Susan Johnson - Sexy As Hell

“Thank you,” he quietly said, surprised at the shocking degree of pleasure he felt. Offering her his arm, he half turned, raised his hand, and signaled for his carriage, which had been following behind.

“I should tell Grover,” Isolde mentioned as he handed her into his closed landau a few moments later.

“Send him a message when we reach my house. Or would you like to drive back and tell him?”

“No, a message will do.” It was too embarrassing to face her steward after succumbing so readily to Oz’s invitation. But then love made one foolish.

Dimitri and Grover watched Oz’s carriage drive up, watched Isolde step inside, looked at each other, and lifted their brows.

“It’s good,” Dimitri said. “She wants him. Why shouldn’t she have him?”

“Because he doesn’t want to be had,” Grover muttered. “Damn him.”

AS THEY ENTERED his house, Oz said to Josef, “Have Achille prepare some refreshments for my lady.”

“That’s not necessary,” Isolde quickly interposed. “Really, I’m not staying long.”

“He doesn’t mind. Brandy for me, Josef. And send a message to-” He glanced at Isolde.

“Perceval House, Mayfair. Give Mr. Grover my direction.”

“There now, all is in order,” Oz pleasantly said. Leading her across the hall, he opened the door into a small drawing room. “Please make yourself comfortable.”

She hadn’t seen the little jewel of a room before, but then she’d not been in residence long and the house was very large. “How lovely.” Standing on the threshold, she surveyed the octagonal room, brilliant with sunlight, the window walls framed with gilded moldings, the painted ceiling a pale blue sky filled with colorful birds.

“My mother’s room,” he said. “She painted.”

“This?”

“Some of it.” He eased past her. “Come, sit down. I’ll send the filly up to Oak Knoll tomorrow. Consider it an apology for my various sins.”

“An expensive apology.” She followed him in.

“Only because of my vicious temper,” he said and turning, offered her his practiced smile. “I have no excuse. You’ll enjoy her, though, so maybe the gods were in charge after all.”

“Any special god?” Arch riposte to his facile smile.

Unmoved, Oz said, “Take your pick,” then added in a more agreeable tone that took in account the reason he’d invited her here and the pleasure he felt for the first time in weeks, “Please, sit here.” He indicated a sofa. “You can put up your feet.”

“I don’t need to put up my feet.”

“Ah,” he murmured, cool tempered to her pet. “That’s how little I know about pregnancy. Sit where you wish then.” Dropping onto the sofa, he swung his booted feet up onto the flowered chintz, crossed his ankles, and resting against the upholstered arm, slid into a comfortable sprawl. “I didn’t know you had a house in town.”

“I didn’t know you had an estate in Kent.” At Tattersalls she’d heard him order the first horses he purchased be sent there.

He smiled. “We should talk more.”

Feeling her face flush hotly, she said with equal nonchalance, “If only there had been time.” Taking a chair across the room from him, she smoothed her skirts over her knees in unconscious resistance to the beautiful, faithless man lounging on the pale flowered sofa in his mother’s jewel of a room.

“There never is, it seems. Perhaps we could take a few minutes today to exchange confidences,” he offered, impervious to her sarcasm. “Take off your lovely spring hat and stay awhile. I won’t attack you, I promise.”

“I wasn’t concerned,” she comfortably returned, untying the ribbons and placing her hat, purse, and gloves on a nearby table. Assuredly, Oz had never been obliged to attack a woman. “But I can’t tarry long. Grover and I are driving home this afternoon. You look tired,” she abruptly said when she shouldn’t have, when she should have restrained her impulse. When Oz’s needs were already sufficiently catered to by numerous women.

He didn’t seem to notice or at least didn’t resort to some quelling retort. He only said, “I haven’t been sleeping well.” Or much at all, those close to him would affirm. “Davey is working me hard; some of my business partners have turned difficult lately.” An understatement of vast proportions. “Actually, I may have to go to India if the situation doesn’t improve.”

Her stomach lurched, and like some innocent young maid, she blurted out, “Will you be gone long?”

Ignoring his bride’s outburst, he shrugged. “Who knows. It depends”-he exhaled a noiseless sigh-“on the degree of malfeasance in India. But Davey would stay behind, and if you need anything, he’d be available in my stead.”

Not likely for the role she wished. “I appreciate your thoughtfulness.” She said what was expected this time even as melancholy washed over her. Deep in her psyche the hope had burned that romantic dreams might become reality someday. And now-her cool and assured husband was leaving to go halfway across the world.

The small, lengthening silence spoke of absence along with the elaborate courtesy of not giving utterance to the thought.

Achille suddenly walked in, a footman in his wake.

“Ah, Achille, thank God, my brandy.” Oz thrust out his hand. “That was quick,” he said, grasping the proffered bottle and glass. “Isolde has come for a visit. Isn’t that nice.”

“Indeed. Hello, my lady. I brought you cake and sandwiches, and if you’d like I could make you something more substantial as well.” He didn’t say for the baby, but clearly that was what he meant.

Isolde blushed. “Cake and sandwiches will be fine. Oh, that lovely chocolate ganache, I see,” she murmured as the footman placed the silver tray on a table before her.

“The cherry cake as well, my lady. Enjoy.” He swung to Oz. “Is there anything more?” he delicately inquired.

Oz shook his head, raised his glass to his mouth, and drained it.

Another small silence ensued once the door closed on Achille.

“He’s been hoping you’d come back,” Oz said into the hush. “He complains I don’t eat.”

“You should. You’ve lost weight.”

