Susan Johnson - Sexy As Hell

“Fuck me anyway.”

“I should refuse.”

“You don’t want to, and I won’t let you in any case. Let me apologize in advance. I’m not in the mood for resistance. Perhaps it was the long afternoon of worthless, vain, and empty conversation. Now, come here,” he said, crossing his legs easily in a yoga pose, knees wide, feet together. “Sit on my lap.”

She should take offense at his volatile presumption and bluntness, and yet every impressionable nerve in her body was not only in full compliance but shamelessly eager. “On your lap?”

“A euphemism, darling. I expect you’ll sit where it pleases you best.”

“What if I said your brazen insolence is wearing?”

“I’d say come here anyway. I want to feel you around my cock.”

“Maybe I won’t.”

He should have coaxed or cajoled; he knew perfectly well how to do both. But the long afternoon of tea and malice had left him thin-skinned and restive and he wasn’t in the mood. “Sure you will.” Leaning over, he smoothly lifted her onto his lap facing him. Ignoring her scowling protests, he wrapped her legs around his hips, quickly slid his hand under her bottom, raised her enough to adjust his cock precisely under her sleek cleft with his other hand, and shifting his grip to her hips, rammed her down his rigid length.

He knew, she knew, they both knew, protests aside, all was forgiven the moment he was completely submerged and her honeyed sweetness fully engulfed his rampant erection.

A strumming, mutual enchantment brought the world to a standstill.

“How do you do this to me?” she finally whispered. “Make me want you and need you-with or without cake,” she finished with a smile. “I’m ravenous for you.”

“Perfect. Hush, now, don’t move-listen.”

He spoke to her, softly, softly, explaining how to feel her heartbeat, her pulse, the tingling nerves in her fingers and toes, him inside her, the liquid heat that bathed their sex. His voice was hushed and low, his hands warm on the small of her back, his erection swelling inside her as he sat motionless and held her stationary.

Then he spoke in a language she didn’t understand, the phrasing and syntax lyrical, melodic, the tenor of his voice seeming to touch her inside-slowly at first and diminuendo. Harder and stronger after a time, each syllable alive, a fingerprint on her senses, eclipsing reality, taking her deeper and deeper into a fathomless pleasure where lust devoured temperate emotions and only boundless, heart-stirring passion held sway.

When it finally happened, she climaxed with starry-eyed wonder and wanton artlessness and a very soft, breathy cry.

She lifted her lashes after a time and met Oz’s placid gaze. “How did you like it?” he said.

“Was that poetry?”

He nodded.

“As you already know, I’m sure, considering your many talents, I liked it very much indeed. I’m sorry I can’t return the favor.”

He raised her up his erection. “You can return the favor just fine,” he whispered and slid her back down his rigid cock. “This won’t take long.”

It didn’t, but then Isolde wanted more and then he did and so it went through a long and bewitching night.

It was almost morning when Isolde said, “For something that began as a temporary solution, I seem to have become rather dependent on your stud services.”

He dropped a kiss on her forehead as she rested on his shoulder. “I’m not complaining. Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m not worried so much as trying to understand what’s happening to me.”

“We’re enjoying each other’s company, darling. That’s all.”

“You’re right. There’s no need to decipher every nuance.”

“Speaking of nuance-once more before morning?”

“I’m going to die of pleasure.”

“I won’t let you. I’ll be gentle. I’ll barely move.”

He didn’t and he was gentle and she nearly died of pleasure.

She fell asleep shortly after, and content and gratified, Oz watched over his new bride.

She was the first woman in a very long time who’d engaged his interest.

Perhaps naive country girls were a welcome change from the hothouse flowers of the ton. Perhaps her charming artlessness appealed. Or the fact that when roused, she was really quite remarkable. Or maybe it was nothing more than the fact that he was dealing out justice to a cur like Compton.

He smiled. Or all of the above.

Whatever the reasons, he found himself contemplating the future with a new degree of pleasure.

That he even thought beyond the moment was a radical change for a man who’d lived by a carpe diem philosophy since arriving in England.

And even more surprising, toward dawn, he fell into a restful sleep, something that had long eluded him.

ISOLDE WOKE THE next morning to find herself alone in bed.

But not alone.

A young servant girl was standing at the foot of the bed, staring at her.

