PerpetualPleasure

by Dita Parker

  Perpetual Pleasure

  Dita Parker

  Stunt performer MacCale Moore knows a thing or two about seduction. And he knows all about putting on a show. The Savannahian bombshell coming on strong is tempting all right. But there’s something wrong with this picture. Seeing through her charade isn’t the problem. Convincing a flaming femme fatale to trust him with her heart and not just her body may well turn out to be the hardest stunt he’s ever had to perform.

  No dating. No cuddling. No emotion. No exceptions. Lucie Marcotte’s system of survival has saved her from heartache for two hundred years and counting. Now her latest conquest is asking to be more than just another link in her endless chain of one-night stands. So what if it’s the best sex she’s ever had? Their relationship has nowhere to go. But how to convince him or stop herself from hurting them both, she has no idea.

  Before Lucie knows it, she’s breaking all her rules. And for an immortal, that’s just flirting with disaster.

  Perpetual Pleasure

  Dita Parker

  Dedication

  To the unsung heroes of show business, I salute you. And to Henry. I’m everything I am because you loved me.

  Author Note

  Other than the occasional use of actual names and places, the incidents and characters portrayed in this book are wholly fictional. So don’t write me, I know.

  Chapter One

  MacCale Moore’s evening got interesting. It got absolutely fascinating as he watched the woman who had stepped into the room take it in with a quick scan and then simply take it, as if she’d been lathered with some peculiar catnip for people, or rather men. Especially men.

  She worked the room, meeting and greeting. She kissed cheeks with younger members of the party, older gentlemen kissed her hand, lingering noticeably. Some women smiled at her openly and hugged her warmly. Others smiled more coolly and shook hands with her politely and looked ready to swat their husbands for staring at her—after her—with ill-contained interest.

  Snatching another glass of bubbly from the waiter and tray sailing by, MacCale followed the woman from a distance. Did he know her from somewhere? She grabbed a champagne bottle from a cooler and uncorked it with expertise, poured a round and got toasted for her efforts then said something in a lowered voice that had her audience whistling and howling with laughter.

  The woman moved from group to group, flirting, flaunting and looking every bit the hostess when MacCale knew for a fact she was not the lady of the house.

  Her flawless performance was well received. She had her audience hypnotized with a gaiety and spontaneity that was without doubt an act rehearsed to perfection. He had been around enough actors to know the difference. An untrained eye would never catch her acting and her routine was a deceptively convincing imitation of life.

  She had the charisma to pull it off. Women seemed to either admire or avoid her. Some of his great-uncle’s distinguished gentlemen friends looked ready to throw themselves at her feet in a less-than-dignified manner and beg her to love them. Fuck them.

  MacCale winced at the last thought, at what had to be going through the minds of every other man she talked to because he was thinking the same. How the silk of her dress hugged every curve and betrayed the fact she wasn’t wearing a bra. How luminous and satiny her pale skin looked in turquoise. How striking the contrast between her dusky-brown, almost black hair and her blue eyes was.

  He’d never hankered after the lightweights, but this woman wasn’t frail, she was a pocket Venus, rounded but toned and sexy as hell. Effortless, effervescent, the queen of Savannah.

  And you’re the man who would be king?

  He downed the champagne. The aftertaste was pure self-disgust. The belle of the ball had his balls tight with desire, the same need he could almost smell floating in the room. He may have seen through her but obviously he wasn’t immune to her charm.

  How professional of him. He wasn’t in the habit of lusting after the leading ladies of the films or television shows he’d worked in. A nice pair of breasts and an ass to match was a beautiful thing but could rarely hold their own in a conversation. They certainly couldn’t hold his interest for long.

  But this wasn’t work, this was downtime, and this woman’s brand of sex appeal was truly…appealing.

  Get a grip.

  He should steer clear from her, enjoy his vacation and visit his ancestral home. Instead, he wondered how soft her skin would be to the touch or what her breasts might feel like in his hands. Imagined how fine her pussy might taste or what her pretty mouth might feel like around his cock. How long would he be able to draw out her pleasure before she begged him for release? Except quick hook-ups were far too rushed for his liking, and the queen of Savannah didn’t look like a keeper. She looked like a true sovereign, the kind of woman who let men hold her like a cat. The second someone flashed a leash or voiced a demand, she would head for the hills.

  He didn’t have time to play games or the inclination to chase after women. He would do well to keep his distance and enjoy the show, see if she was really out to seduce someone or merely tease. He would stay put and watch the scene play out.

  Now what fun would that be?

  * * * * *

  Nothing takes the life out of a girl like two hundred years of living. It wasn’t an epiphany, merely an observation Lucie Marcotte made while wondering why on earth she had she accepted the invitation.

  Immortality wasn’t all it was cracked up to be and she couldn’t tell a soul about it, only deaden hers, or try to. She wasn’t completely impervious and every social function, every token of interest from a mortal only made her more keenly aware of that.

  And jealous.

  They loved, they felt, when she fought hard not to. They had fun and went home together. She pretended to have fun and went home alone. When loneliness became borderline unbearable, she let someone take her home and then just take her.

