“I can smell you, that’s all. You need me.”

“So I should jettison my principles.”

“We’re talking about sex, darling-not principles. You feel good, I feel good, we feel good together. Don’t make it complicated.”

“What a romantic soul,” she sneered.

“I didn’t know it was romance you wanted. I thought it was hard cock.”

“And you’re here to serve me.”

“You could have had two orgasms by now.” He didn’t say, I don’t have all day, but that’s what he meant.

Quite independent of logic and good judgment, the word orgasms was instant impetus to another flame-hot wave of prurient sensation, her body reminding her flamboyantly and graphically of the inexpressible bliss of sexual congress with the glorious Lord Lennox. “Very well,” she briskly said. “I yield to your pragmatism and irresistible charm,” she acidly added. “But Mrs. Aubigny will never forgive you.”

He was tempted to ask her whether her crosspatch tone precluded screaming during orgasm but decided against it in the interests of speed and future harmony. “Don’t worry about Mrs. Aubigny. I’ll deal with her.”

“After you deal with me.”

He smiled. “I have my priorities.”

“Sex first, last, and always.”

“Same as yours.”

“Just for the moment,” she matter-of-factly said, having come to terms with her insatiable desire for her husband, the fierce pulsing between her legs a potent reminder of the immense pleasure he delivered.

“At last we agree. So tell me what you want,” he murmured, moving toward a large red damask, down-cushioned sofa. “Slow, fast, nothing but orgasms, or playtime?” Bending, he deposited her on the scarlet cushions.

She looked up at him with a mocking smile. “You’re giving me a choice?”

“Of course.” He had what he wanted; the menu was hers to choose.

“First, a few orgasms,” she neatly said. “After that-playtime.”

As if he didn’t know. “My pleasure, sweetheart,” he blandly replied, sliding his frock coat down his arms, undressing with more than his usual speed.

But she was trembling when he lowered himself between her legs, her sex his current Nirvana, and it took no more than a second to bury himself to the hilt in her tight little cunt. They both stopped breathing for an instant while the earth steadied on its axis and more practiced, or perhaps more impatient after so much useless resistance, Oz moved first. But she wouldn’t let him withdraw, her grip on his back sensationally strong. “Stay,” she whispered, inundated by bliss.

Since he was infinitely stronger and single-mindedly intent on pleasure, he broke free and launched himself into a driving rhythm of thrust and withdrawal he was confident she’d like even better.

It was like an explosion of bodies the first time, forceful and wild, predatory, neither interested in anything but taking and taking. Isolde was wet with craving and lust, voracious; Oz’s cock was so hard his eyes were slits against the agonizing ache. Both were frenzied, impatient, resentful, too, of their mutual compulsions, engaged in something more than fornication as they hammered their way to a violent climax that ended with Isolde in tears.

Dragging her into his arms, Oz kissed away her tears, whispered apologies that were more courteous than penitent, and wondered why sex with her was so different. Lurid instead of lucid, crude, rude, and barbarous-a desperate onslaught he was unable to contain. And the more he fucked her, the more he wanted her. Not his usual pattern where tedium quickly extinguished desire.

But Isolde suddenly twined her arms around his neck, pressed her soft, lush body against his, began kissing him back with sweet fervor, and his thoughts focused on more pertinent issues.

Soon their skin was slippery with sweat, Oz’s hair was damp, Isolde’s blonde tresses clung in coils on her face and neck as they explored sensory overload in a swift succession of orgasms. Not that anyone was counting orgasms or was even rational enough to count. Not that even a scintilla of thought was involved in their continuous, frantic coupling.

She shoved Oz away once, pushed him on his back, and straddled his hips with a kind of purposeful concentration that brought a furrow to her brow.

Lying spread-eagle on the sofa, Oz flicked his wet hair behind his ears with his forefingers and grinned at his rosy-cheeked wife, who was up on her knees, absorbed in conducting the head of his penis to her slick cleft. “Don’t I get time to catch my breath?”

“No,” she said without looking up, in the process of lowering herself over his undiminished erection. A moment later she came to rest on his thighs with a contented sigh and met his amused gaze. “You’re my new toy. Mmm.” She shifted slightly to experience the full measure of his massive size.

