Susan Johnson - Seduction in Mind

"You're sweet as candy underneath it all, aren't you?" he teased.

He was so damnably tempting-even his wickedness. "I don't know," she breathed, her sensibilities in chaos. "With the exception of wanting you, I don't know anything at all anymore."

He knew what she meant, but he'd been the object of pursuit too long. He was wary. "It doesn't matter." The phrase was ambiguous, as were his thoughts, but gentleman that he was, he slipped the dildo out.

"They say intellect is much overrated," she remarked, reading something different into his words, throwing caution to the wind in any event. Only ravenous desire mattered, Alex decided, pulling his head down for a kiss and making love to this man who made her forget everything but wanting him.

Meeting her passionate kiss with equal ardor, Sam decided the way he was feeling right now, he'd be more than satisfied to keep the bewitching Miss Ionides impaled on his erection for the foreseeable future and all the rest be damned. Grasping her hips, he hauled her bottom to the edge of the table, lifted her legs onto his shoulders and, bending forward, guided his erection to her alluring cunt and proceeded to execute his single-minded plan.

When he woke the next morning, he was momentarily startled to find a woman in his bed. For a dreadful moment he thought he was with Penelope again. The error immediately corrected itself in his brain, and more pleasant sensations came to the fore, along with lush memories of the previous night.

Alex was truly remarkable, unrestrained in her passion-and also in her demands, he recalled, smiling. The satisfying feel of her in his arms this morning was equally remarkable, for he preferred waking up alone. He'd have to find a larger bed, he thought, if they were to make use of his secret apartment. A moment of apprehension struck him at such an extraordinary consideration, and in the cold light of day, with his independence at stake, he decided the bed was perfectly fine. He wasn't ready to alter his life for a woman. Particularly not after having known Miss Ionides, however remarkable her talents, for less than a day.

Unsettled by his thoughts, he unconsciously shifted his position. The slight movement brought Alex awake.

When she smiled at him, his reservations vanished, and when she stretched up to kiss him, he forgot all but the tantalizing promise in her smile.

"I recall someone like you making me very happy last night," she sighed. "Are you still available, or does duty call?"

"What did you have in mind?" he drawled.

"I was thinking about something sexual," she breathed.

His brows rose. "How sexual?"

"Surprise me…"

He laughed. "I'm not sure I have any surprises left after last night."

"Something simple will be equally appreciated." She twisted her hips slightly, and her damp cleft slid up his thigh.

"As long as it's soon?" he said, smoothing his palm down her bottom, touching her slippery wetness with his fingertips.

"And long and hard… like this," she purred, lightly grasping his swelling erection.

He rolled over her a second later, plunged into her waiting sweetness, and bid the lady in his bed good morning with such extravagant lasciviousness, neither heard the sounds of the City waking outside. It was a tropical morning in Queen Elizabeth's bed; it was a dawn of obsession for two people who had until then been unaware of the concept; it was a private, sequestered world filled with dazzling pleasures.

Much later, when passions were quenched, when the level of satiation and contentment was sufficient to let in the outside world, when the chiming of the clock seemed to have become conspicuously shrill, they reluctantly rose from the bed and even more reluctantly dressed to face the events of the day.

Sam extended an impulsive invitation for breakfast, when he'd never actually shared his breakfast with a lover. Alex accepted, when she'd not been sure she could speak of mundane things after the glorious splendor she'd experienced. But they found they could converse like ordinary humans and that they both liked bacon more than eggs and not kippers at all. After three cups of coffee, they agreed as well that most of the problems of the world were entirely solvable.

When it came time for Alex to leave, Sam escorted her downstairs and helped her into his carriage. He had a meeting that morning; she had plans to work and appointments scheduled.

"You're sure you don't mind if I don't see you home," he said once again, not wishing to offend.

"I prefer you not see me home," she replied with a smile. "Just in case my family is parked on my doorstep."

"You know best." He leaned in and gently kissed her.

"Thank you for a most enjoyable… time," she whispered. "You certainly know how to entertain a lady."

"And I consider myself the most fortunate of men," he replied graciously.

She smiled. "Adieu, then, Ranelagh."

"Sam."

"Sam," she repeated, and after a hushed moment glanced past him to the sidewalk.

Taking his cue, he moved back and shut the door.

She waved once and smiled.

He nodded at his driver.

And the carriage pulled away from the curb.

But rather than his normal relief at taking leave of a lover, a niggling discontent insinuated itself into his brain.

She hadn't once asked "When will I see you again" or "Won't you come over soon" or any of the familiar cajoling female phrases he was used to evading.

He was not only surprised but mildly annoyed.

And, more startling, disappointed.

For her part, Alex was wondering if she'd ever see him again. Realistic about the viscount, she wasn't unduly optimistic. Her view was purely rational, quite separate from the blissful happiness she was feeling. Ranelagh certainly knew how to leave a woman ardently aglow. But if he didn't call upon her, her life was entirely complete without a man. After two husbands, she was well past the point of needing a man in her life. And not from malcontent. Rather, she was enjoying the broad and diverse pleasures of her unmarried state.

As the carriage took her away from the beauty of last night, though, a small sigh escaped her.

If Ranelagh didn't call on her, she would miss his magnificent and inventive talents in bed, she thought selfishly.

Euterpe Ionides came sailing through Alex's open terrace doors shortly before noon, her fashionable persimmon and white striped skirts trailing over the green slate entryway, her mouth set.

"You finally came back, I see." Her acerbic pronouncement was delivered in a biting staccato, the tattoo of her heels brisk on the stained wood of Alex's studio floor.

