Susan Johnson - Sexy As Hell

The smallest of hesitations.

“Why not,” she said, thinking to humor him and better gain her ends.

“Then I’ll be right back, ma’am.” He glanced at her over his shoulder as he slipped off the bed. “Correction… miss.” He casually strolled away as if he wasn’t nude and blatantly aroused, she wasn’t a stranger, and they’d be sharing nothing more than a game of whist when he returned. “You have a choice,” he offered, standing at the liquor tray a moment later. “Sherry, cognac, brandy, or hock.”

“Cognac. Just a little.”

“How are you getting home?” he asked as he poured her drink. “Could I drive you somewhere?”

“No, thank you,” she replied, trying not to stare at his enormous erection. “I believe Malmsey is waiting for me.”

He nodded toward the door through which the surprise party had entered. “Waiting in there?” He preferred not being monitored.

She shook her head. “Downstairs.”

Good. “So does Malmsey know Fremont as well?” he queried, moving back to the bed.

“I’m not sure. He might.”

At least he does now. Fortunately, Fremont was the soul of discretion; Miss Perceval’s intrigue was safe. Not that it should matter to him one way or the other, yet she shouldn’t have to suffer the unwanted machinations of her cousin. Nor should she be required to resort to such drastic measures to retain control of her title and wealth. “Would you like me to call out Compton?” he abruptly asked, handing her a glass. “I could see that he never bothers you again.” While dueling was illegal, it was privately practiced.

The casual certainty in his voice gave her pause and quite inappropriately, pleasure as well. “While I appreciate the offer,” she more prudently replied, “I don’t think it would serve.”

“It would serve perfectly. He’d be dead-not a great loss if you ask me; the man cheats at cards. Your reputation would remain unscathed and”-he grinned as he settled back on the bed and rested against the pillows-“you might be inclined to thank me in some agreeable way.”

She laughed. “I admit there’s a certain appeal to your plan, but, no, I couldn’t be party to something so crass.” If he could urbanely disregard his erection, she should be able to as well.

“As if his wanting to marry you for your money isn’t crass.”

She smiled. “So bloodthirsty, Lennox. Is it your Indian upbringing?”

“Hell no. Dueling is a European foolishness wrapped up in a mantle of honor. In India if you want someone murdered, you hire assassins or a poisoner and have the job quietly done.” He shrugged dismissively. “It’s different here.”

“My goodness. You quite alarm me.”

“No I don’t. Not unless by alarm you mean something else entirely.”

“Such as?”

“Your nipples,” he said, nodding at her breasts; he didn’t mention her veiled glances at his erection. “They’ve been signaling your aspirations for some time now.”

“Aspirations don’t necessarily equate with actions.”

His lashes lowered faintly. “In our case, why not? We’re alone. I’m thoroughly aroused, as you can see,” he politely said as if she hadn’t noticed several times already. “I can tell that you’re not exactly indifferent to me. What’s the point in denying ourselves?”

“So blunt, Lennox,” she sardonically observed. “No sonnets or odes to charm a lady?”

“Ah Love! Could you and I with Fate conspire. To grasp this sorry scheme of things entire. Would not we shatter it to bits. And then remold it to our heart’s desire. I could also recite it in the original Persian if you like.” He smiled. “Is that better now? Or would you like more verses to entice you?”

“I’m not sure I wish to be enticed.”

“Why not? Making love is one of life’s great pleasures.”

“Or sorrows.”

He could have asked, but he didn’t want to know. Even while he understood the merits of asking in terms of facilitating a seduction, he didn’t. There was something about her, a kind of intrepid heroine willing to stand up for her rights no matter the consequences that reminded him of things he’d rather forget. Right and wrong had nothing to do with the reality of the world, he’d discovered. You could be moral to the core and right as rain and no one cared.

He had his own sorrows when it came to love.

All he wanted tonight was sex.

And if not with Nell, Miss Perceval would do.

SLIDING DOWN ON his spine, he rested his glass on his chest and shut his eyes for a moment, suddenly struck by a wave of fatigue and melancholy. Maybe he’d been running from the past too long; maybe the heavy rain tonight had brought old memories to the fore. Perhaps he was feeling nothing more than ennui, finding himself as he did in bed with another woman he barely knew.

Or possibly, using sex as a diversion from reality had finally exhausted him.

Was he sleeping? Isolde wondered. Would this be a good time to leave? Or was she obliged to stay so he wouldn’t sue Malmsey or be difficult in some other unknown way? How much did she have to fear from him? And why was he sleeping if indeed he was? Not entirely without vanity, she found herself mildly vexed at his indifference. While she lived away from society, she was not without influence in her country sphere, nor was she without suitors. Heavens! Why was she even considering such nonsense! It didn’t matter one whit whether Lennox liked her or not. She had much more serious issues facing her.

But sensible rationale aside or perhaps because of it-he could prove to be troublesome-she chose not to leave. Although her decision may not have been completely rational-a thought that didn’t bear close scrutiny in terms of good judgment.

As for scrutiny of another kind, however, her companion’s stunning looks were difficult to ignore. Not that she didn’t try. She’d seen naked men before, she reminded herself. There was no need to examine this particular one.

Seated against the headboard, she sipped on her cognac and looked everywhere but at the nude man lying beside her. She counted the squares on the Greek fretwork molding above the fireplace twice, uselessly estimated the number of roses on the chair upholstery, followed the Byzantine maze design on the carpet with her gaze, and was about to tally the medallions on the mirror frame when temptation became too great.

She turned and looked.

