novel introspective, Rosalind’s troublesome voice of reason had inconveniently resurfaced and was taking issue with her having sex with the man who was out to steal her property.

What are you doing? He’s your enemy.

Wait, wait, her fevered passions swiftly intervened, bargaining frantically. Couldn’t tonight be in the way of a research exercise?

Of course. There. All was quickly reconciled. Lust triumphant.

With her voice of reason appeased, Groveland’s enormous erection featuring largely in her swift decision, she looked forward to a night of sumptuous carpe diem pleasure. Sofia was right; she’d been celibate too long. “I feel I should apologize again-about the bed this time,” she murmured. “I’m just not ready to-”

“No need to explain,” Fitz interposed, averse to hearing some explanation about her husband. Not that anything-including dead husbands-was likely to dissuade his aching cock from its target goal. “We’ll sit in the chair instead,” he pleasantly said, dropping into the wing-back chair, disposing her on his lap, and shifting to plan B.

The hard imprint of his erection instantly made contact with her throbbing vulva in the most delectable fashion, and Rosalind shifted her bottom slightly to better absorb the wildly intoxicating rapture. “You-this… makes me feel”-she smiled up at him-“decidedly wanton.”

Lounging back in the chair, Fitz’s mouth twitched. “Naturally, that pleases me.”

His cool equanimity was perversely sexual, as if he had but to wait and women always came to him. “Such insouciance, Groveland,” she said, a small heat in her eyes. “It almost makes me angry.”

“But not quite, I’d wager.”

“Nor could you get up and leave, I’d wager,” she countered, not as cooly as he, but as pointed.

“No.” Not so cool that time, an edginess in his voice.

They were both restive under their baffling urges, not entirely sure why they were here, why they were doing what they were doing, why they couldn’t just walk away.

Then less practiced at the game, less jaded, or rather, not jaded at all, Rosalind capitulated first. “I don’t know why I’m taking issue with your expertise when look”-she held out her quivering hand-“I’m trembling for want of you.”

“Why don’t I take care of that.”

His careless offer of orgasmic pleasure smacked of arrogance. But it also incited piquant little vibrations in every seething, palpitating secret recess of her body. “Naturally, that pleases me,” she murmured, oversweet and smiling.

“Bitch,” he said, but he was smiling, too.

“In heat, thanks to you. How do you do it?”

In the usual way, he could have said, seduction a well-rehearsed, predictable game. “Why don’t we find out?” he said, husky and low, slipping his hand under the soft silk of her skirt, gently easing her thighs apart to offer the lady a short prelude as it were to the coming drama. Her muscles tensed as he brushed aside the slight barrier of her drawers, although some charitable foreplay was obviously needed after a flinch like hers. “Shut your eyes and think of England, darling,” he whispered, his voice gently teasing.

“Sorry, it’s been a very long time…”

He couldn’t possibly relate, this man who’d been standing stud since adolescence. But he was right about the wooing required to see that the lady’s body and sensibilities were eased into the night’s play. “Should I talk you through the first time, ply you with kisses, recite Ovid,” he sportively offered.

She was about to ask him if he was ever serious, but he’d slipped his fingers into her silken flesh and suddenly she was having trouble thinking about anything other than degrees of pleasure. Her head dropped onto his shoulder, her eyes closed, and she understood that whatever reservations she might have had about Groveland paled to insignificance against his deft skill. The man was a virtuoso-touching her exactly where she wished to be touched, deeply, deeply, with the lightest of strokes, as if he could read her mind, her body, her nerve endings, her most rarified fantasies. He was incredibly gentle as well, something she wouldn’t have expected from so large a man. Most important, he somehow knew that she liked the rosebud of her clitoris be given a good measure of attention-and he did.

Perhaps a libertine had his advantages, she thought, floating on her blissful cloud. He was much better at this than she.

He was so much better in fact that she was beginning to believe in bewitchment or if not that fanciful illusion, the ravishing hysteria engulfing her entire body in a steamy, rapturous exultation might be closer to heaven on Earth. Or perhaps something even better, she decided a few moments later as her orgasm began to slowly swell into a small seething rampage, assaulting her senses with increasing fury, spreading with unchecked speed-quickly, too quickly. She whimpered, helpless against the climactic momentum, wanting the exquisite rapture to last. Then she cried out as the storm and fury overwhelmed and ravished her, as the feel of his fingers buried deep inside her triggered voluptuous, overdrawn waves of pleasure, as he transported her to a paradise of his making for long, long, euphoric moments.

He didn’t move while she was in the throes of orgasm.

He knew better.

When at last her body stilled and her eyelids fluttered opened, even then he waited until she smiled at him and whispered in languid content, “Thank you. I really needed that.”

He couldn’t help but laugh, although her hard nipples and plump breasts pressing against the fine charmeuse of her gown, her luscious bottom warming his cock, and her even more luscious cunt warming his fingers gave him potent reason to believe that she’d be needing more.

Fortunately, he was here to help her.

And himself. Withdrawing his fingers, he wiped them on his pant leg. “It takes the edge off doesn’t it?” he drawled, well versed in degrees of lust.

“It did considerably more than that. You’re very good.”

“In contrast to?” Why it mattered he had no idea. But then nothing about his response to Mrs. St. Vincent made sense.