  Being able to generate so much emotion, so much unbridled passion in seemingly sensible and controlled men while holding back and not giving in to the same feelings, the same weakness, made her feel strong, superior.

  How many times would she have had to bury her heart with her husband had she ever married? How many tears would she have shed over outliving her children had she given herself permission to start a family, then another and another?

  Sexual interest she could handle. Lust was containable and fleeting, the only form of intimacy or connection she could afford. And sexual interest came off in waves from the man watching her from afar as she made her way through the room.

  Lucie had felt the weight of the stranger’s stare from the moment she walked in. She placed him at closer to forty than thirty, the outdoorsy type. He prowled in circles, keeping his distance while keeping an eye on her. Every time she let her gaze meet his, he was looking straight at her, his stare intense, disquieting, as if she were being weighed, measured and found…wanting? Or wanted?

  Was he some distant relative come to wish old Ferguson happy birthday? Lucie searched for some resemblance between the striking male and the younger Fergusons present. They shared the same thick, dark-auburn hair, sooty brows and lashes and an impressive height even the women of the family had gotten their fair share of. Their Scottish sturdiness made her feel every bit the petite French maiden she had been for the last two centuries and counting, even if she had come home from her latest self-imposed exile with a healthy padding.

  Whoever he was, he was perfect quickie material. Sexy, potent and passing through. Those kinds of hook-ups she could handle and every glimpse she caught of the man staring at her, his face a mask of watchful awareness while fire swirled in his eyes, made her long for physical contact.

  Would he be game?
>
  Please let him be.

  It had been a while since she’d last had sex. High time she came in from the cold and what better man to do it with but a handsome stranger she would never see again.

  Lucie set down her glass by the nearest table, gave the brooding hunk a level, lingering look and started for the door, casual and unhurried. She stepped out into the corridor and walked just as leisurely toward one of her favorite rooms in the Saville House, leaving the door open as she entered. Fumbling for the switch, she flicked on the lights in the large study devoted to natural history.

  Her eyes swept the flora and fauna on display. Isn’t this ironic, Lucie mused in sullen silence. She had a history all right but it was far from natural. Her entertainment for the evening didn’t need to know that. He didn’t need to know anything, only give her the pleasure of riding his cock and take his own pleasure in her pussy as thanks.

  The door closed and locked while Lucie pretended immersion in a butterfly collection. Someone padded closer and stopped inches from her back. She could feel his warmth, smell the clean male scent of him mixed with some rather heady aftershave as he aligned his head with hers and asked, “See anything interesting?”

  Drawing a deep breath, Lucie turned to face him and looked him up and down. “I do now.”

  He raised one dark brow, his sexy grin taking her senses by surprise.

  “Did you run or did you want a moment alone with me?”

  She flashed him her sultriest siren smile. “I needed a moment alone by myself,” she said. “You came as a bonus.”

  His smile was gone, replaced by that intense stare as his eyes roamed her face and upper body. “I can’t blame you for needing a breather. You’re a wanted woman.”

  Disregarding his double entendre, Lucie marveled at the color of his eyes. It was rare dark amber, startlingly tigerish in its golden, coppery glow. A woman could forget her resolve being caught up in them.

  She could never forget her resolve, or the fact she was not an average woman. There was only one thing she could offer him and one thing only she wanted from him. Sex, straight up. Judging by his ravenous gaze, he hadn’t followed her out of interest for her conversational skills.

  She let eyes wander south, taking in his broad shoulders and chest, the snaring vee it formed with his waist and hips, and the tent he had put up in his black-tie trousers.

  Sex was definitely on the menu, Lucie thought as she stared at his erection, no two ways about it.

  She made a sound of approval.

  “You don’t know what you’re tempting,” he said.

  It sounded like a warning, but she didn’t sense any menace in his words or stance. The only tension she could detect was of the sexual kind.

  “You don’t know what you’re refusing,” she drawled and started opening the dress tied tightly at her waist.

  Heat twirled in his eyes again. “Is that so?”

  “That is so,” she whispered hoarsely. The light fabric fell over her breasts and midriff.

  “Awfully daring words from such a sophisticated woman.”

  He was staring at her in utter absorption but sounded miles away. He wasn’t refusing her, was he? He was alone at the party, he wasn’t wearing a ring and he had followed her on purpose. If he didn’t want her, what the hell did he want from her?

  “Dreadfully little action from such an obviously potent man.” She placed one hand on his chest and trailed her way down the buttons of his waistcoat. “Because you, Mr…”

  “Moore. MacCale Moore,” he said, calm, collected. Too damn composed for a man with a raging hard-on. She cupped him through his trousers without squeezing or rubbing. She merely pressed her hand against the impressive length.

  “You, Mr. Moore, followed me here with one thought and one thought only.” Sure enough, his cock twitched.

  “You have no idea what I’m thinking,” he said.

  “Really?” she asked and slipped her hand beneath the waistcoat. He looked fantastic in black tie. He was bound to look even better without it.

  She unbuttoned the trousers. “I’m guessing you’re thinking where we should fuck. On that fluffy, furry thing in front of the fireplace?” She worked the zipper open. “Against the wall with the tropical flowers?”

