Susan Johnson - Sexy As Hell

The worst kind of heavy-handed tyranny suddenly overwhelmed his senses, the feelings unnatural for a man who generally played at love. For some ungodly reason, Isolde brought out the brute in him. He should send her home before he hurt her.

Then like a sorceress inducing him to succumb, he heard her soft plea.

“Please, Oz, I need you,” she implored, impelled by her own demons, lust a constant whenever she was within sight of her husband, reason yielding to incomparable need.

He took a deep breath, still marginally in control. “I might hurt you.”

“You won’t. You can’t. Please, Oz,” she whispered. “I’m not in the least fragile.”

“In the event you turn out to be wrong, scream or hit me if I get out of hand,” he cautioned. “I mean it.”

“I’ll hit you if you don’t give me what I want,” she hotly retorted, swiveling around to glare at him, wanton desire an irrepressible pulsing ache inside her. “I don’t need politesse. I need you now!”

Could any man refuse? Although the fact that she suddenly reached behind her, grabbed his erection in a fierce hard grip, and swung her hips back to meet the swollen crest of his cock served as added incentive.

And quickly resolved his qualms.

At which point, he obliged her or she obliged him; it wasn’t absolutely clear who ultimately did what to whom. But he rammed into her luscious cunt as he’d promised himself he wouldn’t, and she welcomed the hard, lusty pounding with an equally gluttonous fervor.

Neither had ever felt such desperation, nor equated sex with violence, or felt the smallest impulse to engage in wild, brute fornication with others. But then neither had ever felt the faintest jealousy with anyone else or cared so much as to be desperate-not that such outrй emotions were acknowledged in the course of the fiery, tempestuous mania that resembled a combat zone more than what passed for dalliance in the fashionable world.

When Oz eventually climaxed, his ejaculation left him momentarily lightheaded and gasping for air.

Isolde hadn’t thought her orgasms could get any better, but this one did, shocking her senses with a hot, intense blaze of glory and a flying-too-close-to-the-sun ferocity that left her prostrate.

“I should move,” Oz murmured, semicollapsed on her back, his weight lightly supported above her.

“Don’t,” she breathed, shifting slightly to better feel his hard cock. “You feel wonderful.”

“Speaking of wonderful.” Flexing his thighs, he forced his erection deeper, gently testing the limits of her vagina. “You keep me in constant rut.”

“And that’s a good thing.”

“How good.” He drove deeper.

“Better than anything.”

“Damn right,” he whispered, his voice husky. “I’ve been thinking of locking you in a room and keeping you here for sex.”

“I might let you.”

“You might not have a choice.”

“Better yet.” She felt his laugh on her back and inside her, and if it were possible to measure pleasure and happiness, hers would run off the charts.

“My bewitching little wife. How the hell do you do it?”

“I could ask the same of you. Perhaps it’s karma.”

She wondered afterward what in those few words had irrevocably altered the mood. She never did know, but he suddenly withdrew, shoved a towel between her legs, and left the bed to pour himself another drink.

He didn’t throw her out; he wasn’t so discourteous. He just reverted to the charming, practiced rogue who enjoyed sex, who gave pleasure in full measure, who amused with cool versatility and politesse.

Whether he actually counted her orgasms or not, there came a time when she saw him glance at the clock twice in a short span of time.

“Grover’s going to be wondering what happened to me,” she tactfully noted, kissing him lightly on the cheek as he lay beside her, resting from their most recent climax. “I can’t thank you enough for your hospitality this afternoon.”

His dark lashes lifted, and turning his head, he smiled at her. “Come again. You’re always welcome.”

A dismissal, however gracious.

In the course of their dressing, he spoke of trivialities with an urbanity that bespoke of other times like this when leave-takings had turned awkward.

He helped her with her toilette, laying out a brush and comb, shaking the wrinkles out of her skirt with a practiced hand, offering to have his servants iron her gown if she wished.

“No, that’s not necessary,” she said, thinking he always knew the right tone to take. “The long drive home will only add more wrinkles anyway.” And she accepted the comb he held out to her with a smile.

A SHORT TIME later, standing utterly still in the vast entrance hall devoid of servants, Oz said, “I’d be happy to accompany you back to Perceval House.” He was barefoot, dressed only in a shirt and trousers, his hands loose at his sides, his gaze completely shuttered.

Like his heart, Isolde thought. “Please don’t,” she said, conscious of the dearth of servants, wondering if he’d been expecting a scene. “It would only make things worse.”

