Susan Johnson - Sexy As Hell

“Always for you,” she whispered, wiggling against his finger. Reaching up, she brushed the light bruises on his neck. “And these are for me.”

He laughed when in the past he would have risen and left. “Is that a fact?”

Her smile was bright and she spoke not rationally, but with her heart. “They mark you as mine.”

“In that case I’ll have to make you mine,” he drawled, fully rational and proficient at this game, his cock apparently engaged in some endurance contest. Rolling over her, he slid her under him with practiced ease and plunged into her slick sweetness with the unclouded concentration of a libertine in full command of his much-practiced talents. “This is mine,” he whispered, withdrawing completely and driving in again. “And this… and this… and this,” his lower body slamming into her on each blunt utterance.

She gasped at each forceful downstroke, a soft, breathy pleasure sound, and on each upstroke, she clung to him-loathe to lose him.

It was never enough-no matter how many times they climaxed that afternoon.

They were filled with lust, vibrating with lust.

Seething, feverish, out of control.

Until wild-eyed and hysterical, she shoved him away, fell on her stomach, and shuddered uncontrollably.

Oz gently stroked her back until her tremors ceased.

She rolled over then, her eyes wet with tears. “Hold me.” He gathered her into his arms, settled her on his lap, and leaning back against the sofa arm, held her with unaffected tenderness. He whispered all the love words, the play words, the amorous phrases meant to soothe and placate and disarm. He knew them well, glibly some would say, but his make-believe wife pleased him and he willingly uttered the words of affection.

She fell asleep quickly, like an exhausted child after too much excitement.

He waited for her breathing to settle before carefully shifting his position and easing her onto the sofa. Placing a pillow under her head, he covered her with a paisley shawl, and in an unprecedented gesture of sentiment, bent and kissed her cheek.

Conscious of the time, his dressing was swiftly accomplished, and when he left the room, he closed the door with the utmost quietness.

Going directly to the conservatory, he ignored the pointed interest of the young seamstresses and apologized to Mrs. Aubigny. “I understand the delay is a serious inconvenience with time so limited. Allow me to offer you a substantial monetary incentive to both forgive the interruption and bring in additional help to complete my wife’s gown. I do apologize,” he said again.

“There’s no need to apologize,” the Frenchwoman said, fully conscious of Lennox’s wealth as well as the power of amour. His lordship was still sweating, his hair damp. “My lady has a mind of her own. It alleviates the boredom, I wager.”

“Indeed,” Oz replied with a faint smile. During the past two years, he’d spent considerable time in Mrs. Aubigny’s shop with one woman or another; he and the modiste were on friendly terms.

“I’ll need the fabric, of course,” she said with a lift of her brows.

“A servant will fetch it. Ask Josef for whatever else you need and he’ll see to it. Davey will bring you the additional bank draft for your trouble, and when my lady wakes, I’ll see if she’s available for another fitting. Although, I’m not sure,” he carefully said, “if she will be or not.”

“I have her measurements.”

His expression cleared. “I thought you might. Excellent. By seven then.”

“Yes, my lord.”

He bowed with grace. “I’m in your debt.”

She watched him walk away, the brilliant light in the conservatory betraying the bruises on his neck as well as the bite marks on his ear left by his wife’s passion. Despite his bride’s look of innocence, they appeared well matched. As for Lennox, his wildness was common knowledge. He was also as experienced as any man when it came to amour. He wouldn’t have been marked unless he’d allowed it.

Oz went next to meet with the jeweler.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Martin,” he said, walking into his office and smiling at the heavyset man who looked more like a prizefighter than a jeweler. “Did you get coffee? Good. I hope you have pearls.”

“Some very fine ones, sir. The kind that rarely come on the market.”

“Sounds intriguing.” Oz pulled up a chair beside the jeweler. “I’m sure my wife will appreciate them,” he said with such obvious good cheer Martin was taken aback.

Martin, as the premier jeweler to those of prodigious wealth, had served Lord Lennox on occasions too numerous to count, but none in which the baron had appeared in such jovial spirits. He wasn’t a man one would characterize as jovial. Or even animated; his natural reserve was as notable as his willfulness.

Martin briefly wondered at his lordship’s sobriety. He was known to drink away his days with some frequency. But after a surreptitious glance as he was laying out the splendid necklace of large matched pearls, Martin saw that the baron was surprisingly sober.