  The front of his trousers got spread open next. “Or the chesterfield? It looks really sturdy.”

  She pulled out his cock and gave his shaft a light squeeze. “Strong. Well-built. Perfect for the job.”

  He closed his eyes briefly as she gripped him harder but still he said nothing, merely looked at her as if waiting for her next move.

  She began stroking his cock. “But as I said, I’m only guessing so why don’t you tell me what you had in mind.”

  God, she’d missed this. Silky-smooth skin and iron-hard man in her hand and under her command as she glided along the hot length in a steady rhythm. She gave the base a pinch when she made her way down, nudged the crown with the tips of her fingers when she reached the head, making him jerk.

  The ultrasensitive knob got a thorough rub that had his eyes closing on a strangled moan. She caressed the underside with her thumb while her fingers teased the plump head. His eyes snapped open only to close again, as if he wanted to look his fill but couldn’t.

  “I was wondering what lies beneath,” he ground out, his jaw tight, his body held even tighter. She would have bet he wanted to rock against her. Push into her hand, counter her moves and fuck her fist.

  So why wouldn’t he?

  “Let me finish undressing and I’ll show you,” she said. “You want a taste, don’t you?” A bead of pre-cum formed on the slit of the fat tip. It grew and balanced, tempting her to put her lips on the plump crown and suck the clear droplet into her mouth.

  His breath grew heavy, expectant. He stared at her again in a disconcerting manner. Would he tell her to do it? Would he tell her to take his cock in her mouth and suck it, blow the shit out of him, as she could remember someone so eloquently coercing her in the past? Too bad she didn’t suck strangers. Too sad she never would. Just too damn close for comfort. She would not have minded tasting this particular man. She would not have minded at all.

  He didn’t beg or command her to do it, he took hold of her wrist instead. She let go of his cock, flushed and veiny from her touches. It bobbed against his belly, hungry for more, ready to fuck.

  “I don’t want a taste. I want the whole menu,” he said, raising his other hand to cradle her face. He rubbed her cheek with his thumb, caressed her jaw in passing.

  “What would you recommend for a first course?” The digit gently nudging her chin pressed against her mouth as if giving her a kiss.

  She didn’t do blowjobs. She cared for kisses even less.

  The carefree laugh she attempted came out a strangled, jittery breath. “Oh, we’d have to shower for that.” She was losing footing, fast.

  “We’ll make do,” he said. “Where would you start?”

  Lucie stared at him for a moment. He wasn’t kidding. He was taking over and taking control and asking for something she wasn’t prepared to yield.

  “No, you don’t understand. I do the cooking,” she informed him.

  His smile both warmed and alarmed her. “Not tonight, you don’t.”

  This was dangerous. This was beyond anything she let herself indulge in, and it felt fabulous. His touch felt fabulous.

  Lucie promptly pushed back any uneasiness that tried to surface at the thought of using him. She gave as good as she got. She sent them on their way smiling. No questions asked, no promises or demands made.

  Judging from his hungry stare, she could still run the show, pace him, control this. She could still feed on his desire, as long as she remembered to curb her own.

  “Where do you start, honey?”

  “I start with fondling everywhere except the most erogenous zones. You know what those are, don’t you?”

  “Let’s see.” He gripped her hips and ushered her to a chaise nearby.<
br />
  Her legs bumped against the edge of the large antique piece.

  “Take a seat, Miss…”

  “Marcotte,” she said and did as told.

  Keeping his eyes on hers as he knelt before her, he asked, “And does the lovely Miss Marcotte have a first name?”

  He grasped her ankle and started opening the clasp of her slingback.

  Say something!

  Some former alias, maybe? She would never see him again. What did it matter what name she gave him?

  “Lucienne.” The name given to her at birth. “But everyone calls me Lucie.”

  He caressed the arch of her foot, set it down and went on to rid her of the other shoe. The dress still clung to her, the silk cool against her heated skin. He gripped the edges of the front, gathering fistfuls. “Now.”

  She wasn’t wearing a bra. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath the dress. Creamy skin was all he would see. Swollen nipples, soft belly and full hips. Shapely thighs she would part for him in blatant invitation and the smooth slit of her pussy he would readily fuck.

  “I want you on your back,” he said in a tone that brooked no argument.

  Yeah, the man was a goner.

  She reclined as he came to sit beside her on the comfortable chaise.

  His cock jutted between his thighs, dark, inviting. His eyes shone with lust, the rich amber yielding to the black of his dilated pupils. His hands held to the edges of her dress, trembling barely noticeably, but she could feel it on her skin. She could feel the effect of him everywhere, from her fluttering heart through wobbly limbs all the way down to her drenched pussy.

  Expecting him to be all over her in a heartbeat, Lucie closed her eyes and waited. She had marveled at the size and strength of his erection, she could hear the strain in his voice, knew what it meant and what would follow.

  It made things that much easier, the rushed heat in men, their driving need to take instant pleasure and a quick fix when the opportunity was offered to them. Few refused to rise to the occasion and the majestic Mr. Moore was seconds away from pulling on a condom as if he couldn’t get it on fast enough, pushing her thighs apart and thrusting into her in a frenzy.