There was no reply that wouldn’t offend. But he murmured “Thank you for coming” very softly and meant it-that small corner of his soul momentarily exposed.

“You’re entirely welcome.” Her reply was neutral, as if they’d completed some business transaction of no consequence. Then she glanced at the door, Oz quickly moved to open it, and looking out, she saw Sam waiting at the curb.

A moment later, as the carriage pulled away, Oz closed the door and turning on his heel, swiftly made for the bathroom off the entrance hall where he was violently sick.

When it was over, he was white and shaking, gasping for breath. Pushing himself off his knees, he slowly rose to his feet and walked to the green travertine sink. The man in the mirror was wan and gaunt with dilated eyes, his skin moist with sweat. He looked away, turned the faucets on full, rinsed out his mouth, then shoved his head under the stream of hot water until he stopped shaking. Straightening, he smoothed his wet hair back with his palms, wiped his face with a towel, and walking out into the hall, said to Josef, “Don’t let anyone in you don’t know.”

“A problem, sir? Do you need help?” Oz was sweating profusely.

“Not just yet.” And he made for the kitchen, sheer will keeping him upright.

Once there, he waved for Achille to follow him into his apartment and told him to shut the door. As Achille gazed at him with alarm, Oz sat down heavily, spread his arms on the kitchen table as if for support, and lifting his black gaze, said, “I just retched up a deal of blood along with my breakfast. My guts are raw and mutilated. I’m wondering who poisoned me.”

“Christ! You need a doctor!”

“No. There’s nothing he can do anyway. I need to know if we have any new help in the kitchen, in the house, for that matter. Have any tradesmen you don’t recognize been around lately-anyone out of the ordinary?”

“I haven’t noticed, but I’ll ask the staff. Let me get you something-water, coffee, lemon juice and sugar?”

“Water-bottled.” Oz followed Achille with his eyes as he hastened to a cabinet. “I’m dying of thirst. Thank you,” he said a second later as Achille handed him a bottle of Apollinaris, uncapped as he watched.

As Oz drank a small amount, his swallowing impaired by the poison, Achille said, “Someone in India ordered this. Do you know who?”

Oz blinked to clear his blurred vision. “The lovely cartel trying to take over my banks, of course.”

“Have they tried before? You were sick a few mornings ago.”

“I don’t know.” His voice was weak, the room wavering around him. “I thought I’d just drunk too much. But this time there’s no question-I’ve all the symptoms. My heart’s racing, my eyes are dilated so much the light hurts, blurred vision, can’t swallow.

“Belladonna,” Achille said shortly-a favorite in India. “You threw up, though. That should help.”

Neither man said what they were thinking; there was no known antidote.

“Here’s hoping.” Oz clenched his fists against an involuntary tremor convulsing his body. “I feel like shit.”

“We should call a doctor.”

Nothing moved in Oz’s braced body but his gaze. “No.”

“I’ll make you some broth. Something to soothe your stomach.”

Oz grinned faintly. “Not unless you kill the cow yourself. Do you have some cans of anything?”

Achille looked affronted, then quickly said, “I’ll go out and buy some soup myself. I’ll open the can in your room, warm it on the grate.”

“Later. I feel like sleeping.”

Achille knew better than to express his disquietude. Oz had slept erratically or not at all for weeks. The poison must be taking its toll. “We’ll watch over you. Don’t say a word; none of us wants you to die in your sleep.” Convulsions, coma, and death-in that order-were typical of belladonna poisoning.

“Least of all, me.” Oz’s brows flickered. “Especially after my wife’s very agreeable visit. Perhaps I can induce her to call on me again.”

Achille scowled. “She would have stayed if you hadn’t sent her away.”

“Romantic soul,” Oz said gently. “No, she wouldn’t have.”

“Surely you could have convinced her. She’s having your child for Christ’s sake.”

“Ah-the mystery child.”

“You’re an ass,” Achille said with disgust. “But time enough to lecture you when you’re not on your deathbed. You’re going to faint where you sit.”

Oz raised weary eyebrows. “How kind of you to notice. Now, could we get back to more relevant issues? Throw out all the food and liquor-particularly the brandy. It tasted like hell. My enemies chose to poison the liquor, I expect. Fortunately, Isolde drank nothing but tea. Dispose of everything where some scrap man doesn’t scavenge it and die because of me. In the morning-the gods willing-I’ll deal with my detractors.”