As for scrutiny of another kind, however, her companion’s stunning looks were difficult to ignore. Not that she didn’t try. She’d seen naked men before, she reminded herself. There was no need to examine this particular one.
Seated against the headboard, she sipped on her cognac and looked everywhere but at the nude man lying beside her. She counted the squares on the Greek fretwork molding above the fireplace twice, uselessly estimated the number of roses on the chair upholstery, followed the Byzantine maze design on the carpet with her gaze, and was about to tally the medallions on the mirror frame when temptation became too great.
She turned and looked.
My lord, he is gorgeous! Silky black hair, fashionably cut, lay on the pillow in ruffled waves. His features were finely formed, stark rather than harsh, austerely male, high cheek-bones, firm jaw, the line of his nose arrow straight, his mouth . . . She paused in her inspection, as if drawn to forbidden fruit. No austerity there—a sensual ripeness to his lips that was explicitly erotic. Quickly looking away, she focused her gaze on the dark slashing line of his brows; no erotica there—a hint of menace instead.
Even in slumber, he exuded a barely suppressed brute energy, as if one was in the presence of a young Mars, God of War—or more likely a heathen god with his deeply bronzed skin and exotic eyes. He was powerfully muscled by any measure, his long-limbed athletic body taut and honed, the capacity for violence only thinly veiled even in the dissolving glow of the wall sconces.
No fashionable, effete beau lay at her side.
Nor was there any suggestion of the more conventional English lord in his manner. No man she knew would be sleeping at this point. They’d be hell-bent on wooing her.
Perhaps Lennox’s indifference intrigued her most, although his great beauty and bold audacity couldn’t be discounted. But whatever the particular or sum total of his allure, she found herself sorely tempted to take him up on his brazen proposition.
Although he might not be entirely indifferent, she decided, surveying the length of his rampant erection—unless he was dreaming, of course.
As if in answer, his grip loosened on his brandy glass and the tumbler began to slide off his chest.
Isolde snatched it up just as it was about to overturn.
Coming awake with a start, Oz’s scowl turned into a smile as he glanced up and recognized her. “Forgive me for nodding off.” He held out his hand for his brandy. “I haven’t slept much lately. Was I snoring?”
“No. Although,” Isolde lightly said, “I thought you might be ignoring me.”
“On the contrary”—he offered her a wicked wink—“I was dreaming about you.” He glanced down before meeting her gaze once again. “As you may have surmised.”
“What facile charm, Lennox. I almost believe you.”
“Believe me, my dear Miss Perceval.” He was pleased that she was flirting with him, the shift in her behavior gratifying. “It was a warm summer day in my dream, you were swinging on a rustic swing high above me, and I was lying on the grass enjoying the view. Considering the weather outside,” he added with a quirked grin, “you can’t fault me for improvising.”
“Your fantasy does sound rather nice with the rain pounding on the windows and the wind wailing.”
“I’d be more than happy to let you into my dream,” he murmured.
“I’ve been thinking about—”
“Enjoying yourself?”
Her lashes lowered, and she gave him a considering look. “Why would you think that?” She was still undecided, wasn’t she?
“As I mentioned before”—he tipped his glass toward her breasts—“your peaked nipples are conspicuous.” He didn’t say he could smell her arousal, too, for fear of scaring her off, but the familiar fragrance was pungent in his nostrils. “Come, darling, what’s the point of playing the innocent maid? You obviously would rather not. As for myself, my interest is clear and it’s a cozy warm bed we’re in on this stormy night. We might as well be equally cozy.”
“You make sex sound warmly genial.”
“Why shouldn’t it be?” She hadn’t tried to argue her indifference, nor could she honestly do so when her body was obviously willing. Suddenly weary of artifice and games when he knew they both wanted the same thing, he drank down his brandy, dropped the glass on the floor, took hers from her hand, and did the same. Turning his head on the pillow to more fully meet her gaze, he smiled. “Now then, Miss Perceval, I’m about to touch you, so don’t scream.”
She laughed. “Do most women usually scream?”
“Not at this point,” he drolly replied, brushing his hand down her arm to her wrist, circling it with his long, slender fingers, lifting her hand to his mouth, and gently kissing each fingertip with the same lazy indifference that so marked his demeanor.
She should resist. Now was the time to say no. Make clear she was not available to him.
But she didn’t. Perhaps because she wasn’t flameproof.
Nor would he have let her. Because he wanted what he wanted.
“Come a little closer, darling,” he softly cajoled, unclasping her wrist and reaching up to lightly cup the back of her head in his warm palm. Rising slightly from the pillow in a ripple of taut abdominal muscles, he pulled her head lower, lifted his mouth to hers, and brushed her lips with his. It was a sweet, undemanding kiss—one designed to soothe a lady’s conscience.
“There now,” he murmured, “that wasn’t so frightening, was it?” Letting his hand drop away from her head, he lay back. And waited.
He tasted of brandy and lust, a combination that might have been frightening if not for the undisguisedly flamboyant burst of desire that not only burned through her senses but also served to seriously whet her appetite for more. Not that she was completely defenseless against his allure. She still had wits enough to tamp down her skittish passions and cooly survey temptation lounging before her.