“To nothing. You just made me feel… incredibly wonderful.”

Her frankness constantly confounded him. In the brittle world in which he moved, frankness was considered a parvenue gaucherie. But he responded with an easy grace. “My pleasure,” he said.

Hers more than his, Rosalind pleasantly decided, since he fulfilled her every erotic fantasy… any woman’s, she didn’t doubt. He was a splendid male animal, physically powerful, handsome, with a huge erection that was impossible to ignore and yet he somehow did. Another virtuoso skill perhaps-which notion immediately evoked a host of licentious images starring the Duke of Groveland. “What if I were to say I was looking for adventure tonight?” she inquired, driven by rash impulse, her newly awakened libido, and the very real possibility she’d not have this opportunity again.

Fitz didn’t move a muscle-no blink, no indication of surprise, not so much as a twitch of his cock at the good news. “I’d say tell me what you want.”

“I don’t suppose you know anything about harems?”

“I’m afraid not.” His friend Lady Melville did, so he in turn did, but she was into hashish and bondage, which wasn’t on his agenda tonight. “We’ll think of something else.”

“Good, because you inspire the most intense desire in me,” she artlessly declared, having been recently exposed to an exorbitant standard of orgasmic pleasure formerly unknown to her and finding herself greedy for more. “Now I fully understand why you’re so much in demand,” she added, wrapping her arms around his neck, smiling at him from very close range, allowing pure emotion to reign supreme. “Really, I’m happier than I’ve been in ages.”

“Then we both are… happy,” Fitz murmured, liking the feel of her clinging to him, actually meaning what he said when he never did at times like this.

“How sweet, but then you know what to say, don’t you?” she lightly replied, and tightening her grip on his neck, she offered him a dazzling smile. “There’s pleasure sure, in being mad.” Dryden understood this sweet insanity.

Fitz laughed, recognizing the phrase if not the author. “I must brush up on my literature.”

“You needn’t do anything at all; I am quite, quite content!” she cheerfully proclaimed.

It took him a moment to assess such an utterly guileless sentiment in the context of her need for adventure. Wild sex and poetry perhaps. Although his contentment was predicated rather more on just fucking her for hours. Not that such bluntness would serve. Instead, he said, “Whenever you’re ready, I could offer you additional contentment.”

She flushed. “Oh dear, how selfish of me. Of course, you must have satisfaction, too.”

He suppressed his smile with effort, her mea culpa charming. Although when it came to selfishness, she didn’t know she was dealing with a man born and bred to the principle. “There’s plenty of time,” he said.

“I don’t want to use my bed,” she quickly declared.

“Fine. We won’t.”

“I mean it.”

“I understand.” He was intent on being agreeable until such a time as his cock was buried in her warm, soft body-at which point he would become even more agreeable.

“Why do I get the feeling you’ll say anything?”

Because that’s what people do in situations like this. “No bed.” He smiled. “I promise.”

“And he must behave,” Rosalind murmured, unable to resist shifting her hips ever so slightly in order to feel his gloriously large erection.

His brows rose, on guard. “Meaning?”

“You mustn’t climax in me.”

“Agreed.” That was easy. Begetting a bastard was no part of his plans.

“So sure?” Dare she ask if he was lying?

Fitz smiled. “He does as he’s told.”

Her brows lifted slightly. “Such control.”

“I’m a practical man.” Her raised brows told Fitz that Edward St. Vincent hadn’t been fully in control. Common enough-and one of the reasons he was so much in demand with the ladies. “It’s all about mutual pleasure, darling, not a game of chance.” A quick smile. “Since we’re about to become closer friends, do you have a given name?”

She grinned. “Is this about friendship?”

“Of course.”

“Are you friends with all the ladies in your life?”

“I am.”

“You astonish me.” She stretched lazily, still marginally basking in a postcoital glow.

“I haven’t even begun to astonish you,” he roguishly declared, his gaze on her rising breasts, mentally ticking off the length of time he had to fuck her before morning. “If you don’t want to tell me your name-”

“Rosalind. And yours?”

“I’m called Fitz.”

There was that restraint she’d heard before in his voice. “You don’t like your given name?”

“No.”

His curt response effectively curtailed her next question. “Then allow me to say”-with her desires clearly on the rise once again, she was selfishly avoiding any offense-“I look forward to getting to know you better, Fitz.”

“Who made your gown?” His given name-his father’s name-rife with discord, he deliberately changed the subject.

“One of Sofia’s friends designed it. Would you like it off?”

She continued to surprise him. “Yes, I would,” he replied with equal frankness. “Let me help you.”

Sliding off his lap, she rose to her feet, her earlier equivocation long since taken flight. “Unbutton the back for me.”

As she turned her back to him, his mouth curved in a smile. The lady no longer required wooing.

He was back on familiar ground.

Spreading his legs, he pulled her between his thighs and reached for the silk covered buttons at the neck of her gown.

FIVE MINUTES LATER, she was standing nude before him, her dress draped on the back of his chair, her chemise, drawers, and petticoat in a pile on a nearby table. She was clearly restless and impatient, her nipples taut, her skin pinked in arousal, her hips undulating faintly as if she could barely wait until he was undressed and inside her.