Susan Johnson - Sexy As Hell

It took a moment for his words to register, overwhelmed as she was with rapacious desire. And another moment for her to try to find the breath to speak. She nodded instead, incapable of more with the steady, pounding ache between her legs obscuring all else.

“Do you know my name?” For some inexplicable reason, he took umbrage at her fevered frenzy, but even as she tried to speak, he mentally stepped back from the iniquitous brink and smiled. “Don’t bother, darling,” he soothed, telling himself to count his blessings. Whether she knew who she was fucking or not, a night of pure excess was not to be disparaged.

Dispensing with further unwanted emotion, he guided his cock into her silken cleft, slowly invaded her, and set about bringing this particular stage of their amorous encounter to an end.

Long past any notion of leisurely sex, Isolde swiftly slid her hands down his back, cupped his firm buttocks, and with surprising strength propelled him forward. “More,” she ordered, as a countess in her own right was wont to do, the single word faint but audible.

Perhaps more familiar with accommodating females or less familiar with demanding ones, or maybe taking issue with her blind carnal need, Oz gruffly said, “You want more?”

Her eyes opened briefly at the low, guttural sound.

Not quite sure why he bridled at the lady’s explosive sexuality, nor currently reasonable enough to resolve his peremptory impulses, he instead relinquished further thought, plunged forward, drove into her with barely restrained violence, and gave her what she wanted.

Her scream rocked him back on his heels.

“No, no, no!” she precipitously cried, desperately clutching his hips to drag him back.

Quickly scanning her face-although there was no mistaking her fierce grip-he decided she wasn’t in pain. “Hush-here, I’m back,” he whispered, gliding in again, bottoming out in her intoxicating heat, resting engulfed and motionless in her snug cunt while a raw, spine-tingling ecstasy bombarded his senses.

Her small, blissful sigh brought a smile to his lips, her soft exhalation strangely touching. Although why it struck him so was a mystery. But not enough of a mystery to alter his irrepressible carnal focus. Grasping her hips firmly, he drove in that slight intoxicating distance more-where the world disappeared and only pure feeling held sway.

Her manifestation of pleasure was no high-pitched scream that time but a series of whisper-soft gasps punctuated with little breathy moans that echoed lewd and sibilant in the quiet of the room.

And the reason that explicitly needy, salacious little sound was drifting into his ears, he pleasantly thought, giving himself up to the soul-stirring rapture, was because his cock was buried in her delectable cunt. Because he’d found safe haven in this soft-as-silk enchantress. Because he’d discovered a measure of paradise in room thirteen of Blackwood’s Hotel and suddenly, inexplicably all was right with the world.

He felt curiously alive for the first time in ages. There was no explanation, nor was he actually interested in one. A practical man, he was rather more interested in reconstituting the indescribable, all-encompassing, cosmic bliss. Slowly withdrawing in order not to upset the lady, he drove back in again. And then again. And once again-with deftness and ingenuity, with competence and expertise garnered in temples throughout India. The path to ecstasy had been refined over thirty-five centuries, and with conscientious study he’d come to appreciate the concept of the divine body as the source of infinite delight.

The countess feverishly clung to him as he masterfully transported them toward orgasm, meeting his downstrokes with wild eagerness, whimpering softly each time he withdrew, distrait, wanting more.

Then she’d sigh as he filled her again, her little sumptuous exhalation inevitably making him smile. Miss Perceval, he cheerfully decided after her second riotous climax, was a damnable gift from the gods, a unique blend of joyous innocence and shamelessness, sweetly and sometimes not so sweetly asking him for more, always taking what he gave with a voracious appetite.

Gentleman that he was, he saw that she came several more times before he allowed himself fulfillment. Well trained in his youth by the mystics as well as the courtesans in Hyderabad, he was capable of withholding his orgasms. But not forever.

Even in extremis, though, he was practical.

He came on the countess’s stomach.

Having seen too many illegitimate children in India struggle for identity in the ambiguous no-man’s-land they occupied, he didn’t want to add to that population. There or here.

Once his breathing returned to a semblance of normal and reality reaffirmed itself, he wiped the countess’s stomach with the sheet while she lay, eyes shut and unresisting-other than a soft groan when he rubbed her dry between her legs. To which sound his cock instantly reacted, as if her voice alone was magnet to his lust. Drawing in a breath of restraint, he reminded himself that the night was still young and proceeded to wipe himself off rather than plunge back into her enticing little cunt.

