Seductive as Flame

by Susan Johnson

  “Will’s my gamekeeper,” Alec explained, rising from his chair and moving toward Zelda. “Thanks to him, I’m the envy of every pheasant-hunting noble in England. My thanks again, Katy. I’ll have someone bring over the other frocks. Or if you prefer, take some of the servants with you.”

  “I might do that.” The dressmaker began gathering up the sewing supplies she’d brought over.

  Having reached Zelda, Alec held out his hand and quietly said, “Ready?”

  “Need you ask?” She, too, spoke in an undertone.

  He smiled.

  “Don’t be smug.”

  “Me?”

  She sniffed. “Insolent man. If you hadn’t kept me waiting so long, I’d walk away.”

  He lowered his hand. “But you’re not going to.”

  “I might.”

  “And I might become king of England, but”—he grinned—“we both know neither of those things are going to happen. So let’s not fight. I can get that anywhere.”

  “I didn’t think all the fawning women would fight with you.”

  Nor would they. “Let’s just say they can annoy me.”

  “And yet?” A steady stare.

  “You can’t masturbate all the time.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  He softly laughed. “May I watch?”

  “If I can watch you.”

  “We’ll work something out. Later.”

  “And now?”

  “I think we should retire next door.”

  “Oh good and finally and thank you,” she said, moving close, sliding her arms around his neck, melting against his body. “Be warned. I’m in a greedy mood.”

  He tensed. Katy was still in the room.

  “I don’t care about her.”

  “I see that.” He, on the other hand, disliked public displays.

  “Are you afraid of her?” Zelda rested her chin on his chest and smiled up at him. “You should be more afraid of me.”

  “Or you of me,” he growled, still not touching her.

  “How afraid?” A soft, feline purr.

  Swearing under his breath, the question of an audience summarily dismissed, he finally moved, placed his hands on her bottom and dragged her hard against his body. “How afraid, you ask? Sound-the-alarm afraid. Pillage-and-loot afraid. Don’t-look-for-help afraid.” It was threat and warning, however softly put.

  “I don’t know if I should be frightened or excited,” she whispered, a small tremor in her words as her breathing quickened. His cock was like a post between them.

  “You just have to be submissive, darling,” he quietly said as the door closed with a click on Katy. “I’ll do the rest.”

  For a flashing moment, carnal expectation hovered dangerous and flame hot in the wake of his words. Was he serious? she wondered even as her senses, immune to intellectual conundrums, feverishly responded. Was he serious? he thought, surprised. Since when did he require submissive with his sex?

  But astonishingly, he found he did with her. And why not? He didn’t require dispensation for his actions. He never had.

  Spreading his fingers wide, he exerted sufficient pressure for her to feel the full extent of his erection—the means, as it were, of his oppression. “I can keep you prisoner if I want. Did you know that?”

  She began to shudder, his stark, unyielding erection hard against her belly a graphic promise of pleasure. Whether she’d heard him or not was a matter of indifference to her necessitous cravings, to every ripe nerve quivering with longing. Her body opened in welcome. “Please, Alec,” she whispered. “I’ve waited long enough. Please!”

  “Soon.” His novel need for mastery prevailed.

  “Don’t do this,” she wailed, moving her hips against his erection. “I need you!”

  “You want this?” He matched the rhythm of her lower body.

  She whimpered; he was huge. “Yes, yes, oh God, yes . . .”

  For a jaded man, he’d forgotten satisfaction could be so sweet. “Yes to anything?” he quietly said as she shivered in his arms.

  “Yes—yes . . . anything.” Disjointed, breathless words.

  “I can’t hear you.” It was cruel to ask for abject capitulation, a perverse quid pro quo perhaps for his own irrepressible need.

  His words were half muted by the lustful pounding in her ears. “Whatever you want,” she gasped.

