Susan Johnson - Gorgeous As Sin

“I could tell.”

“I want you next time, though. You’re better.”

He shook his head. “Maybe we shouldn’t tonight. I wouldn’t want to hurt you.”

“I feel fine-really.” She grinned. “Especially now. Please-I want you inside me.” Just saying the words sent an anticipatory flutter up her vagina. But then as Sofia had pointed out, he was the gold standard.

Fitz blew out a breath. “It’s tempting as hell, darling, but I don’t know.” He held up one finger. “This is all you can accommodate.”

She sat up. “Why don’t we try?” Reaching over, she unbuttoned one of his trouser buttons still undone.

He stopped her, his hand hard on hers. “No, let’s not.” It wasn’t as though he’d been abstinent anytime the decade past. He could wait.

“Then let me see that you come another way.”

No fool he, he lifted his hand from hers.

“I’m enamored of your lovely cock.” Looking up from her unbuttoning, she smiled at him prettily. “If you don’t mind.”

He grinned. “What do you think I’ll say? ”

Her brows flickered in facetious reply. “Tell me if you like it later.”

“I can tell you right now I will.” The thought of her mouth on his cock added inches to his erection.

After she’d opened his trousers, she unbuttoned his silk underwear. As she pulled his rigid upthrust penis away from his stomach, he slowly inhaled, waiting for her to lower her head.

But she didn’t. She traced his length with her fingertips, partially circled it with her fist, brushed the shiny crest with her knuckles, lightly squeezed his testicles. Gently she stroked his engorged length, up and down and over again.

He was breathing hard at this point, growing frustrated and wondering suspiciously why she was toying with him. “If you don’t mind,” he said tautly, taking her head between his hands, “I need more than that.” And cupping her head with one hand, he pressed downward, grasped his cock in his other hand, and brought her mouth on target.

Fighting his hold, she looked up, wide-eyed. “Am I supposed to put this huge thing in my mouth? ”

The little vixen was toying with him. And fuck if it wasn’t working; his cock increased sizeably. “It’s no bigger than it was last night,” he said, and shoved her head back down.

“Oh yes it is.”

But the last of her words were muffled as her lips closed over his cock.

He gasped at the initial contact and then he shut his eyes against the agonizing pleasure as she slowly drew him in, and when his cock bumped the back of her throat, he softly groaned.

He had no idea why her mouth was any different than any other woman’s mouth, but it was. Nor did he understand why her tongue licking the flanges of the crest of his cock and gliding down the shaft made him break into a cold sweat, made him think of words like nirvana and everlasting bliss. Made him consider coming in two seconds like a green adolescent. But he didn’t because he knew how good it would feel if he repressed that impulse-a lesson learned long ago-and he let the lady continue.

He couldn’t know of course that Rosalind had other plans. Devious, selfish plans, she’d learned yesterday, worked well. Wanting what she wanted, she thought with an inner smile, like Groveland. And she rather thought she’d be successful because his observations about her receptivity aside, she knew her body rather better than he. Or at least since she’d met the darling of every lady in London she’d come to know her body-and the creamy droplets running down her thighs meant she’d have him.

When the duke’s breathing grew labored, when she felt his penis begin to twitch, she quickly lifted her head and said to his astonished gaze, “Don’t move,” and a second later was straddling his thighs.

He said, “No,” but with little conviction this near orgasm.

“Oh yes,” she said in her prim schoolmistress voice that under other circumstances might have been grating but now sounded like the “Hallelujah Chorus” to his ears, and before he could take another labored breath, she was sliding down his cock.

Not easily, but so incredibly and exquisitely snugly, he thought his head would explode from the rapturous friction.

He didn’t move; he didn’t so much as twitch a muscle, not wishing to hurt her-and even more, not wanting her to stop. And when she finally did, when she was impaled well and good on his cock, he decided life couldn’t get any better than this.

But she slowly raised herself and settled back down again and life got considerably better. And in the following few minutes as she moved up and down he saw the world in vivid colors previously obscured, heard birdsong with fresh clarity, felt a soul-stirring delirium warm his senses.

He held her gently when she finally climaxed, and only after she raised her head from his shoulder and kissed his cheek, did he lift her away and come himself.

He wondered afterward as he silently wiped himself dry with his shirt whether their adversarial roles in the Monckton Row project somehow accentuated his passions. Whether hostility in one arena turned to violent feeling in another? Because he’d never felt this mad hysteria and impatience, the raging lust as he did with the delectable Mrs. St. Vincent.

When Fitz hadn’t spoken for some time, Rosalind quietly said, “Are you angry with me? ”

“No, God no,” he said, quickly refocusing his attention. “Far from it.”

“Oh good. I wouldn’t want you to think me a conniving female.”

He laughed. “Hardly. You’re enchanting.”

His urbane reply reminded her of what he was. A virtuoso at this game while she was a tyro. And perhaps in a libertine’s world, she’d outstayed her welcome. “I should be getting home,” she said, offering him an opportunity to conclude her visit.

“Why don’t we go inside? It’s cooling off.”

“You needn’t be polite.”

More than cursory politeness after sex wasn’t his strong suit, but then nothing about Mrs. St. Vincent fit his normal pattern. “I’m not being polite. I enjoy your company.”

“The sex you mean.”

“Very well, the sex.” He smiled and began buttoning his trousers. “Come inside anyway.”

“I’d love to.”

“You’re a refreshing little puss. No pretense. I like that.”

Brushing her skirt back down, she said with a sweet smile, “You know what I like about you.”

