Susan Johnson - Gorgeous As Sin

It turned out to be a kiss that wasn’t about sex.

It was a happy-to-be-together kiss.

There was a certain innocence in their kiss as well, as if they both hadn’t had others in their life before. As if the world was fresh and new.

“You can’t keep smiling like that when I’m kissing you,” Fitz teased. “I’m losing my concentration.”

“You should talk,” she said, trying not to smile and failing. “I don’t know whether to kiss you back or ask you what the joke is.”

“No joke, darling. I just never knew sex could be so much fun.”

“You’re just pleased because you’re getting your way.”

He always did. But he also knew that having everything didn’t bring happiness. “You decide then.”

“About what? ”

“About anything? ”

“Don’t be so generous. I might take you up on your offer.”

“Please do.” Realizing that he was actually willing to give her anything, he quickly stepped back from the brink of such unreserved sentiment and said with a grin, “Would you like the shirt off my back? ”

“You read my mind,” she playfully replied, as intent as he on not straying into the realm of earnestness. “The sooner the better.”

Even without his current incentive, he could shed his clothes quickly, and in record time he was undressed and helping Rosalind do the same. He was seated on the side of the bed, she was standing between his legs nearly nude now save for her drawers and silk stockings.

“I adore when you wait on me,” she purred, her hand on his broad muscled shoulder, her gaze on his bent head as he slid her drawers down her legs. “It’s very provocative. It makes me hot, hot, hot.”

He glanced up, his grey eyes amused. “Everything makes you hot, sweetheart.” Then, grasping her waist, he lifted her off the floor, kicked her drawers aside, and set her down again.

“Everything about you makes me hot.”

“Better yet,” he murmured, rolling one garter and silk stocking down her leg. Looking up a second later, her stocking and garter discarded, he held her gaze for an overlong moment. “Since now you’re my current addiction.”

“Sexual addiction.”

He shook his head and began removing her other stocking. “My everything addiction-my eat, sleep, every-waking-minute addiction.” His useless detour to Clarissa’s a case in point.

She smiled. “How sweet.”

“Fuck, yes,” he said, but he was smiling too as he dropped the second stocking on the floor. “You fucking up my life is sweet as hell.”

“How nice of you to say,” Rosalind murmured, sultry and low, his wanting her as much as she wanted him delicious and wonderful. And not at the moment open to the threat of logic.

“Just so long as you like the things I do,” he softly replied, lifting her up and depositing her, seated, on the bed, “we’ll get along famously.”

“We already do,” she said, watching him lie down beside her, cross his arms under his head, and stretch out in all his powerful, virile glory.

“This should smooth the way even better.” He held out the jar of salve.

“I’m not sure I need this.”

“Why take a chance? I heard the doctor was very good.”

Rosalind was tempted to ask how he knew and who had told him and how much she was involved in that conversation, but this close to his splendid erection that was her continuing addiction, she thought better of it and instead, took the jar from him.

He in turn was tempted to ask whether this episode would be featured in chapter two of The Duke’s Doxy but decided against it for similar reasons.

The scent of lust pervaded the small sunlit bedroom.

Subverting smaller discontents.

Sitting cross-legged beside him, she uncapped the jar, scooped out a small dollop of lavender-scented salve, and said with a gratified smile, “I think he’s bigger than usual.” Fitz’s upthrust erection lay hard against his stomach, stiff and massive, the red crest brushing his navel.

“He’s been thinking of you.”

“What a sweetheart.” Bending low, she brushed the swollen tip with her lips, drew it into her mouth for a fleeting second before sitting up again. “He smells like soap.”

“I just had a bath.”

Her first thought was to ask why, but she doubted he’d tell her, and in any case she didn’t really wish to know why he was bathing in the middle of the afternoon. “How thoughtful of you,” she said instead and reached for his penis.

At the slight umbrage in her voice he automatically braced himself, not entirely sure of her mood. But he visibly relaxed as she gently grasped his cock.

She grinned. “Nervous? ”

“Not anymore.”

“I wouldn’t be so foolish when I need this.”

“Much obliged,” he drawled.

Both highly motivated, they avoided the subtext of their conversation in favor of imminent sexual satisfaction.

Drawing his rigid erection away from his stomach, she held it upright and placed the dollop of salve on the turgid head of his penis. “It looks like you just came,” she said, admiring her handiwork.

“Keep it up and I might,” he said, a muscle twitching over his high cheekbone. This little game was going to require considerable restraint when he’d been wanting to fuck Mrs. St. Vincent since he dropped her off this morning.

“You have to wait.” She drew a portion of the ointment down one side of his penis, her finger gently tracing the thick webbing of dilated veins on her descent.

“Then you have to hurry,” he said on a suffocated breath, calling on all his willpower to resist doing what he wanted to do. And it wasn’t playing this game.

“So I’m not always the one who wants to rush.”

“You just came.”

“And you didn’t? ”

That small fretful tone again. “Not since last night,” he lied.

“Then I’ll hurry and you wait just a little and,” she said, the pique gone from her voice, “we’ll see if we like this”-another swift brushing downstroke that gleamed down his erection-“or not.”

Very soon-not as soon as he’d have liked, but soon-his penis was glistening with ointment.

“It looks very tempting,” she said with a little wistful sigh. “I wish it was eatable.”

“Next time I’ll bring jam.”

“Bring lemon curd. I love it almost as much as I love him,” she murmured, sliding her fingertips around the shiny head of his cock.