“Good morning, ma’am. Did you sleep well?” The words were obviously rehearsed, the delivery so conscientious and exacting.

Isolde smiled. “Thank you, yes.”

“I’m to tell the baron when you wake.” A pondering frown flitted across the girl’s brow, and then her expression brightened at sudden recall. “He’ll be up directly, ma’am.” She displayed a gap-toothed smile. “That be all he said, ma’am. Now, I’m to go get him right quick.” Spinning around, she dashed from the room.

How long had the child been standing there watching her sleep? Isolde wondered. Her new husband was remarkably thoughtful of her comfort, and not only in this regard. He’d given her a night of unparalleled pleasure.

The heavy drapes had been drawn back from one of the large windows-to aid in her surveillance, no doubt. Rain drummed on the glass, the grey sky heavy with scudding clouds. But a fire crackled on the hearth, warming the room, mitigating the dreariness outside. Not that the inauspicious weather impacted Isolde’s unclouded mood. Her honeymoon night-however fanciful the marriage-had been pure rapture.

She even more fully understood why all Oz’s lovers had glared at her yesterday.

They hated her for stealing away their favorite playmate. Although, she suspected they knew it was just a matter of time before Oz tired of marriage. Most aristocratic husbands did.

Before she could long lament the inevitable, the door opened and her favorite playmate strode into the room. He was splendidly attired, his dark frock coat beautifully tailored, his pale grey cravat tied with careless perfection, his ruffled curls restrained by his valet’s attentions. The large sapphire on his watch fob sparkled in the subdued light; his smile was equally dazzling. “You’re up.”

“You’ve apparently been up for some time.”

“Business before pleasure. Or so they tell me, and Davey gets up with the sun. How did you sleep?”

“Like the dead.”

She had the look of a tomb effigy as well, he humorously thought, her hands crossed over her breast, her pose quiescent. “I hope marriage won’t be too exhausting for you.” Taking a seat on the edge of the bed, he covered her hands with his. “If I was too demanding last night, I’m sorry.”

“I wouldn’t dream of complaining,” she said, smiling.

“Nor I. No man could have asked for a better bridal night.” His smile was as graceful as his turn of phrase. “However,” he said, drawing his hand away, “events of the day must be addressed.”

A small trepidation flitted through her senses at his painstakingly deliberate tone.

“Achille is pacing in the breakfast room, awaiting your arrival. Something about strawberry crepes that are no longer at optimum temperature. I told him I’m sure you wouldn’t care. I’ve already entertained Jess, who couldn’t wait. By the way, you must try Achille’s mango custard or he’ll pout. So, the first question is-would you like your bath first or food?”

“You first would be nice.”

“I agree. If only I didn’t have people waiting to see me in my office.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Already abandoned on my honeymoon.”

“Not for long. We’ll become reacquainted this afternoon.” Leaning forward, he gently kissed her. “In the meantime,” he said, sitting up, a note of restraint evident now in his voice, “I have another question to put to you. Would you mind being introduced to the ton in a more formal way than yesterday? Let me explain,” he added at her instant frown. “It seems that Compton is spreading rumors that our marriage is a farce.” Oz had a well-paid spy network here and abroad; a necessity in the world of banking where competitors often overlooked ethics. “I thought it might be best to have you make your bows at an official reception so the entire ton can see we are not only married but in love. You’ll look adoringly at me, I’ll return the favor, and we’ll foil these mischievous rumors while Compton stews in the corner.”

“You’d invite him?”

“Of course. Our most skeptical doubter must have a front-row seat.”

“Along with Lady Howe, I presume.”

“That I leave up to you. If you don’t wish to see her, I understand. On the other hand-”

“She’s your most skeptical doubter.”

“Yes.”

She pulled a face. “Must we?”

“Since you won’t let me put a bullet through Compton, yes we must. The man’s a scoundrel to the bone,” he said with a touch of impatience.

“I’d just prefer a less public way of dealing with him.” She frowned. “I’d have to be polite to him in front of everyone. I was hoping never to see him again.”

“You’ve led too sheltered a life, darling. Between marriage to me and your denouement in the broadsheets you’ve stepped into the glare of notoriety. There is no less public way,” he said with composure. “Especially since Compton’s spent considerable effort denouncing our marriage as a fabrication. Let me take care of this for you. Agree to this reception.”