Susan Johnson - Gorgeous As Sin

Fitz had a rare zest for domination that day, as if physically chastising Clarissa would somehow appease or indulge his moody discontent. However, despite laboring at his task through several of Clarissa’s orgasms, her flagellation fantasy was unable to sufficiently distract him. Habitual custom failed to serve as antidote to his discontent. Softly swearing in frustration, he finally dropped the makeshift whip, unbuttoned his trousers, and resentful and surly, turned into the malevolent master he’d been playing. Without warning, he buried his cock in Clarissa’s ripe cunt.

She squealed at his sudden, rough entry, but he didn’t hear or didn’t care and swiftly pounded his way to orgasm, jerked out, and came on her back.

“My goodness, darling,” she murmured, turning to look at him over her shoulder, her little maid’s cap all eschew. “That was rather violent.”

“I was tired of waiting.” He didn’t say he was sorry because he wasn’t, nor was he likely to explain the turmoil in his brain. “Now, get up on the bed, you hot little jade, and lift up your legs. I’m going to drink some champagne out of your pussy.”

Nothing helped though. No matter how many times he came, he couldn’t forget Mrs. St. Vincent or more to the point, the incredible sex.

It wasn’t like this. This was normal sex, sex without emotion. Orgasmic sex that never came within calling distance of fervent feeling.

Fuck-as if he was looking for that.

HOURS LATER, THEY lay sweaty and exhausted in the shambles of the bed, Clarissa’s head on Fitz’s shoulder, his arm around her.

“Are you going to Margo’s country house party next week? ”

“God no. Margo’s a bore.”

“Oh pooh. Then I don’t want to go.”

“I heard that Roddy will be there. He’s back on business. Without his family. I’m sure he’ll be happy to entertain you.”

Clarissa sighed. “Sometimes I think I should have married Roddy even if he didn’t have much money. He has a lovely tea plantation in India now and tons of servants, and everyone says the climate isn’t so ghastly in the highlands.”

“Seriously, darling, would you be happy on a tea plantation? ”

She ran her fingertip down Fitz’s taut stomach. “I think I could be.”

“You’d be miles away from everyone, with no society to speak of… except for retired military men and government clerks.” He gently stroked her back. “And you’d be poor. Why not just roger Roddy on his visits home and enjoy Buckley’s wealth.”

She sighed again. “I don’t know. Sometimes I think I wouldn’t mind being poor-except that my family depends on me of course.” Another sigh. “Have you ever been in love, Fitz? I mean really in love? ”

“Nope.”

“Does it bother you that you haven’t been? ”

When in the past he wouldn’t have hesitated a second, he found that the lovely Mrs. St. Vincent had somehow leaped into his mind. But he quickly brushed the image aside and said, “It doesn’t bother me at all.”

“That’s because you’re a man. Men don’t fall in love like women do.”

“Should I send you some pearls or diamonds, or maybe those new opals from Australia? ” he interposed, intent on changing the subject.

“Black pearls,” Clarissa instantly replied. “Nicer ones than Margo’s.”

“You pick them out. I’ll let Montgomery know you’re coming in.”

His generosity elicited numerous kisses, which led to other things, and it was another hour before Fitz left Clarissa’s bed-and house.

It was all well and good, he thought, spending the day in bed playing make-believe and coming so many times he was drained dry.

What wasn’t so fine, he decided, as he strolled away from Lord Buckley’s new mansion on Park Lane, was that he’d no more than walked out of Clarissa’s boudoir, than he was thinking of Rosalind-again, no matter her guile and artifice.

Fuck.

So much for sex as a blot to memory.

Apparently, it was not a permanent modifier.

What now?

Drink, cards, another woman?

As if in answer, the pungent odor of sex suddenly wafted upward and struck his nostrils.

He grimaced.

Home first, to bathe and change.

WHILE FITZ WAS entertaining himself or Clarissa or both or maybe at the core, neither, Rosalind was shocked by a visit from a doctor.

She wasn’t certain whether the woman had waited until the store was deserted or she’d only just walked in. Rosalind had been too busy stocking shelves to notice. But when Dr. Swindell approached her, introduced herself, and explained the reason for her visit, Rosalind turned bright red. “You must be mistaken,” she croaked, setting down the books she held. “Are you sure you have the correct address? ”

“Forgive me,” the slender, middle-aged woman gently replied, familiar with women who were too embarrassed to admit they needed her help. “I didn’t realize I wasn’t expected. I was asked to call on you.”

“By whom? ”

“A Mr. Hutchinson. He’s a barrister who lives in my neighborhood.”

Rosalind bristled at the name, momentarily recalling her first meeting with Groveland’s hireling. “Why would he think I need a doctor? ”

“Mr. Hutchinson didn’t say. Although his note gave the impression that a client of his had asked me to call on you. I’m sorry if I’ve offended you.” Since many women found it difficult to talk about female complaints, Dr. Swindell added, “Might you require medical help of some kind? I specialize in female disorders and naturally, I’m most discreet.”

Finally recognizing the common denominator at the mention of female disorders, Rosalind was about to point-blank dismiss the doctor Fitz had hired when she more sensibly realized that she might benefit from the visit. There was no question she’d been in discomfort that first morning after sex with Fitz; she was also ignorant of the long-term consequences of excessive sexual activity. Perhaps it would be wise to take advantage of the doctor’s expertise. Rosalind glanced around the store, in the event a customer had walked in.