He groaned, his libido highly charged and infinitely resilient in close proximity to his wife. She was a damned fine jockey, too, he decided soon after, watching her ride him, feeling a deep sense of gratitude as she languidly slid up and down his erection. And when her desires reached that wild, impassioned stage he was beginning to recognize, she shut her eyes, threw back her head, and rode him full tilt. Grabbing her hips, he secured his hold on her slippery skin, saved her from tumbling off, and saved himself from unnecessary injury.

In their frenzied search for sensation that fine winter day, desire and lust melded in a tempestuous composite of slick skin and melting friction, sweet stickiness and sweeter rapture, redolent scents and lush tastes, heartrending touch, all faintly wild, fresh, and new. New even to a jaded man.

For Isolde, every sensation was new.

She’d led a different life than Oz.

“I’m broadening my horizons,” she playfully murmured much later, trailing kisses over Oz’s face as he rested briefly between bouts. “Does that feel good?”

“Do fish swim?”

“Perfect. Hmm… you have such beautiful eyes.” She brushed her mouth over his dark brows. “And a perfect nose.” A light kiss down the bridge of his nose. “And of course your delicious mouth.” When she finally lifted her lips from his, her breathing was labored and her lips were pursed in a sulk. “Must you do everything so damned professionally?”

He laughed. “Is that a compliment?”

“I’m practically climaxing after a kiss for God’s sake.”

“If it makes you angry, I won’t kiss you anymore.”

“That’s not the point.”

He knew what the point was and he wasn’t going anywhere near the subject

“How many women have there been?”

He silently groaned. “Need I remind you that you’re not actually my wife?”

“Don’t be so reasonable. I’m not in the mood.”

“I could probably put you in a better mood. Come, dear,” he softly said, “this is a foolish argument.”

Drawing in a small, restorative breath, she reminded herself of their temporary arrangement, reminded herself as well that taking issue with the women in Oz’s life was useless in countless way. “You’re right; I stand corrected. I’m fine, really. Where was I?” Returning to her amorous play, she kissed the firm line of Oz’s jaw, dipping her head lower after a time to lightly caress the smooth curve of his shoulder blades, his hard, muscled shoulders.

Relaxed now with Isolde’s brief resentment resolved, Oz lay and watched her from under his lashes as she suddenly came up on her knees and pressed her mouth into the little dip at the base of his throat.

And began sucking with vigor.

He lightly touched her head. “You’re going to leave a bruise.”

“I know,” she said against his throat, the vibration drifting down his nerve endings in lush temptation, mitigating a portion of his unease. “I want to,” she whispered, moving upward slightly, adorning his throat with a second brazen imprint.

She was deliberately leaving bruises on his neck when he’d never allowed the London ladies such latitude. His policy was a hands-off one when it came to proprietary claims. The little puss was bold and cheeky. On the other hand, he knew where her trail of kisses would end.

By the time Isolde had satisfied her jealous pangs and paid homage to her husband’s splendid body-kissing and caressing his bulging pectorals, his nipples, the hard ripple of his abdominal muscles, the dip of his navel, the crisp black hair at the juncture of his thighs, Oz was in a cold sweat, curtailing his climax by sheer will alone.

Circling his penis with her fingers, Isolde drew it away from his stomach and met his hot gaze. “You’re not going to last much longer, are you?”

He shook his head.

“Then I suppose it’s up to me to do my wifely duty.”

“Sooner rather than later or you won’t have to,” he said on a suffocated breath.

“But of course I want to. Wait-wait!”

He was almost undone by her wistful zeal, and as she quickly obliged him and the crest of his penis slid into her mouth, he felt an unparalleled suffusion of spine-tingling pleasure. Whether it was her accommodating mouth, the continuous assault on his libido, or the rare level of delirium she incited, the fierceness of his ejaculation coursed through his body like a shock wave.

When Isolde swallowed the last drop and he was debating whether he was paralyzed or could still move, she slid up his body and kissed him on the mouth, her lips still wet with semen. Lifting her head, she smiled at him. “How was that? Do I please you, my lord?”

He smiled. “It was perfect, darling, and yes, you please me. I must send Fremont a thank-you gift.”

“Not just yet,” she sweetly said. “If you don’t mind.”

“Not while I still have a heartbeat,” he replied with a grin, sliding a finger inside her as if her willingness was ever at issue. She was open and ready, her cunt slick and warm, pulsing around his finger. “The gates of paradise are ever open, I see.”