It was his own fault, he decided, letting her come first. Usually she was famished for sex. Although he also knew with anyone else he could have waited for hours. Not a thought he cared to dwell on. “If you indulge me now, darling, you can name your price.” An unprecedented declaration from the Duke of Groveland who had always been able to take his pleasure with a notable insouciance.

“My goodness!”

Her look of feigned surprise was so operatic he burst out laughing, momentarily distracting his thoughts from orgasmic goals. “Don’t plan on making a living on the stage, darling.”

“And I suggest you refrain from making such outrageous offers. Someone might take advantage of you.”

“The offer’s still open. You have five seconds. Five, four, three, two-”

“Stay with me tonight.”

“Little fool, I would have anyway. Ask for something later.” Past waiting, like some randy adolescent, he pushed her onto her back, rolled on top of her, and put his glossy cock into her luscious cunt.

There was something to be said for a frictionless fuck, the ointment adding a new impressionable dimension to the concept of unreserved access. He had to deliberately curb his forward progress in order not to batter her and the head of his cock in the bargain. But once he found his rhythm, the lady quickly accommodated him, and with a familiarity of considerable practice now, they made their way to that blissful elysian of orgasmic delight and sensory bewitchment they’d discovered together.

She didn’t know it was as new to him as it was to her.

Nor did he understand she felt the same as he.

For a woman who wrote erotica, he expected a certain libidinous propensity.

While everyone knew, she thought, that Groveland reveled in prodigal sensation.

But rather than discuss nuances of feeling that bordered on fondness and affection, they chose to verify those sensations in more pleasant ways. With a kind of sumptuousness and self-indulgence, with happiness, with gratitude in the end.

THAT SAME AFTERNOON, in the village of Riverston, in a remote corner of Yorkshire, a barrister from London was seated in the cluttered and noisy morning room of Rosalind’s parent’s. Birds of every size and color chirped and sang from cages, their living presence in contrast to the other miscellany of dead objects from nature in the form of skulls, insects, animal skeletons, and dried flora laying topsy-turvy on shelves and tabletops.

Amidst this repository of nature, Lady Pitt-Riverston and Mr. Symon were having tea and chatting as they awaited the arrival of the Honorable Algernon Pitt-Riverston who had been sent for to lend his expertise to the occasion. Rosalind’s mother was by nature warmhearted and agreeable, and soon Mr. Symon was discussing his wife and children as if he and Lady Pitt-Riverston were long lost friends.

“Perhaps you’d like to bring your little ones a bird or two from our menagerie,” she cheerfully offered. “Little Benjy and Marcella are the most adorable warblers. They understand perfectly when you talk to them,” she added with a smile. “And they know their numbers.”

“Thank you for offering,” Symon politely replied, wary of birds that knew their numbers or people who said they did-however kind Lady Pitt-Riverston. “But the city is no place for birds. The fog, you know,” he said with a grimace. “It’s quite insalubrious.”

“Indeed,” Lady Pitt-Riverston agreed with a little tsk, tsk. “We are fortunate to live in the country. Would your children like that little collection of beetles? ” She indicated a glass-topped box with rows of colorful beetles pinned to a green velvet ground. “Howard is forever bringing more of them home.”

“It’s lovely of you to ask, but with the long train ride, I’m afraid they may be damaged in transit.”

“More tea, then, Mr. Symon? Another cake perhaps? You could use a little weight on your bones.”

“Tea, please. It’s excellent.”

“A China green, Mr. Symon. Howard’s favorite. There now,” she said, pouring tea into his cup. “And I’m just going to put another small piece of cake on your plate,” she firmly added.

He didn’t argue. Having avoided birds and beetles, he could deal with an extra piece of cake. For the next few minutes, it wasn’t necessary to do more than nod his head and drink his tea for Lady Pitt-Riverston was explaining at some length how to teach birds their numbers.

Rosalind’s father was attending to some experiment and was only fetched once Algernon arrived. He appeared in a workman’s smock and slippers, still scribbling in a notebook as he entered the room.

“You must set that aside now, my dear,” his wife admonished. “Mr. Symon has important matters to discuss with us.”

It took the baron a fraction of a second to respond, but after adding a few more notations, he set the notebook and pencil aside, smiled at those gathered around the tea table, and sat down to join them. “I’m told this has something to do with Rosalind,” he said, fixing Symon with his clear blue gaze.

“Mr. Symon represents a client in London, Howard.”

“You’ve come a long way,” Lord Pitt-Riverston noted, “when Rosalind could be spoken to directly.”

“There is a slight problem, my lord,” Symon tactfully replied.

“With your client and my daughter.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And who might your client be?” The baron had the direct, assessing gaze of a scientist.

“The Duke of Groveland, my lord.” Symon went on to explain the situation with the Duke of Groveland’s urban development. Their daughter’s bookstore was within the tract the duke wished to acquire, and she was the last property owner who had not yet agreed to sell to the duke. He then cited the sum Fitz had offered. “So you see, the duke is very generous. I’ve come to speak with you today in hopes you might be able to persuade your daughter”-he nodded at Algernon-“and sister to agree to the duke’s terms.”

“She’s refused him? ” Algernon sharply queried.

“Many times, I’m afraid.” Mr. Symon offered the party a pained smile. “The sum she’d realize from the sale would be more than enough to buy another shop in a different location, as well as leave her with a considerable profit.”

“My goodness, twenty thousand!” Lady Pitt-Riverston murmured. She was in charge of household expenses; her husband took no notice of money or more pertinently in their case, the lack of it.