  He wanted everything, he thought. He wanted to exhaust himself in her. He wanted to possess and occupy her like the lord of the manor he was. He wanted to put his practice makes perfect sexual credo to maximum use. “I’ll show you what I want,” he said, forcing himself to speak mildly. “In a minute.” Then he lowered his head and kissed her like he felt—brutish and afflicted.

  This from a man who’d always viewed amour as casual play—a man who often wasn’t sure whom he was kissing or fucking after a bottle or two, a man who’d cultivated a masterful lack of involvement.

  Now, suddenly, sex was no longer sex as entertainment. It was gut-wrenching and primal, a force majeure impulse without mercy. A full-scale burning of bridges and taking what he wanted.

  And he knew about that.

  Having lived a less troubled life, Zelda was immune to mind-wheeling tumult. She wanted only orgasmic surcease, now, immediately—then again and beyond again. She’d been craving Dalgliesh since before she’d reached Crosstrees, lunch had been almost unendurable, and how she’d survived the dress fitting was testament alone to her indomitable will.

  And now, headstrong and determined—enough was enough!

  She broke his grip easily or he let her, and as she reached for his trouser buttons, she snapped, “Play tyrant after I climax.”

  He suppressed his urge to laugh. He could play tyrant anytime he wanted. But charitable and horny—perhaps not now. “Here, let me. I’m faster.”

  “You’d better be.” Spinning away, she strode toward the bedroom. “Or I might go on without you.”

  He looked up, one booted foot in hand. “You think so?” he said in a tone that would have warned off anyone else.

  “I know so.” Having pulled her chemise over her head, she dropped it behind her.

  “We’ll see,” he said under his breath. The boot off, he flung it. A second later, the other boot joined the first. Stripping off his trousers and underwear with record speed, he slid off his jacket and discarded it before he reached the doorway to the bedroom; his waistcoat and shirt were left behind a moment later. Catching up with Zelda in three long strides, he swung her off her feet just as she reached the bed.

  “Finally,” she said, her smile close.

  “Your finally or mine?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “I find it does.”

  “Then yours naturally. Or I’ll never get what I want,” she said, sultry and low.

  “Which is?” He dropped her in the middle of the bed.

  “Your glorious, extremely talented cock inside me,” she murmured, spreading her thighs wide and lifting her arms to him. “My ambitions are rather fixed.”

  His were rather more comprehensive. “Do you know what I want?” Midway through his question, he thought about stopping. But he didn’t.

  “Whatever it is, you can have.” She wiggled her fingers.

  He took a small breath at such largesse. Then the practiced libertine regained control, the most cynical force majeure was locked away, and he said with a slight smile. “In that case, come here.” He patted the side of the bed where he stood.

  “What if I say no.”

  “Don’t.”

  “Ummm. I adore that rough authority.”

  He laughed. “Christ, you like everything.”

  “Everything about you. My interests are quite specific. I don’t regard every man as fuckable as you do women.”

  How to answer that?

  “Don’t bother,” she said.

  “I’m not so foolish.” He patted the bed again. But when she responded to his summons, he lifted her down
, took her hand, and drew her to the windows overlooking the parkland. “We’ll do your finally first because I know how impatient you are,” he said, having repressed his strange authoritarian impulses. “Then I’d appreciate my finally next.”

  “Of course.”

  It annoyed him that she didn’t ask what he wanted. Had she no boundaries? This from a man who had never considered the word before in relation to sex. “No questions?”

  “How soon can I come?”

  He experienced a ridiculous surge of anger, instantly curbed. “If you’d care to lean over this”—he pulled a small upholstered chair up to the window—“you could enjoy the view while I enjoy your tight little cunt.”

  She smiled faintly. “A mutual enjoyment, Dalgliesh.”

  “I expect so.” He indicated the chair with a nod.

  She obligingly leaned over the chair back, and he thought for a moment of the complaisant females at Margo’s in London. “Have you ever considered working in a brothel?” he crisply inquired.

