Fascinated

by Bertrice Small

  His perfect teeth flashed white in a grin. "Lord, you must be tipsy."

  Sweeping past him, she threw a cheerful glance over her shoulder. "A wee dram never hurt anyone."

  She seemed to know her way upstairs, and when he began to wonder if the young lady was more than she appeared, she came to rest at the top of the first flight and further piqued his interest by saying, "I'd suppose you have Wales's suite." She had seen with what deference he was treated by the staff during dinner. The big winners at the casino always had the best suites.

  "Why would you suppose that?" His brows twitched. "Or even know that?"

  "That's a yes, I presume," she lightly replied, turning to the left and moving down the corridor in a deliciously provocative stroll that further baffled him. Might she be a courtesan after all? Had he misinterpreted her persona or was she simply that good an actress?

  Not that it mattered, he supposed. He followed her swaying form and alluring fragrance to the corner suite that overlooked the whole of the harbor as well as the palaces of Monaco across the bay.

  "I do adore the Wales's suite." Waiting for him at the doorway, she smiled at him with the most intriguing innocence.

  "Do you do this often?" he softly asked, inserting the key into the lock.

  "Win money at the casino or go to men's rooms?"

  His glance swiveled to her, an ironic cast to his gaze.

  "Maybe that's for you to find out, Monsieur Suffolk," she sportively declared. "Am I a woman of the night or not?" She struck a theatrical pose.

  His gaze traveled slowly down her body, and when it returned to her face, he was smiling. "We'll find out soon enough, won't we," he softly said, pushing the door open. "After you, Mrs. Greenwood."

  "Miss Greenwood," she amiably corrected, brushing past him. "I prefer forgetting my marriage." She quickly spun around. "You're not married, are you? Because while I understand fidelity isn't a requirement for a man-as evidenced by this suite that has never seen the presence of the Princess of Wales-nevertheless, I'd not wish to be a pernicious influence in a marriage."

  "Rest assured, I'm not married." He quietly shut the door.

  "So emphatic, Mr. Suffolk," she teased. "One might almost think you don't believe in the institution."

  "Like you, I prefer my independence."

  "My goodness. Have you a conscience, Mr. Suffolk? Most men maintain their independence despite their marriages."

  "Might we discuss marital infidelity at some other time?"

  "Oops." She quickly placed her fingertips over her mouth and playfully batted her eyelashes. "I'm hardly filling the role of courtesan with competence, am I? I'm here to please and be agreeable and never utter a discouraging word."

  "A pleasant thought," he drolly murmured, placing the key on a small table.

  "Are courtesans really like that?"

  "Could we discuss that later as well?"

  "Of course, we can simply discuss nothing at all. I love this suite," she expansively murmured, flinging her arms wide and swinging around in a circle. "All warm yellows and bouquets of flowers and rich damask furniture so soft you sink into it like a downy pool."

  He pushed away from the door. "Have you been here often?"

  "Only in passing, Mr. Suffolk. My servants' family are in service at the hotel, and I've seen every grand room-thanks to them."

  For some bizarre reason, he was pleased with her answer, although he had decided sometime ago that Miss Greenwood was no courtesan. She was a shade too prickly and outspoken. As a rule, courtesans were accommodating in the extreme. And after his recent visit to Baku where his friend kept a harem, he was well aware of accommodating women.

  He found the contrast refreshing.

  She had moved to the open terrace door and was standing with her back to him. "I'm so incredibly happy," she proclaimed, "I could scream."

  "Please don't."

  She turned around and grinned. "What if I do?"

  "I'd have to find a way to silence you."

  Her brows rose. "Really?"

  They stood a few yards apart in the most sumptuous room in the Hotel de Paris on a warm spring night with the scent of jasmine on the air.

  Expectation palpable.

  She opened her mouth.

  "Don't."

  Her smile was heated and tantalizing and so provocative, he wondered for a moment if he had been mistaken and she was trained to be alluring.

  Her jubilant cry exploded into the quiet night and lasted only the brief time it took for the Duke of Grafton to cover the distance between them.

