Susan Johnson - Seduction in Mind

"We'll worry about that in the morning," he whispered.

"I warn you, I'm an early riser."

"I wasn't planning on sleeping."

"Oh," she said on a caught breath.

He found himself charmed by the lovely Miss Ionides's naivete.

His bedroom was small and plainly furnished with a tester bed, two chairs, a small table, and a bureau. The walls were covered in tapestries depicting the life of Ulysses, the bed hung with green cut-velvet in a design contemporary to the building. The fabric was new, as was the upholstery on the chairs. The only light was from two huge silver candelabra.

"In the interests of privacy," Sam said, walking over and pulling the draperies shut. "And I'm definitely interested in privacy," he whispered a moment later when he returned to take her into his arms.

"I'm not sure I can guarantee it," Alex said, smiling.

"Then we'll lock the door." He went to the door and turned the key in the lock, then tossed the key on the table. He approached her with a smile. "You're mine now until I let you go."

"Or you're mine," she replied lightly.

The idea of belonging to someone, even temporarily, struck him as odd; he'd been selfishly alone for so long. "I might be more than you can handle." He gave her a roguish wink.

She kicked off her silver kid slippers. "I think I'll manage."

"Let me help you."

"Manage you?"

"Undress."

"And then I'll help you-undress. I never have, you know." Her comment was spontaneous, part of the exuberance that filled her soul in this small, candlelit room where the Virgin Queen had once slept.

"Then I'll have to see that the occasion is memorable," he replied, keeping his voice sportive with effort when he felt instead a jolt of inexplicable pleasure. "We'll start with you." Leaning close, he unclasped one of the large pearl ear drops she wore.

She trembled at the delicacy of his touch, anticipation warming her senses. "I wanted to make love to you all evening," she admitted.

"While I didn't know how much longer I could play the gentleman." He unloosened the second earring and placed it with the first on the bureau top.

"Please don't any longer."

"It's been almost three hours-I'm damned proud of myself."

"Three and a half, and I'm not interested in pride." She was unbuckling the mother-of-pearl belt buckle at her waist, a note of haste in her voice.

Recognizing the tone, he turned her around by her shoulders and quickly unhooked the back of her gown. As the belt and light summer garment fell to the carpet, she spun to him, threw her arms around his neck, and pressed into his body. "I think there's something wrong with me," she whispered. "I'm frantic to have you make love to me… I'm never like this-never-frantic about anything, and I apologize. But if you don't mind, maybe we could undress you afterward…"

The message was loud and clear despite her whispered accents. He doubted there was a man alive who would have minded. "I'm more than willing," he calmly said, scooping her up into his arms. Carrying her the few feet to the bed, he placed her on the green cut-velvet coverlet near the edge and quickly unfastening his trousers, moved between her legs. As he entered her without undressing, he was reminded of occasions at Hattie's when hasty sex was convenient, although Miss Ionides didn't precipitate the same kind of casual disregard. In fact… He brushed away the subsequent thought, not wanting to acknowledge the degree of affection she inspired.

His attention was quickly engaged in far more pleasurable activities as the fascinating Miss Ionides wrapped her legs around his waist. She pulled his head down so she could eat at his mouth while he plunged deep inside her. Between her contented groans and sleek, wet cunt, he was hard pressed to think at all. She came, then he did, then they did. It was an orchestration of timing that could have been accomplished only by a man of his expertise, because there were only half-seconds to spare between her climax and his withdrawal.

There was a brief period of time after that when they felt sated enough to finish their undressing. Hers required only the removal of her chemise, drawers, and stockings, which he did with dispatch. Her undressing of him was more convoluted, both in time and emotion. They both understood the rarity of the event.

He stood beside the bed while she kneeled on the mattress and eased his coat off his shoulders and down his arms. When she began to fold it, he took it from her and tossed it aside impatiently.

Forcing himself to stand still while she unbuttoned his shirt, he found himself counting the seconds it took for each button to be freed and thought surely she must be a witch to make him feel eager as an adolescent once again. It was ninety seconds before his shirt followed his coat onto the carpet-eighty-nine seconds too long in his current frame of mind. When Alex reached for the single button that was keeping his trousers in place, he stopped her hand. "This is taking too long." She was utterly naked kneeling beside him and much too close and much, much too voluptuous-like some fertility goddess made to be fucked by rampant cocks like his. He inhaled against the raging state of his arousal. "I'll do the rest myself."

His trousers slid down his legs and his silk underwear followed in quick succession. When he took her in his arms, he said as a sop to his previously nonexistent conscience, "I hope you don't mind."

"I'm ravenous-I'm crazed-look… I'm shaking." She lifted her hand the merest distance so he could see the tremor.

His glance was quick, dismissive, his own sensibilities on an irrepressible rampage. He tumbled her backward on the bed, followed her down, slid between her outstretched thighs, and wondered if anyone was keeping count.

"I'm sorry I'm so… demanding," she whispered, arching up to meet his downthrust.

"Don't be. I'm in the mood to fuck myself to death," he breathed, plunging into her silken cunt with an unquenchable frenzy.

"How nice…"

Her words were so damnably polite, his gaze swiveled downward, and he scrutinized her fleetingly.

"I mean I'm grateful," she purred, sliding her hands down his spine.