  “Have you ever considered hurrying?” She knew male affront when she heard it. It never failed to amaze her that men expected resistance from women, as though that in itself stamped them as virtuous. “I was under the impression neither of us were novices. Was that unclear somehow?”

  It occurred to him to hit her, an astonishing impulse. “Jesus, you’re a bitch,” he said instead.

  Abruptly coming upright, she spun around. “Does that affect your interest in me?” With a contemptuous smile, she surveyed his rampant erection pulsing against his stomach. “It rather looks like it doesn’t.”

  He stared at her narrow-eyed, a tick fluttered across his cheek; he visibly brought himself under control. Then he took her by the shoulders, swung her around, pushed her down, kept her in place with a hand on her back, and said very softly, “My interest is the same as yours.”

  Her hands braced on the chair seat, she glanced over her shoulder. “Only our timetables differ,” she said, sarcasm light in her voice.

  “A little patience, darling.” He ran his palms down Zelda’s back, slender waist, over the plump curve of her bottom like a rider gentling his mount before settling in the saddle. “Although you’re always ready, aren’t you? An attractive asset in a woman,” he whispered, sliding his fingers between her legs, testing her readiness like one would a mare about to be mounted.

  She quivered, feverish with need after waiting half the day.

  “Would any cock do, I wonder?” he softly said.

  “Right now, I’d prefer yours, if you don’t mind. And a little less challenge.”

  “My, my—how demanding. Do men like that?”

  She bit back the temptation to respond. He was unpredictable. And she needed him at the moment.

  He gave her points for restraint. But then she was ripe for mounting. His fingers were drenched, her sex slick, needy. He slid his fingers gently up and down her moist cleft, once, twice, three times while she softly panted. When he turned his attention to her distended clitoris, her gasp brought a faint smile to his lips. “Now in terms of timetables,” he murmured, continuing his delicate massage, “how fast is fast for you? Should I just ram it in or should I take my time? How rough would you like it? Or not rough at all? How much do you want my cock in you? You must tell me.” He allowed a pause to develop. “No more insolence?” he murmured, conscious of her tenseness, her erratic breathing as he stroked her silky tissue. “How easy it is to silence you.”

  That Miss MacKenzie’s ready passions were an issue disturbed him briefly. But the lady took the initiative as she was wont to do, swung her hips backward a considerable distance, his fingers slipped deeper inside her, and suddenly he had other things on his mind. The splendor of her shapely, alluring bottom for one, her hot, moist sex engulfing his fingers secondly, and of course, what was most notable—his cock was in full rut and aching like a son of a bitch.

  Time enough for introspection later.

  He slapped her bottom out of sheer truculence and ordered, gruff and peremptory, “Up, up—higher. Higher. I can’t quite reach you.” He could reach her perfectly well. But she’d wrought such signal changes in his life, he required retribution, he supposed. As she quickly rose on tiptoe and made herself more available, he smiled, and when he plunged into her and she instantly climaxed, his smiled widened.

  One could forgive a woman like that almost anything.

  Adjusting his grip on her hips, wanting better purchase, he didn’t wait for her orgasm to diminish but tested the limits of her glorious cunt with gluttonous zest and a level of gratification previously unknown to him. Meanwhile, the lady indulged in a gratuitous number of orgasms while he chose to extend the sybaritic, obscenely stunning rapture bombarding his senses. Until, after what seemed a shimmering endless interval, he reached the proverbial point of no return and was faced with a notable dilemma.

  Notable for a number of reasons. He’d never faced the dilemma before. Nor would a rational man have debated the issue at all. No more than a rational man would have invited Miss MacKenzie to his hunting lodge. Since he had, however, it begged the question whether reason was in any way involved.

  The answer wasn’t reassuring.

  The fact that he’d not withdrawn from her exceedingly welcoming body when his climax was fast peaking suggested prevailing custom hung in the balance. Perhaps if she hadn’t slid her hand between her legs, taken his testicles in a soft, tender grip and gently stretched them, his habits of a lifetime might have continued to hang in the balance.