He looked back calmly, shameless and assured.
“I shouldn’t,” she said, but she half turned and rested her hand on his shoulder as she spoke, and a treacherous little voice reminded her that just because Will had married didn’t require she forgo sexual pleasure.
“Yes, darling, one always should,” Oz softly returned, covering her hand with his as it lay on his shoulder. “Life doesn’t give one second chances.”
And well she knew, having lost the man she loved. The warmth of Lennox’s hand was strangely comforting, and leaning closer, she no longer weighed impulse or motive, seeking respite instead from the cold and rain outside, from the sense of loss that had been plaguing her, from the evil designs of her relatives—or perhaps it was nothing more complicated than she wished to enjoy this glory of a man smiling up at her. Dipping her head, she kissed him in a much less gentle way than he had her. Too long celibate, or maybe having finally jettisoned equivocation, she was in her own way as audacious as he. Her kiss was restive and high-strung, provocative in its what-do-you-have-for-me silent query.
Oz was more than willing to give her what she wanted.
He’d been waiting to do so since shortly after entering the room.
Lightly gripping her shoulders, he eased her away from him enough so their eyes met, so he could be sure she understood. “You have to tell me when to stop,” he said, recognizing the nature of her kisses but not entirely sure she did. “Because I’m in a strange mood tonight”—he smiled—“or you’re the cause of my strange mood.”
“Should I apologize?”
He smiled at the impudence in her tone. “No, darling, you’re perfect in every way.”
Her brows rose faintly. “Available, you mean.”
He didn’t say that was a given in his life, nor that she was a saucy little bitch. He shook his head instead. “I could be anywhere. But I’m here with you,” he added with smile. “And that’s a good thing.”
“Along with the cozy warm bed on a cold wet night,” she pleasantly reminded him.
“And the lady of my dreams to keep me w
arm.” He grinned. “Now in terms of getting warmer, are you amenable because I have a night of excess on my mind?”
“I am,” she said with candor because her body had shamelessly opened in welcome at the word excess, a night of sexual prodigality suddenly alluring. As recompense for her loss. Or more aptly because Lennox was carnal temptation in the flesh.
“Good,” he replied with equal frankness, and coming up off the pillows with muscular grace, he rolled over her, slid her under him with an effortless strength, came to rest between her thighs, and put an end to what had been a record period of politesse for him. Not that he begrudged her uncertainty considering the perilous state of her affairs.
Braced on his forearms, lying lightly above her, he said with a cheeky smile, “A last check now, Miss Perceval; if it’s all right with you, I’ll be coming in.”
“It’s very much—all right, my dear Lennox,” she breathlessly replied, the riveting display of brawn and muscle she’d witnessed in his swift shifting of their positions, male supremacy—pure and simple. “My lord, you’re strong,” she whispered.
Her words were throaty and hushed, and whether it was fear or not he wasn’t sure. “I won’t hurt you,” he said, sure of that at least.
“I didn’t mean that. It’s just that you’re”—she caught her breath as a flurry of longing streaked through her senses—“very powerful.”
“I lead an active life.” He planned on becoming more active very soon.
“Doing this, you mean,” she said, touching him because she couldn’t help herself, lightly tracing the line of his collarbone with her fingers, her skin startlingly pale against his.
“Partly.” He was no hypocrite about his amusements. “Now if you’re warm enough,” he unnecessarily said with her cheeks flushed rosy pink, no longer in the mood for conversation, “your gown is in my way.” He reached for the small pearl buttons at the neckline without waiting for an answer and deftly unfastened them while her breathing accelerated. As impatient as she, he quickly rose to his knees, slid his hands under her arms, and pulled her into a seated position. “Lift your arms, puss.”
His soft command was the most banal of orders. There was no reason his words should have registered with such force. Yet they did, her overwrought response out of all proportion to his simple statement. With shocking violence, a lustful jolt of desire spiked through her body, slammed into every vulnerable, frenzied nerve ending, streaked up her spine, and left her trembling. When she never trembled. When sex was about euphoria and gratification. Not mindless hysteria. “This never happens to me,” she whispered, unnerved and shaken by her rash, predacious need.
Tossing her gown aside, Oz eased her back down. “Life’s absurd, darling,” he gently said, settling between her legs once again. “Everything’s not always rational.”
“But it always has been.” Her eyes were wide with bewilderment.
“Not tonight, sweetheart,” he gently said. “Blame the storm. Because I’m planning on burying myself inside you and staying there til morning. I found my safe haven from the tempest outside,” he added with a teasing smile.
Still struggling to bring her senses to heel, disquieted by his presumption and her lack of choice in his plan, confused by her body’s instant response to his mention of safe haven, she took issue with his bold assurance. “You didn’t ask if I agree.”
“I already know the answer. But if we’re still playing games, let me put it this way. You don’t have a choice.” He was beyond teasing foreplay—or whatever she called it.
She stared at him, astonished. “You’d coerce me?”