  He moved incredibly fast for a large man, she transiently thought, and then his mouth covered hers and everything about him seemed large. She wasn't a small woman, yet his powerful body dwarfed hers, his ungentle mouth engulfed hers, and his large hands easily cupped her bottom, pulling her hard against his enormous erection.

  She struggled briefly, perhaps out of shock for she wasn't averse to the bargain she had made, but he only tightened his grip. A tiny frisson shimmered down her spine at the tantalizing sense of helplessness, at the delicious sensation of being overwhelmed by this large, handsome man. He wanted her, not dispassionately like the emotionless couplings in her past, but with urbane gallantry and finesse and an intoxicating blend of virtuosity and ravishment that made her feel scandalously alive.

  And wild.

  She reveled in the heated pleasure provoked by the silken warmth of his mouth and exploring tongue, by the hard length of his body pressed firmly against hers. His kiss deepened, the taste and scent of him filling her mouth and nostrils, the exquisite feel of him becoming more familiar with each breath, more tempting as if his kisses served as appetizers and when she came to know him well, he would allow her the main course. In her urgency and desire, she slid her arms around his neck, lifted her face to better accommodate his mouth, melted against his tall, muscled frame and began kissing him back.

  She kissed him like a woman who had never felt the flame of passion before, like a woman left in the wilderness for all of her life, her eagerness and hunger, her need to kiss and be kissed, captivating. She offered herself with such ardent intensity and longing, he felt a thrilling response he had not felt in years. Like the breathless gratitude in adolescence.

  "This has been the absolute most perfect night," she murmured, pulling away for a moment, gazing up at him with adoration. "I didn't know a person could feel this good."

  A half smile appeared. "You're easy to please."

  "No one's ever kissed me so-well-so perfectly, so I'm warm clear down to my toes. Do your toes tingle?"

  "Absolutely. "

  "Are we… I mean-do you want to-" Embarrassed, she blushed.

  He gently brushed his fingertip over her pinked lower lip. "We are and I want to and strangely my toes really are tin-gling."

  "Oh, good. That's so good. I mean in terms of-"

  "Sex?"

  She smiled. "Yes. That."

  "You can say the word, you know. We're quite alone."

  "I'd rather not."

  He moved against her so the imprint of his erection was clearly felt. "Sex is really a very nice word."

  She moved her hips in a faint answering undulation. "I can see how it could be with you. The ladies must love you," she murmured, the grand length of him sending a shiver up her spine. "Don't make me wait," she blurted out.

  She was a young ingenue, he realized, in the voluptuous body of a woman. "Of course not."

  "I've waited a lifetime," she murmured, her lavender eyes filled with longing.

  "That's long enough," he whispered, taking her hand and drawing her toward the bedroom.

  Hope and delight sang through her senses. "Do you believe in luck?"

  "Always," he replied, smiling at her. A risk taker to the core, he viewed life as a gamble.

  "I never did until tonight." She made a small moue. "Probably with good reason."

  "I believe in being open to the possibilities."

  "I love th
is," she murmured, squeezing his hand. "Doing something without thinking too much or worrying about-"

  Turning, he swept her up into his arms, curtailing her litany. "You're not allowed to worry tonight." A sparkle of mischief shone in his eyes. "Or even think."

  "No thinking?" Wide-eyed, she grinned.

  "It's absolutely not allowed. That's an order."

  She wrinkled her nose. "I hate orders."

  "Then, consider it a suggestion," he quickly improvised.

  She laughed. "It would be quite enough for you to be just gloriously beautiful, and you're incredibly sweet besides."

  He had not been called sweet in recent memory or ever to be precise. "You're a remarkable woman, Miss Greenwood."

  "Please, call me Felicia. After all… we're going to be more than acquaintances soon…"

  "Then, call me Flynn. My friends know me by that name."

  "You don't like Thomas?"

  "It was my father's name."

  "I see."

  "No, you don't, but then it doesn't matter much anymore. I've been on my own for a long time."

  "As have I. Do you believe in fate? As in our meeting tonight?"

  Having reached the large canopied bed, he lowered her to the riotous flower-print coverlet. "I believe in my own good luck."

  She ran her finger across the broad width of his hand as he sat down beside her. "I believe in your good luck probably more than you. It brought me my life back."