“Tomorrow.” He smiled and poured himself another drink. “Now tell me how things go at Oak Knoll.”

As she ate, she spoke of her daily activities, the new cattle she’d bought, the visits she made, the small entertainments she’d attended, leaving out any mention of Will, concentrating instead on the farm and livestock.

He listened without reply, quietly drinking and watching her from under his lashes, restraining his impulse to get up, lift her from her chair, and carry her upstairs.

“Am I boring you?” she finally said.

“Not at all. I like the sound of your voice. I like to look at you. I’d like other things as well, but I promised to behave.”

He might have reached out and touched her, her body’s response so hot spur. “Don’t,” she said on a caught breath, setting down her teacup with such force the tea splashed on the cloth.

“Forgive me. I’ve missed you.” He hadn’t known until then just how much.

“You can’t walk away like you did and then expect me to-”

“Make love to me?” he said with impeccable charm.

“I won’t,” she whispered, furious at his cool insolence, her astonishing willingness, at all the women in his life.

“How can it matter if you do?”

“Because I dislike what you are.”

“That doesn’t have to affect the pleasure or play.”

“No, Oz. No!”

She was holding her hands tightly in her lap, as if white-knuckled restraint would serve as a deterrent to desire. As if saying no actually meant no. Setting his glass aside, he slowly came to his feet to play gallant to her desperate passions. Workmanlike and competent, he knew the signs of arousal, could recognize them blind in the dark.

A moment later he was lifting the small table away, and a moment after that, he leaned over, took her clenched hands in his, and drew her to her feet. “Feel my heart race,” he said, placing her closed fists on his chest. “This is like the first time for me.”

“No. I’m the thousandth, not the first.”

He shook his head, the movement small and faint. “You’re wrong. I’ve been waiting for you.”

He shouldn’t have said that, she thought, because she’d been waiting for him, for this, for the feel of his body next to hers, with utter, unequivocal longing since he’d left. The realization was so undeniable, tears welled in her eyes, and she sniffed and hiccupped, struggling to discipline her emotions.

“Don’t cry,” Oz whispered, gently wiping away the wetness trickling down her cheeks. “I’m sorry for whatever I did, for all I did, for what I didn’t do-for everything.”

“It’s not… your fault… you walked into my room… that night.”

“But I stayed.” He smiled. “And then stayed some more.” Abruptly picking her up, he said, “You may chastise me upstairs in more comfort.” Carrying her effortlessly, he strode to the door, shoved it open with his foot, and walked toward the stairway.

How smooth he was, how pliant his conscience, how gracefully he offered pleasure. And if her heart wasn’t involved she might argue, reject, and refuse. But she loved him, she understood now if she’d not known before, if by some spurious logic she’d discounted the truth in the past days and weeks. “I love you,” she whispered, like some foolish, naive, overly sentimental female being carried off by her Prince Charming.

She felt him tense for a moment in his swift passage up the stairs.

“I love you, too,” he said a fraction of a second later, telling himself words were only words, there was no point in being rude. He had what he wanted, and if in some small corner of his soul he acknowledged more than his sham nuptial tie, he was quick to dismiss that incomprehensible thought.

The door to his bedroom had been opened by some invisible hand, she noted when they arrived, although no servants had been evident as they traversed the quiet corridors. And a fresh bottle of brandy shared space on a small table near the bed with a tray of sweets and a carafe of scented tisane.

“They anticipate your every move,” she said with a wave of her hand at the display. “Or are arrangements like this commonplace?” Did Nell like tisane?

He came to rest just inside the room, glanced at the delicate pastries, the mild aperitif. “On the contrary, this little offering is unprecedented. Achille wishes to please you. As do I,” he added softly. “You have but to tell me what you want.”

She knew better than to tell him the truth-that she wanted him beyond the perimeters of their agreement. “Would you think me terribly selfish if I asked for ten orgasms?”

Any other woman offered carte blanche would have been less modest in her demands; in his experience expensive jewelry generally led the roster. “No, of course not,” he agreeably said. “Is that all?”

Her expression brightened. “Perhaps more then if you don’t mind.”

He smiled. “How much time do I have?”

“I’ll let you know.”

He liked that her timetable was vague; he liked more that she was in one of her insatiable moods.

Carrying her across the broad bedchamber, he reached the high four-poster bed and seated her facing him on the stark white coverlet embroidered with colorful tropical birds.

“This is different,” she murmured, running her fingertip over a bit of scarlet silk embroidery replicating exotic plumage. The last time she’d been here, the coverlet had been pale blue.

“My mother’s large collection of embroidered linens. The house is relatively unchanged.” He shrugged. “I’m not home much.”

He was too polite to say he didn’t often sleep at home, she thought. “Your mother’s decorative sense is lovely.”

“Lovely like you,” he said, abstractly exercising his charm, his focus on consummation. “You look very stylish today.” He reached for the gold filigree button at the collar of her bodice.

“I found a new dressmaker.”

Aware of his comment about her previous modiste, he ignored her pointed remark. “She’s very good,” he mildly said, his gaze flicking downward to her breasts before returning to her face. “It takes superb tailoring to contain such voluptuousness. You turned heads at Tattersalls. In fact,” he added with a fleeting smile, “I expect every man there would like to be doing what I’m doing right now.”

“Speaking of Tattersalls and sex, how did you dispatch Nell?” A blunt question perhaps, but she knew he wasn’t about to throw her out in his current state of arousal-his erection impressive as usual.

His smile faded and he paused, his fingers motionless on the third ornate button. “She responds to money,” he mildly replied, resuming his unbuttoning. “Unlike you.”