“I waited until everyone left,” the doctor noted, conscious of Rosalind’s anxious survey of the shop. “And might I add, I have no interest in moral issues when it comes to health care.” She’d been told that Mrs. St. Vincent was a widow; she’d also assumed from Hutchinson’s letter that some man was paying the charges. “We live in a new modern era after all. The culture is changing rapidly, social conventions are in flux.” She smiled. “Even female doctors are no longer looked upon as curiosities or misfits.”

No matter how delicately put, Rosalind understood the message. There were those who would construe her behavior with Groveland as improper. “Thank you for your understanding. However,” Rosalind went on with a faint grimace, “you can understand my reluctance to disclose, er, details of a personal nature.”

“If it’s any consolation, your sense of modesty is common. I see it every day in my practice. But please be frank. I’m sure I can help remedy whatever is troubling you.”

Rosalind hesitated. “The fact is,” she began, then blew out a small breath, embarrassed to be talking to a stranger about such private matters.

“Please, go on,” Dr. Swindell prompted, cool and unruffled.

“Well…you see, lately”-another small sustaining breath-“after having been long celibate, I’ve engaged in rather a good deal of intercourse. As a result, I experienced a decided tenderness-much improved now,” she quickly added.

“Yours is a very ordinary complaint, my dear. Women who haven’t previously engaged in sexual relations or those who have become active again after a long hiatus often feel as you do. If I could examine you, however, I could better determine whether some remedy is required.”

Rosalind blushed furiously. “I couldn’t possibly. Not now. The store is open until six, I’m here alone, and actually I feel quite well again.”

The doctor checked a small jeweled timepiece pinned to the lapel of her grey tailored suit. “Since you won’t be available for several hours, why don’t I leave you some salve. It will alleviate any tenderness. Then, at your convenience, you could come round to my office. I don’t anticipate anything of a serious nature, but an examination would allow a proper diagnosis. My office is in my home, so you could make an appointment for any evening.” Opening her leather valise, she rummaged through its contents and came up with a small jar. “Apply this to your tender areas as needed. Also, a good hot soak in the tub does wonders,” she added with a smile, handing the jar to Rosalind. “Do you have any other complaints? ”

Only that a libertine duke has embarrassed me by sending over a complete stranger. At the word libertine, Rosalind was suddenly seized by panic. A libertine was by definition promiscuous. Might she have contracted some dreadful disease from Fitz? “Maybe I should make an appointment now,” she said.

In her years of practicing medicine, Dr. Swindell had become adept at reading people. She recognized fear when she saw it. “How does tomorrow at seven sound? ”

“Tomorrow at seven would be most welcome.” The prospect of having to worry about some dire affliction for a protracted period of time would have been torture.

“Let me give you directions.” The doctor wrote down her address on a page from a small notepad. “There now.” She tore off the sheet and handed it to Rosalind with another warm smile. “Until tomorrow, my dear.”

At the doctor’s departure, Rosalind was left with an unsettling sense of unease.

Walking back to the counter to dispose of the jar and note, she glanced at the clock. Bloody hell, she had hours yet before she could lock up the store. Much too much time to worry about possible unsavory repercussions from Fitz’s prodigal past, she thought, nervously fussing with the papers on the counter before her. Too much time to concern herself with potentially alarming diseases. Why hadn’t she thought of the risks before she succumbed to his charm? How could she have been so incautious?

Even as she asked herself the questions, she knew why. She’d been tempted like all the women before her-by his dark good looks and flagrant masculinity, by his seductive smile and practiced charm, by the sensational pleasure he dispensed with such facility.

Despite short interruptions by customers that afternoon, the tumult in her brain continued apace-the question of should she or shouldn’t she have succumbed, the more fearsome issue of possible medical problems, the continuous steamy memories of Fitz doing what he did best.

She kept her eye on the clock as she wrote up new orders a short time later, willing the hands to move more quickly as a bored child might. Although longing for the six-o’clock hour had nothing to do with boredom and everything to do with escaping the public eye. She needed time alone to deal with her turbulent, conflicted emotions. She needed the quiet of her apartment to put everything into perspective, to remind herself that she’d had a life before Fitz. A busy, contented life.

Hearing the shop door open, she looked up and was shocked out of her musing. There he was, as if conjured him up from her imagination.

“What are you doing here? ” she tartly asked, his casual appearance annoying. Particularly when her own feelings were in anarchy.

Fitz quickly checked to see if she was picking up anything heavy to heave at him and was pleased to see nothing but the weightiness of her scowl. “I told myself to stay away, but as you see, I couldn’t,” he said, opening his arms in a brief gesture of demur. “I was wondering if you’d like to go out for dinner tonight? Anywhere you like.” He was offering her carte blanche, knowing full well they would likely meet friends of his. But no more than he’d scrutinized why he’d come here after Clarissa’s, he ignored the issue of his friends. It was about casual sex, he told himself, and nothing more. Why shouldn’t he treat her like any other lover?

Instead of politely accepting his invitation, Rosalind gave him a hard, gimlet-eyed look. “How could you have a doctor call on me? I might very well have been embarrassed in front of my customers!”

“I doubt it. Hutchinson would have warned her about the need for discretion. Did you like her? ”

“Do you actually care?” she shot back, irritated by his cool composure, by his exquisite pale linen suit that cost a fortune, by the fact that he felt no compunction about blatantly interfering in her life. “Admit, the only reason you had her sent over was to make sure nothing curtailed your libertine pleasures. And speaking of libertine”-she jabbed her finger at him-“if you gave me some ghastly disease, so help me God, I’ll do you in somehow!”