Susan Johnson - Gorgeous As Sin

“Sorry, it’s been a very long time…”

He couldn’t possibly relate, this man who’d been standing stud since adolescence. But he was right about the wooing required to see that the lady’s body and sensibilities were eased into the night’s play. “Should I talk you through the first time, ply you with kisses, recite Ovid,” he sportively offered.

She was about to ask him if he was ever serious, but he’d slipped his fingers into her silken flesh and suddenly she was having trouble thinking about anything other than degrees of pleasure. Her head dropped onto his shoulder, her eyes closed, and she understood that whatever reservations she might have had about Groveland paled to insignificance against his deft skill. The man was a virtuoso-touching her exactly where she wished to be touched, deeply, deeply, with the lightest of strokes, as if he could read her mind, her body, her nerve endings, her most rarified fantasies. He was incredibly gentle as well, something she wouldn’t have expected from so large a man. Most important, he somehow knew that she liked the rosebud of her clitoris be given a good measure of attention-and he did.

Perhaps a libertine had his advantages, she thought, floating on her blissful cloud. He was much better at this than she.

He was so much better in fact that she was beginning to believe in bewitchment or if not that fanciful illusion, the ravishing hysteria engulfing her entire body in a steamy, rapturous exultation might be closer to heaven on Earth. Or perhaps something even better, she decided a few moments later as her orgasm began to slowly swell into a small seething rampage, assaulting her senses with increasing fury, spreading with unchecked speed-quickly, too quickly. She whimpered, helpless against the climactic momentum, wanting the exquisite rapture to last. Then she cried out as the storm and fury overwhelmed and ravished her, as the feel of his fingers buried deep inside her triggered voluptuous, overdrawn waves of pleasure, as he transported her to a paradise of his making for long, long, euphoric moments.

He didn’t move while she was in the throes of orgasm.

He knew better.

When at last her body stilled and her eyelids fluttered opened, even then he waited until she smiled at him and whispered in languid content, “Thank you. I really needed that.”

He couldn’t help but laugh, although her hard nipples and plump breasts pressing against the fine charmeuse of her gown, her luscious bottom warming his cock, and her even more luscious cunt warming his fingers gave him potent reason to believe that she’d be needing more.

Fortunately, he was here to help her.

And himself. Withdrawing his fingers, he wiped them on his pant leg. “It takes the edge off doesn’t it?” he drawled, well versed in degrees of lust.

“It did considerably more than that. You’re very good.”

“In contrast to?” Why it mattered he had no idea. But then nothing about his response to Mrs. St. Vincent made sense.

“To nothing. You just made me feel… incredibly wonderful.”

Her frankness constantly confounded him. In the brittle world in which he moved, frankness was considered a parvenue gaucherie. But he responded with an easy grace. “My pleasure,” he said.

Hers more than his, Rosalind pleasantly decided, since he fulfilled her every erotic fantasy… any woman’s, she didn’t doubt. He was a splendid male animal, physically powerful, handsome, with a huge erection that was impossible to ignore and yet he somehow did. Another virtuoso skill perhaps-which notion immediately evoked a host of licentious images starring the Duke of Groveland. “What if I were to say I was looking for adventure tonight?” she inquired, driven by rash impulse, her newly awakened libido, and the very real possibility she’d not have this opportunity again.

Fitz didn’t move a muscle-no blink, no indication of surprise, not so much as a twitch of his cock at the good news. “I’d say tell me what you want.”

“I don’t suppose you know anything about harems?”

“I’m afraid not.” His friend Lady Melville did, so he in turn did, but she was into hashish and bondage, which wasn’t on his agenda tonight. “We’ll think of something else.”

“Good, because you inspire the most intense desire in me,” she artlessly declared, having been recently exposed to an exorbitant standard of orgasmic pleasure formerly unknown to her and finding herself greedy for more. “Now I fully understand why you’re so much in demand,” she added, wrapping her arms around his neck, smiling at him from very close range, allowing pure emotion to reign supreme. “Really, I’m happier than I’ve been in ages.”

“Then we both are… happy,” Fitz murmured, liking the feel of her clinging to him, actually meaning what he said when he never did at times like this.