  As it was, he began to ejaculate the moment she tugged on his testicles, and he continued to gush into her sweet, tight, frictionless cunt for endless moments, eyes shut, his heart pumping wildly, his brain convulsed with ecstasy.

  He was, of course, sorry he’d done what he’d done the moment his orgasm was over and cooler counsel held sway. But his semen was running down her thighs at that point and his erection was still only mildly diminished, and that proved to be even more of a problem in terms of cooler counsel. Then she said, “Is that all?” and smiled at him over her shoulder.

  Really, there was no question that Miss MacKenzie was a most delightful houseguest, nor was there any question of removing from his current location. Until much later, she finally said in that frank way of hers, “My legs are tired. Do you mind doing something else?”

  He didn’t.

  He took a seat in that same chair, lifted her onto his lap, politely said, “Is this better?” and was delighted with her sweet smile and her even sweeter cunt sliding down his cock. After that no one talked for some time.

  He’d decided after that first mishap that he might as well indulge himself when it came to ejaculating. Whether he came in her once that afternoon or more than once surely no longer signified. She agreed. She was most agreeable in every other way as well, and he said as much later when they’d moved to the bed.

  “I’m so very pleased we met,” he said, gazing down on her after their latest orgasm, the faint warmth of her skin light against his.

  She laughed. “Is that what you call this?”

  “You delight me in body and spirit,” he said with a boyish smile. “You bring sunshine and joy in your wake. Is that better?”

  “If you mean it.”

  “Of course I do.” A deep, leisurely tone. “I don’t invite women home.”

  “Well, then, I’m flattered, my lord,” she teasingly replied. It would never do to believe a faithless rogue like Dalgliesh. But she liked that she was the first, at least, when it came to his guest list.

  He frowned. “Flirtatious women I know by the score.”

  “More than a score from all reports.”

  “Stop.”

  “Or?” A seductive smile, challenge in the faint arch of her brows.

  He grinned. “I’ll make you stop.”

  “Do tell,” she said with a dazzling grin of her own.

  He did then at some length, his feelings left in limbo. He didn’t know how to ex
plain the novel sensations, in any case. Nor was he willing to pursue such perilous concepts when it came right down to it. He understood why she was here, she understood why she was here. Best leave it at that.

  But much later that afternoon, with the lush, captivating Miss MacKenzie lying beneath him, matching him stroke for stroke in a hard, pulsing rhythm, with pleasure prodigal and a wistful fervor infusing his senses, he found himself unmaking his life without a qualm. “What if I gave you a child?” he whispered. “Would you like that?”

  She didn’t answer. She was panting.

  “Good,” he said.

  CHAPTER 16

  WHILE THE TWO lovers were navigating the physical and emotional limits of carnal sensation, a spirited discussion was taking place in the kitchen. Katy had described in lively detail what had transpired in the earl’s dressing room as she was leaving.

  “I wouldn’t expect to see hide or hair of either of them’til dinner,” Katy cheerily said. “He’s sweet on her. It’s plain as day.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” a footman cautioned. “He’s not the type. Love ’em and leave ’em, that’s his game.”

  The housekeeper, who’d known Alec from childhood, who wished him the happiness he deserved, softly sighed. “Even if he is sweet on her, his wicked wife stands in the way. Poor boy.”

  “Then it’s time he divorce her.” Even Rowan was surprised at the vehemence in his voice; he wasn’t, by nature, strident.

  The staff in Dalgliesh’s various establishments were privy to every nuance of their employers’ lives, and save for the old earl, they’d served the Munros with affection. The retainers had always protected the dowager countess, too, as best they could. And they viewed the young boy who’d matured into the admirable man he was today as partly due to their fostering.

  “You know that bitch’ll fight a divorce to her last breath,” the steward muttered. “She spends a fortune on herself every year.”

  “There’s other ways,” one of the upstairs maids softly attested.