NEITHER ONE SLEPT much that night. Neither was willing to forego the pleasure. Both considered such chimerical, high-flying sensations fleeting and best savored in the here and now.

She shouldn’t want him so.

He shouldn’t crave her with such rash disregard for their strategic differences.

But she did and he did and reason took a holiday that summer night at Mertenside. He ordered them a snack long after midnight, his kitchen willingly obliged him, and they ate on the balcony outside his bedroom, lying side by side on a chaise meant for one. He found she giggled and adored it when he’d never liked women who giggled. And he further endeared himself to her by reciting wholesale her favorite poem, Byron’s “The Destruction of Sennacherib.”

“I’m impressed,” she whispered, kissing him afterward. “That’s a very long poem.” She wanted to say, Did you learn it for a woman? but didn’t so as not to shatter the affectionate mood.

“My governess liked it,” he said, scrupulously refraining from adding more, the evening and company more agreeable than any in memory.

Comforted and disburdened of her jealousy, she gently touched his cheek. “You bring me enormous pleasure, darling Fitz.”

“I haven’t felt this good since…” He shrugged.

“Since you last came? ”

He laughed. “Tart.”

“And glad of it.”

“Not as much as I, darling. Would you like to try a bed in another bedroom for variety? ”

“I thought you’d never ask…”

When morning came, they repeated the bland courtesies of the previous morning but without the argument this time. And after a delightful bath and an early breakfast, Fitz had them driven back into the city. They parted at Bruton Street Books with well-bred politesse. Both were careful not to speak of future meetings, but they were careful as well, not to rule them out.

It had been a night of memorable pleasure.

GOOD MORNING, YOUR Grace.”

“Good morning, Mallory. Quite a nice day in the making out there,” Fitz cheerfully said as he entered Groveland House. “Bring me coffee in the study.” It was too early for his mother to be out of bed; he needn’t play host yet.

For a fraction of a second Mallory debated ruining the duke’s good mood, the staff protective of the young master-as they called him in private, the term of endearment impervious to the passage of time. The majordomo glanced at the envelope on a silver salver set on a table in the center of the entrance hall and understanding what was required of him, cleared his throat. “Mr. Hutchinson sent a message early this morning, Your Grace.” He moved to the table and picked up the envelope. “Hutchinson’s man said it was urgent.”

They’ve found something. His pulse rate quickening, Fitz took the envelope held out to him, ripped it open, and pulled out the card enough to read the single line: The search was productive. Glancing up, Fitz said, “Send some bacon and toast with the coffee. And tell the duchess when she wakes that my schedule will be uncertain today.” Shoving the note into his jacket pocket, he set off across the grand baroque entrance hall transported from Rome by some long-ago ancestor.

While not yet in full possession of the facts, but knowing that Edward St. Vincent had been involved in illegal activities, Fitz experienced a moment of triumph. Not that he’d seriously considered failure. With enough money, one could always find capable people willing to perform a service. The bromide The end justifies the means was a respected business practice for the industrialists, financiers, and wealthy landowners who ruled Britannia.

Fitz was no exception; he played the game his way with his rules. Within the law, of course. But then that’s why Hutchinson was on permanent retainer-to distinguish the legal nuances. Not that Fitz felt he’d stepped over the line in regard to Mrs. St. Vincent. She would be handsomely paid for her property. Very handsomely indeed.

As for his small niggling unease undermining a sense of total victory, he reminded himself that Rosalind would soon be a woman of no small wealth. Her life would be considerably altered for the better because of his purchase. She could even buy herself some new furniture, and if she didn’t, he would.

By the time he reached his study, he’d rationalized away all the disquieting issues having to do with pretense and evasion and dispatched the lot to perdition. Coffee arrived practically on his heels and in short order, he was enjoying the morning paper with his breakfast.

As he was reading the latest reports on the civil unrest in South Africa, Stanley appeared in the doorway. “I apologize for interrupting, Your Grace, but there’s a rather… delicate matter…”

“No need to apologize. Come in,” Fitz offered, immune to delicate matters after all the scandals in his past. He set aside the paper. “Would you like coffee? ”

“No thank you, Your Grace.”

“Sit down.” Fitz waved him to a chair. “What can I do for you? ”

“Ordinarily I wouldn’t bother you about the matter, Your Grace, since you instructed me to handle these, er, situations myself. But, the thing is,” Stanley went on, sitting on the edge of his chair, “Lady Buckley has been most persistent and… well, that is… I’m at a loss how to deal with her demands.”

Fitz grinned. “Can’t tell a peeress to go the hell, you mean.”

Stanley sighed. “I’m not sure even that would help. She doesn’t take no for an answer. Yesterday, she sent three notes, then dispatched her personal maid with a further message in which she threatened to descend on Groveland House herself if you didn’t reply. I had to make clear to her maid that you literally were not at home; I wasn’t simply respecting your privacy. Your mother didn’t even know where you’d gone, I said. Lady Buckley’s maid finally accepted my explanation.” He grimaced. “It was most disturbing.”

“I happened to speak to Lady Buckley last night at the Turner show at the National Gallery. I doubt she’ll bother you.”

The young man’s expression brightened. “Perfect, sir. Then I shan’t be deluged with her ultimatums today.”

Fitz half smiled. “I can’t fully guarantee that. I may have left Lady Buckley in a pet. But, look, my dear boy, should Clarissa come to the house, let her in. If I’m home, I’ll be happy to see her. And if I’m not, she’ll soon realize she’s wasting her time.”