“I doubt it’ll come to that.”
“Get off me,” she ordered with the imperiousness granted those of ancient title and vast fortune. “We’re done.”
“No we’re not.” A soft, patient reply.
“Damn you, Lennox!” she spat out hotly.
“Too late,” he said through his teeth. “I’m already damned.”
Struck by the sudden bleakness in his eyes, conscious as well that he was more right about her willingness than she chose to admit, she grimaced and sighed and after a lip-nibbling pause, finally said, “This is insanity, you know.”
“No, darling,” he answered in frank demur. “It’s simple passion.”
“Morals aside.” Although she wasn’t disturbed by morals so much as by her outrageous desires.
He shrugged. “If you believe in such things.”
“You don’t.”
He didn’t answer, although his dubious look was answer enough.
Coming to the conclusion that a splendid man like Lennox was rare, understanding as well that the blissful heat of his body lightly touching hers was an extravagantly lush sensation she’d never come near to feeling before, knowing he wasn’t the only one in search of safe haven tonight, she reached up and framed his beautiful, ascetic face in her hands. “Give me pleasure and oblivion, dear Lennox, and I’ll stay.”
Pleasure he could guarantee; he also owned the map to oblivion after years of searching for mindlessness in countless women’s arms. And he’d known all along she was staying. “Thank you,” he politely said as if he’d only been waiting for her sanction. “I’ll happily give you both.”
“Lucky me, you splendid creature.” She smiled, comforted by his understanding, charmed by the random hand of fate that had brought him into her bed tonight. Strangely enticed by the rarified enchantment he offered.
No tyro at love with her casual reply. How very convenient. Resting easily between her outstretched thighs, instead of anticipating another night of casual amour, he experienced an unaccountable desire to see that she found full measure of the pleasure and oblivion she sought.
He gently brushed his finger over her nipples. “I think it’s time I tasted these—if that’s all right with you?”
She smiled. “Am I allowed to say no?”
He grinned. “You’re not big enough or strong enough.”
“Do women always yield to you?”
He shook his head and lied. “Of course not, but humor me. You won’t regret it,” he added, capturing one nipple between his thumb and forefinger and squeezing it ever so softly.
“Arrogant man,” she whispered, but his arrogance was tantalizing and the pressure of his fingers was beginning to command the attention of her genital nerves, a seemingly direct path from nipple to vagina, encouraging added moisture to flood her tissue. Or was it the compelling presence of his rigid penis crammed against her vulva that incited her body’s response?
“Not without reason, puss.” He’d not wasted his time in the boudoirs of the world. Slipping his hand down between her legs, he slowly measured the length of her slippery cleft with his fingertip. Her small gasp was affirmation and permission he decided, and shifting slightly, he lowered his head, drew one nipple into his mouth, and tenderly sucked.
With a soft moan, she slid her fingers through his dark hair and held him firmly at her breast while her breathing changed to soft little pants, a heated glow melted through her body, and she wondered with frenzied rapture and poetic license where he’d been all her life.
Recognizing her soft whimpers meant he’d been given carte blanche, he slid two fingers into her slick sex and gently explored the sleek interior. No virgin. Not that he’d thought she was, but he was gratified not to have miscalculated. Although in his current, highly unusual state of arousal, he would have mounted her, virgin or not. An aberration he deliberately ignored.
It must have been too long since she’d had sex. Surely that was why she wanted him so madly. Why she was so lost to reason. And whether having rationalized away her monstrous desires or simply given into sensation, she surrendered to the piquant incitement of Oz’s mouth and stroking fingers, raising her hips in invitation, signaling her urgency by pressing her throbbing cleft against his palm. “I want you,” she whispered, frantic to feel him inside her, reaching for his erection. “I want this,” she said, brushing her fingers over the swo
llen head of his cock. “Now.”
“Soon,” he answered, his voice in contrast, serene. They had all night; he was in a rare quixotic mood, poised between genuine emotion and wildness. Also, he’d learned long ago in a culture that equated sexual expertise with spiritual enlightenment that speed was a deterrent to carnal pleasure.
And he was a genuinely enlightened man.
She protested, but he ignored her, and Isolde soon relented, Oz’s versatile skills not only sumptuously satisfying but also incredibly arousing. Not that Will, the love of her life, hadn’t been a tender lover, nor that they hadn’t together explored passion and desire, but Lennox touched her differently. With a sybaritic, refined exactitude, he fondled, stroked, massaged, and sucked with such exquisite versatility that he kept her hovering, suspended in a state of bliss just short of orgasm.
By the time he slipped a third finger inside her, she was literally shaking. “Try this,” he whispered, and applied himself to making her heated cunt even more hospitable. Gently exploring the honeyed passage, he examined every overwrought crevice and fold, plumbing her depth with his long, slender fingers, titillating and tantalizing until flushed and breathless, she reached the volatile point of no return.
“Are you ready?” he unnecessarily inquired, his fingers running wet, her body taut with need, her eyes shut tightly against the flame-hot lust scorching her brain.
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.
Sexy As Hell (Berkley Sensation) Page 3