His glance slipped away. Now, there's a concept; she was grateful. He didn't think the word applied to himself. He was wild for her, inflamed and impatient, but that all had to do with lust, not gratitude. Whatever she was feeling, though, matched the rhythm of his lower body to perfection, and she could call it what she liked.

It was fucking at its very best.

Later that night, he lay in bed, watching her brush the tangles out of her hair. His teak-handled brush looked large in her hand, oversized, as did the bureau she stood before on tiptoe so she could see herself in the mirror propped on top. Her slender form seemed to glow in the candlelight, her skin almost luminous, and he was reminded of a Titian nude, where female flesh always seemed lit from within. Such recall brought with it the memory of her posing for Alma-Tadema and in its wake a flood of disconcerting emotion.

"Are you sleeping with Alma-Tadema?"

She turned at the roughness in his voice, offended that he felt he could inquire. "Why do you ask?"

"For obvious reasons. You were stark naked with him last night."

"And a naked woman implies only one thing?" she said, her voice sweet and mocking.

"Generally." Or in his experience, always.

"If you knew me better, you'd know not to ask, or if you knew me better, you wouldn't have to ask."

"I don't need riddles. Answer me."

Her shoulders straightened marginally. "Why should I?"

"Why not?" His brows rose in suggestive response. "I'd say we know each other fairly well."

"Because we've made love? Surely, you of all people understand, it's essentially a physical act."

"Not necessarily."

"Really…" Melodrama echoed in her drawl. "Has this been love, then, and not sex?"

"Very funny."

"Exactly. Now, darling," she purred, "let's make a pact. You don't ask me about my friends and I won't ask you about yours."

He was surprised at the level of his affront. "You pose for all sorts of men and you won't tell me what else is involved in those relationships?"

"If it was any business of yours, I would. Of course, it isn't."

His temper quickened, but he chose not to question his bizarre need to know. That was no longer the point; her mocking challenge was the point. "You could pose for me and I could find out for myself."

"Why would I do that? You don't paint."

"Because I wish it." The world had been laid at his feet too long.

"Droits du seigneur are no longer in effect in England." Alex lifted her chin faintly. "Or haven't you heard?"

"It depends where you are."

She could almost feel the heat of his jealousy, and it pleased her on some primitive level far removed from any discernible good judgment. "Meaning what, my lord?" Her gaze held his as she set the brush down on the dresser.

The temperature of the room seemed to rise.

"Meaning I can make you do whatever I want."

"A rash statement even for you, Ranelagh."

He hadn't moved from his lounging pose. "I believe the door's locked."

"I know where the key is."

"I doubt you could reach it in time."

She tried.

She didn't.

The key dangled from his fingers a moment later, and he was smiling.

"You're fast."

"So I've been told." He wasn't even breathing hard.

"I wasn't talking about your sex life," she said. "And I still have no intention of taking orders from you."

"Maybe I could make it worth your while," he drawled, lazily swinging the key.

"What makes you think I'm interested?"

His mouth twitched into a faint smile. "Call it a premonition. Now, I'd like you to pose first on the table."

"And if I refuse?"

"I'd have to help you."

An ignoble heat warmed her senses, and she chastised herself for responding to such base authority. He had no right to play master, to order her around as though she were subordinate to his desires. "I don't like this kind of coercion, Ranelagh."

"But, darling, you like fucking. And once you've posed, I'll give you what all your artist maestros do." His smile was tight. "Your reward." Gently snapping his fingers, he pointed at the table. "Either get up there or I'll put you there."

She stood her ground. "It's none of your affair whom I pose for."

"I understand. I just thought I'd get my share."

"You don't deserve it," she replied coolly.

"But, darling, that's for me to decide-here… now… in my home-alone with you." He smiled, nodded toward the table. "Should I count to three?"

Her eyes snapped with indignation. "You're extremely annoying."

"One."

"I don't know what makes you think-"

"Two."

She thrust out her bottom lip in a pout and moved toward the table. "I suppose you must be humored."

He was utterly still, his face half in shadow. "It might be wise." He tossed the key on the bed.

"I'm not afraid of you, if that's what you think," she muttered, climbing up on the table.

"I don't think that at all," he said, his dark gaze trained on her as she sat down. "Spread your legs… like you do for Alma-Tadema and Leighton."

"Screw you." There was fury in her gaze.

"Do as you're told."

"We're done," she said briskly, beginning to slide off the table. "Play your games with someone else."

Her feet hadn't touched the floor when he was beside her, his fingers shackling her wrists, holding her in place on the table edge. Leaning close, his dark hair fell forward, framing his face, and his heavy-lidded eyes, redolent with lust, blatantly offered her sex. "Please spread your legs," he said quietly.

She struggled against his hold, moody, disquieted-by his tantalizing virility, by her inability to resist. "You have to apologize first," she said, terse, resentful.

"Tell me if you're sleeping with them."

"Apologize."

A taut silence fell.

The muscles in his shoulders rippled as his grip tightened, his fierce gaze bore into hers for a moment, and then, inhaling deeply, he looked away. A second passed, then two in this sexual standoff-a voiceless, muted contention. Somewhere a clock chimed, and as though some signal had been given, Sam slowly released his breath and met her gaze again. "I apologize," he said, his voice tight as a drum.

"In that case," she ground out, each word mutinous with malcontent, "no, I'm not."

"I don't know if I believe you."