My lord, he is gorgeous! Silky black hair, fashionably cut, lay on the pillow in ruffled waves. His features were finely formed, stark rather than harsh, austerely male, high cheek-bones, firm jaw, the line of his nose arrow straight, his mouth… She paused in her inspection, as if drawn to forbidden fruit. No austerity there-a sensual ripeness to his lips that was explicitly erotic. Quickly looking away, she focused her gaze on the dark slashing line of his brows; no erotica there-a hint of menace instead.

Even in slumber, he exuded a barely suppressed brute energy, as if one was in the presence of a young Mars, God of War-or more likely a heathen god with his deeply bronzed skin and exotic eyes. He was powerfully muscled by any measure, his long-limbed athletic body taut and honed, the capacity for violence only thinly veiled even in the dissolving glow of the wall sconces.

No fashionable, effete beau lay at her side.

Nor was there any suggestion of the more conventional English lord in his manner. No man she knew would be sleeping at this point. They’d be hell-bent on wooing her.

Perhaps Lennox’s indifference intrigued her most, although his great beauty and bold audacity couldn’t be discounted. But whatever the particular or sum total of his allure, she found herself sorely tempted to take him up on his brazen proposition.

Although he might not be entirely indifferent, she decided, surveying the length of his rampant erection-unless he was dreaming, of course.

As if in answer, his grip loosened on his brandy glass and the tumbler began to slide off his chest.

Isolde snatched it up just as it was about to overturn.

Coming awake with a start, Oz’s scowl turned into a smile as he glanced up and recognized her. “Forgive me for nodding off.” He held out his hand for his brandy. “I haven’t slept much lately. Was I snoring?”

“No. Although,” Isolde lightly said, “I thought you might be ignoring me.”

“On the contrary”-he offered her a wicked wink-“I was dreaming about you.” He glanced down before meeting her gaze once again. “As you may have surmised.”

“What facile charm, Lennox. I almost believe you.”

“Believe me, my dear Miss Perceval.” He was pleased that she was flirting with him, the shift in her behavior gratifying. “It was a warm summer day in my dream, you were swinging on a rustic swing high above me, and I was lying on the grass enjoying the view. Considering the weather outside,” he added with a quirked grin, “you can’t fault me for improvising.”

“Your fantasy does sound rather nice with the rain pounding on the windows and the wind wailing.”

“I’d be more than happy to let you into my dream,” he murmured.

“I’ve been thinking about-”

“Enjoying yourself?”

Her lashes lowered, and she gave him a considering look. “Why would you think that?” She was still undecided, wasn’t she?

“As I mentioned before”-he tipped his glass toward her breasts-“your peaked nipples are conspicuous.” He didn’t say he could smell her arousal, too, for fear of scaring her off, but the familiar fragrance was pungent in his nostrils. “Come, darling, what’s the point of playing the innocent maid? You obviously would rather not. As for myself, my interest is clear and it’s a cozy warm bed we’re in on this stormy night. We might as well be equally cozy.”

“You make sex sound warmly genial.”

“Why shouldn’t it be?” She hadn’t tried to argue her indifference, nor could she honestly do so when her body was obviously willing. Suddenly weary of artifice and games when he knew they both wanted the same thing, he drank down his brandy, dropped the glass on the floor, took hers from her hand, and did the same. Turning his head on the pillow to more fully meet her gaze, he smiled. “Now then, Miss Perceval, I’m about to touch you, so don’t scream.”

She laughed. “Do most women usually scream?”

“Not at this point,” he drolly replied, brushing his hand down her arm to her wrist, circling it with his long, slender fingers, lifting her hand to his mouth, and gently kissing each fingertip with the same lazy indifference that so marked his demeanor.

She should resist. Now was the time to say no. Make clear she was not available to him.

But she didn’t. Perhaps because she wasn’t flameproof.

Nor would he have let her. Because he wanted what he wanted.

“Come a little closer, darling,” he softly cajoled, unclasping her wrist and reaching up to lightly cup the back of her head in his warm palm. Rising slightly from the pillow in a ripple of taut abdominal muscles, he pulled her head lower, lifted his mouth to hers, and brushed her lips with his. It was a sweet, undemanding kiss-one designed to soothe a lady’s conscience.

“There now,” he murmured, “that wasn’t so frightening, was it?” Letting his hand drop away from her head, he lay back. And waited.

He tasted of brandy and lust, a combination that might have been frightening if not for the undisguisedly flamboyant burst of desire that not only burned through her senses but also served to seriously whet her appetite for more. Not that she was completely defenseless against his allure. She still had wits enough to tamp down her skittish passions and cooly survey temptation lounging before her.

He looked back calmly, shameless and assured.

“I shouldn’t,” she said, but she half turned and rested her hand on his shoulder as she spoke, and a treacherous little voice reminded her that just because Will had married didn’t require she forgo sexual pleasure.

“Yes, darling, one always should,” Oz softly returned, covering her hand with his as it lay on his shoulder. “Life doesn’t give one second chances.”

And well she knew, having lost the man she loved. The warmth of Lennox’s hand was strangely comforting, and leaning closer, she no longer weighed impulse or motive, seeking respite instead from the cold and rain outside, from the sense of loss that had been plaguing her, from the evil designs of her relatives-or perhaps it was nothing more complicated than she wished to enjoy this glory of a man smiling up at her. Dipping her head, she kissed him in a much less gentle way than he had her. Too long celibate, or maybe having finally jettisoned equivocation, she was in her own way as audacious as he. Her kiss was restive and high-strung, provocative in its what-do-you-have-for-me silent query.