He gently arranged the pearls in a circle on the pad of black velvet he’d set on the small table before him. “This exquisite piece was a Napoleonic trophy brought back from Italy-from a Venetian collection. The maker’s mark on the diamond clasp, however, indicates Constantinople as the original provenance, with the original recipient Empress Theodosia. See-here-the imperial cipher.”

Oz leaned forward to witness the imperial stamp. “I’ll take it,” he said, sitting back and offering Martin a smile. “I don’t suppose you have earrings to match?”

“Unfortunately not. Sets rarely survive the centuries. But I have some superb pearl pendant earrings you might appreciate.”

“I’m sure I will. Your taste is always impeccable.”

Martin spread out a collection of expensive baubles; Lennox only wanted the best. A design question from the baron, another about a diamond clasp, a query as to gem-stone quality, one about a goldsmith, and their business was quickly done. Lennox generally knew what he wanted, but then Martin understood the baron owned ruby mines in India. He wasn’t a novice with gems. In short order Martin left Lennox House with a light step and a broad smile. The baron never quibbled over price, but more surprising-as gossip suggested-he seemed enamored of his new wife. His lordship had purchased all the jewelry shown him, including the diamond and onyx tiger brooch that was so dear even the Prince of Wales had balked at the price.

Needless to say, the faint scent of sex clinging to the young lord’s person, in addition to the disheveled state of the baron’s clothing and hair, bore witness to the fact that he’d only recently left his wife’s bed. As any jeweler knew, such gratifying creature comforts lent themselves to a certain generosity on the part of husbands.

ISOLDE ’SGOOD HUMOR was as fulsome as Oz’s when she woke, or rather when he woke her with a kiss.

Drowsy with sleep, she wrapped her arms around his neck and whispered, “I need you for a few minutes if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind, but my valet will,” Oz lightly said, untwining her arms from around his neck. “Karim’s been fussing over me for the past half hour.”

Isolde eyes snapped open. “You’re dressed!”

“As you see.” Oz was splendid in full evening rig, diamond studs sparkling down his shirt front, his black unruly hair schooled into place.

“Good God, how long did I sleep?”

“It’s seven.”

“Seven!”

“You needn’t panic, darling.” His voice was particularly indulgent-a contrast to long held custom, the afternoon of wild, frantic sex no doubt cause for his conversion. “Your bath is being drawn, Mrs. Aubigny and servants are awaiting your commands in your dressing room, and Achille has sent up a small collation to tide you over until he serves his lavish reception repast. You have well over two hours.”

She groaned. “I find you thoroughly disagreeable.”

He smiled. “No you don’t.” Her orgasmic screams were still vivid in his memory. “One evening, sweetheart, and you’re free of any further appearances. Your obligation to society and to my inflexibility on the subject will be over.”

“Then I may be rude to you again without fear of your ruthless temper?” she sweetly said.

“As rude as you wish.”

“Arrogant man. As if I can resist you.”

“Hold that thought,” he said with a grin, “and we’ll both better survive this tedious affair. Thank you, by the way, for this afternoon. You’re damned entertaining, and my bites and bruises hardly show.”

She blushed furiously. “Oh Lord, what will people think?”

“That I’m a very lucky man. Now come, darling, a good number of people are awaiting you.”

“Must I?”

“Duty has it own rewards,” he drolly noted.

“How would you know?”

“I believe one of my tutors had me write that phrase a thousand times. But in your case, I’d be happy to serve as your reward.”

“How can I refuse?” she purred.

“How indeed when you haven’t had an orgasm in three hours.” At the look in her eyes, he quickly put up his hand. “Afterward, darling. If I disarrange so much as a hair on my head, Karim will sulk for a week.”

“In the interests of household amity,” she said with a pout not altogether feigned, “I suppose I must renounce my desires.”

“I’ll make it up to you.”

Her smile was instant. “How nice.”

OZ TOOK CURIOUS pleasure in watching Isolde bathe and dress, even sharing in the light collation Achille had sent up, when he’d previously steeled himself with a good deal of liquor for occasions such as this. How many times had he impatiently watched some lover taking overlong to outfit herself or primp before a mirror for his benefit, how many times had he counted the minutes and drunk to excess? Tonight he was practically sober, his drink at hand but barely touched, his enjoyment of the intimate scene affording him a degree of contentment long absent from his life.