“How sweet, but then you know what to say, don’t you?” she lightly replied, and tightening her grip on his neck, she offered him a dazzling smile. “There’s pleasure sure, in being mad.” Dryden understood this sweet insanity.

Fitz laughed, recognizing the phrase if not the author. “I must brush up on my literature.”

“You needn’t do anything at all; I am quite, quite content!” she cheerfully proclaimed.

It took him a moment to assess such an utterly guileless sentiment in the context of her need for adventure. Wild sex and poetry perhaps. Although his contentment was predicated rather more on just fucking her for hours. Not that such bluntness would serve. Instead, he said, “Whenever you’re ready, I could offer you additional contentment.”

She flushed. “Oh dear, how selfish of me. Of course, you must have satisfaction, too.”

He suppressed his smile with effort, her mea culpa charming. Although when it came to selfishness, she didn’t know she was dealing with a man born and bred to the principle. “There’s plenty of time,” he said.

“I don’t want to use my bed,” she quickly declared.

“Fine. We won’t.”

“I mean it.”

“I understand.” He was intent on being agreeable until such a time as his cock was buried in her warm, soft body-at which point he would become even more agreeable.

“Why do I get the feeling you’ll say anything?”

Because that’s what people do in situations like this. “No bed.” He smiled. “I promise.”

“And he must behave,” Rosalind murmured, unable to resist shifting her hips ever so slightly in order to feel his gloriously large erection.

His brows rose, on guard. “Meaning?”

“You mustn’t climax in me.”

“Agreed.” That was easy. Begetting a bastard was no part of his plans.

“So sure?” Dare she ask if he was lying?

Fitz smiled. “He does as he’s told.”

Her brows lifted slightly. “Such control.”

“I’m a practical man.” Her raised brows told Fitz that Edward St. Vincent hadn’t been fully in control. Common enough-and one of the reasons he was so much in demand with the ladies. “It’s all about mutual pleasure, darling, not a game of chance.” A quick smile. “Since we’re about to become closer friends, do you have a given name?”

She grinned. “Is this about friendship?”

“Of course.”

“Are you friends with all the ladies in your life?”

“I am.”

“You astonish me.” She stretched lazily, still marginally basking in a postcoital glow.

“I haven’t even begun to astonish you,” he roguishly declared, his gaze on her rising breasts, mentally ticking off the length of time he had to fuck her before morning. “If you don’t want to tell me your name-”

“Rosalind. And yours?”

“I’m called Fitz.”

There was that restraint she’d heard before in his voice. “You don’t like your given name?”

“No.”

His curt response effectively curtailed her next question. “Then allow me to say”-with her desires clearly on the rise once again, she was selfishly avoiding any offense-“I look forward to getting to know you better, Fitz.”

“Who made your gown?” His given name-his father’s name-rife with discord, he deliberately changed the subject.

“One of Sofia’s friends designed it. Would you like it off?”

She continued to surprise him. “Yes, I would,” he replied with equal frankness. “Let me help you.”

Sliding off his lap, she rose to her feet, her earlier equivocation long since taken flight. “Unbutton the back for me.”

As she turned her back to him, his mouth curved in a smile. The lady no longer required wooing.

He was back on familiar ground.

Spreading his legs, he pulled her between his thighs and reached for the silk covered buttons at the neck of her gown.

FIVE MINUTES LATER, she was standing nude before him, her dress draped on the back of his chair, her chemise, drawers, and petticoat in a pile on a nearby table. She was clearly restless and impatient, her nipples taut, her skin pinked in arousal, her hips undulating faintly as if she could barely wait until he was undressed and inside her.

To that end, Fitz was swiftly disrobing, dropping his clothes on the floor with male disregard for subtleties. His jacket, waistcoat, shirt, and tie were off, as were his shoes and socks. He was unbuttoning his trousers when she whispered, “Let me do that.”

He looked up, the wistful longing in her voice instantly bringing his erection to full mast. Is this real or play? Then he let his hands drop to his sides and said, “Be my guest,” because it didn’t really matter which it was.

She reminded him of an innocent maid, so tentative were her actions, her hands shaking as she unfastened a button. Or maybe just an impatient widow, he thought, although the style of woman mattered little to his libido. Only with effort did he resist pushing her head down and shoving his cock into her mouth. It took even more constraint not to pick her up, carry her to the bed, and plunge into her lush body.