Tossing the soiled sheet on the floor, he dropped into a comfortable sprawl, put his arms behind his head, and gazing up at the tester, basked in an agreeable surfeit of excess. And rare contentment.

So rare he found himself subscribing the feeling to some mystical force that had come into play in this hotel room in London.

“I’m so pleased that actor didn’t arrive,” Isolde whispered, lifting up on one elbow to smile at him as though in answer to his musings. “You’re quite lovely in every imaginable way.”

He wasn’t about to say, You make me feel strangely content, so he said, “I consider myself fortunate to have blundered into your room.”

“It must be fate.”

“Indeed.” And a certain degree of motivation on my part. “Although, I’m not finished yet,” he said, putting his odd feelings into a more familiar context. “We’ve plenty of time til morning.”

“How nice,” she said, running a light fingertip across his muscled chest. “I didn’t dare ask for fear of appearing too forward.”

His gaze was amused. “Really-after your repeated demands for more?”

“Mock if you wish, but I hardly know you. I didn’t feel I could ask for more now… I mean, now that-you’ve finished.”

Her lovers apparently hadn’t had stamina. “I’m just pausing for a moment. So demand away,” he pleasantly declared.

“You’re not annoyed?”

“No. Gratified certainly, annoyed-not likely. You’re a captivating little puss, Miss Perceval. Tell me,” he said, curious when he never was, “do you do this often?”

“I don’t see that it’s any of your concern.”

“Forgive me,” he suavely returned. “Naturally, it’s not.”

“Do you do this often?”

“Too often. You’re a damned refreshing change.”

“Another jaded gentleman. Why am I not surprised?”

“If it’s any consolation, jaded is not a feeling I recommend.”

“Then why do you do it?”

“Boredom, ennui, who knows,” he finished with a shrug. “You must live in the country,” he added, preferring less-encumbered subjects.

“Yes.”

“And you don’t wish to disclose where.”

She sighed. “I don’t know why. After the papers come out tomorrow morning, you’ll know anyway.”

“So?”

“I live near Cambridge.”

“That’s not very definitive.”

“Two miles north of town.”

“Better. What do you do there?”

“Take care of my estates.”

His brows lifted faintly. “For your despicable cousin to inherit.”

“Don’t remind me,” she grumbled.

“Why not marry? That would solve your problem.”

“Are you asking?” she playfully inquired.

“Lord no.” For a frightening moment he wondered if his earlier fear of being gulled had been mere prologue to this authentic gulling. “Don’t say you planned this for I tell you straight out, no one can make me marry.”

“Rest easy, Lennox. I don’t wish to shackle you or myself for that matter.”

Reassured, Oz drew her into his arms and set out to please her and himself in the bargain.

They made love that night slowly and gently, fiercely and wildly, like young lovers learning the other’s likes and dislikes for the first time. Neither were innocents, and yet they experienced simple long-forgotten pleasures in each other’s arms. They talked as well with a degree of candor neither had previously offered their lovers. She discovered he was alone in the world, his family gone. He discovered she was living an equally solitary life without close family. Maybe their common singleness put them in sympathy, or maybe it was their declared ambition to remain unmarried that prompted their unusual accord.

They both meant it, too, for possibly similar and unspoken reasons.

Near sunrise, they finally fell asleep in each other’s embrace after what could only be characterized as a night of extraordinary pleasure.

EXHAUSTED, THEY SLEPT late. And so they would have continued if they’d not been wakened by Malmsey shouting and pounding on the adjoining door.

“He’s your barrister,” Oz grumbled, levering his eyes open. “But I’d be more than happy to tell him to go to hell.”

Dragged from a glorious dream starring Lennox, Isolde struggled to come awake, to make sense of Malmsey’s clamorous outcries. Then she heard the name Frederick and instantly came alert. “It’s about my cousin,” she muttered, pulling away from Oz’s embrace, sitting up and throwing her legs over the side of the bed in one swift motion.

“The loathsome one,” he muttered, fully awake now, tossing aside the covers.

“The same.” Dashing to the armoire, she snatched up her dressing gown and called out, “I’ll be right there, Malmsey!”