"In the future, kindly refrain from monitoring my activities, Mother," Alex said blandly, brushing a slash of pale rose on the canvas before her. "At thirty, I find it extremely embarrassing."

"I should think it better to be embarrassed than ruined," her mother said crisply, coming to rest behind Alex. She surveyed the painting on the easel with a critical eye. "Wouldn't it be nice, darling, if you painted lovely portraits like Letty Cassavettis."

"And wouldn't it be nice, Mother, if you spent more time at your needlework than you did bothering me."

"Letty sells every portrait before she paints it. She's a very good businesswoman. Is that yellow thing a gate or a chair?"

"It's Christ on the cross, Mother," Alex replied mockingly. "I'm painting him in a summer garden to make his suffering more palatable to the viewer."

Euterpe sniffed and pulled off her white kid gloves with a brisk snap. "Make your jokes at your old mother's expense, but I've seen much more of the world, and it wouldn't hurt you to heed my advice."

"And what advice would that be? On my painting or on my lack of children, or perhaps you'd like to know exactly how large Ranelagh's bed was."

Horrified, Euterpe stared at her daughter. "Now I'll have to have the priests say a thousand prayers for your soul."

"They can save their prayers for the starving beggars in the streets. Those poor souls need God's grace more than I."

"You may ridicule my concern all you wish, but mark my words, Ranelagh will ruin you and then leave you without so much as a good-bye. Look what happened to his wife!"

"She died while out with one of her lovers, Mother. Surely, you can't blame Sam for that."

"Sam, is it! Well, it certainly didn't take him long to bewitch you!" Her mother's eyes snapped with affront. "I suppose he has you curled around his little finger already! And don't look at me like that," she noted peevishly. "I know what men like Ranelagh do. And while your father may be too polite to chastise you, I have no such compunction and I tell you straight out, Miss Bohemian Artist," she articulated with a withering sarcasm, "you'll rue the day you took up with a man of his notoriety! And if you don't care for your own reputation, think of your family's!"

Alex set down the brush she was holding and began wiping the paint from her hands. Clearly, she wasn't going to be allowed her privacy this morning, nor did she care to engage in a fruitless argument with her mother. "I have an appointment in the City. You're welcome to watch me dress if you wish."

"With him, I suppose!"

"No, with the superintendent of one of my schools. And for your information, Mother, I doubt I'll be seeing much of Ranelagh. We both have very busy lives."

"He's tossed you over already," her mother said testily, following Alex into the bedroom. "As if I didn't know his kind. You see, dear, what comes of allowing men liberties?" she reproved, picking up a blouse draped over a chair and walking toward the armoire. "They have no respect for you."

Alex sighed, having heard this lecture countless times, along with disapproving ones on her modeling, which she ignored as well. "I'm sure you're right, Mother."

"Of course I'm right," Mrs. Ionides decreed, hanging up the blouse. "A little mystery in a woman is alluring."

"I'll think about it, Mother." At the same time she thought about becoming a monk…

"Don't you have any couturier gowns in here?"

Her mother was brushing through her array of garments, her mouth pursed in distaste. "Surely you can afford to dress a bit more stylishly, darling."

"I like my clothes. They're comfortable."

"If a lady wishes to appear to best advantage, comfort is not necessarily a first priority."

"Many ladies of the first rank wear the same styles I do." Alex preferred what was deemed "aesthetic dress." The gowns were natural-waisted, the sleeves comfortable and loose, the fabrics flowing with the rhythm of the body. They were worn without corsets or crinolines.

"Bluestocking women." Her mother pronounced the phrase like an epithet.

"Women who prefer not strangling their bodies in tightly laced corsets." Another ongoing argument with her mother.

"Hmpf," Euterpe muttered unsympathetically.

"I don't need a nineteen-inch waist because fashion dictates it."

Her mother turned away from the closet and gazed at her daughter. "You have a perfectly fine waist."

"I know, Mother."

"But I still don't like Ranelagh."

"You don't have to like him."

"And I disapprove of you seeing him."

"You made that clear." Alex smiled. "And who knows, Mama, you may be right after all. He may be long gone, in which case perhaps I shall be more inclined to listen to your advice in the future."

Euterpe didn't indulge her daughter's humor enough to actually smile, but she said, "You know, your papa and I want only the best for you."

"I know."

"And we dearly hope you don't marry another man old enough to be your father."

Alex's eyes gleamed with amusement. "Ranelagh's only thirty-three."

"But not the marrying kind," her mother pointed out, her lips pursed in contempt.

"Are you coming with me to the Camden Street School?" Alex asked, because there was no rejoinder to such unalloyed truth.

"If you don't wear that awful crumpled white muslin."

Alex lay down the gown she held. "You pick one out, Mother."

Ten minutes later Alex and her mother set out for the meeting with the superintendent. The immigrant schools she supported were an undertaking on which she and her mother could always agree.

Sam's meeting with his brother and the golf course designers took place in his offices in the Adelphi, and before lunch they'd agreed on the exacting dimensions of each fairway on their five-hundred-acre estate. There was the pretty tree-girdled third and the scary blind drive over yawning cross-bunkers fifth. The first and fourth would be manicured around two natural pond sites. A dauntingly narrow driving corridor over a large fairway bunker confronted them on the second hole, while the remainder of the front nine was a succession of lovely holes along the western stone wall of the property and through the remnants of a mature forest. The tight, leafy back nine would meander around a series of small ponds and natural trout streams, which should prove a technical challenge, particularly on the gorgeous downhill par-five twelfth and the hazardous, short fourteenth. [5]