  "Pleased to be of service, my lady." Bending low, he gently kissed her.

  "Speaking of service," she murmured, kicking her slippers off. "You really didn't mind my asking you tonight, did you? I mean, you're not just being polite?"

  "No man with breath in his body would mind, dear Felicia. And I intended to ask you, only you asked first." He began sliding his evening jacket from his shoulders.

  "You must do this often, I suppose, considering how handsome you are and… all."

  He glanced back at her as he tossed his jacket on a nearby chair. "More often than you, I suppose."

  "More often than every five years." She slid a garter down her leg.

  With the view so fine, it took him a moment to answer. "That would be a safe assumption." Unclasping the diamond cufflinks from his shirt cuffs, he slipped them free.

  "You must have lots of women asking you." She lifted her other leg to take off her garter and stocking.

  "Not really," he lied, fascinated with the pale expanse of inner thigh before his eyes. Reaching out, he slowly slid his palm over the warmth of her thigh, coming to rest on the simple white linen covering her mons. "Let me buy you some silk lingerie."

  "Mine's too plain," she ruefully noted.

  "It's very nice. Prim and proper and ever so tempting." Easing apart the two sections of her drawers, he slipped his fingers inside and stroked her silky curls. "Has it really been five years?" he murmured, his middle finger sliding down her dewy cleft.

  Her breath caught in her throat, and when she didn't answer, his gaze lifted. She nodded to his raised eyebrow, and he smiled. "Five years is a long time," he whispered, gently sliding his finger in a lingering path from her turgid clitoris down one side of her sleek, plump labia and up the other side. "I'd think you'd be ready to come without much foreplay…" Easing a single finger inside her only as far as the first knuckle, he circled the pulsing, wet tissue.

  She moaned and lifted her hips to draw him in.

  Forcing her back down, he held her in place with his palm and slipped a second finger into her vagina, farther this time, midpoint in depth, two knuckles deep. "Can you feel that?"

  She was hot and wet and beginning to pant, and the suffocated small sound she uttered brought his head up.

  "Say that again?"

  "You heard me." Her heavy-lidded gaze held a hint of temper.

  "Was that an order?" His voice was incredibly soft, the merest whisper.

  "It was."

  His gaze narrowed. "I may not want to."

  She swiftly reached out and ran her palm up his erection, her fingers closing at the last, squeezing hard.

  His eyes shut against the surge of lust, and a suppressed groan rumbled deep in his throat.

  "Changed your mind?" she murmured, rising to a sitting position, easing away from his hand. "And I'm sorry I offended you." Lifting her skirts, she slipped her drawers and petticoat down and kicked them aside. "Now, if there's anything I can do to make amends, dear Flynn," she purred, leaning back on one elbow, her silken cleft and pale legs framed by the crushed folds of her skirt, "I'd be more than willing to concede to you." She slid a finger down the slick flesh of her labia. "I've never had a man like you. And I'd very much like to feel you inside me. So much better than this…" She eased her finger inside marginally. "I've never, ever had an orgasm with a man."

  Her words spiked through his senses, his erection surging larger at the thought of her lush body having been so long deprived of satisfaction. "You've had an orgasm, though," he murmured, forcibly restraining his lust.

  "The French have so many books on the delights of the flesh. I've learned. But I doubt it's the same."

  "So you read books and masturbate."

  "Don't you?"

  Not since he discovered women. "Not lately."

  "I suppose not. How lucky you are. I've often thought it quite unfair-how men can sleep around and women can't."

  "Women do." And he should know, having serviced a great many ladies from every walk of life.

  "So I'm simply naive. A shame, then. You'll have to tell me how to meet such-er-partners."

  "Walk down the street, darling. Surely, you know you're a great beauty. "

  "I've been told flame-red hair is quite déclassé."

  "You've been told wrong."

  "My husband deplored-"

  "He was lying."

  A small smile formed on her luscious mouth. "I want to make love to you for your kindness alone."

  "While I have quite different reasons for wanting you. Are we done?"

  "You're over your pet?"

  "Don't give me orders."

  "My feelings exactly."

  He chuckled and stripped off his shirt. "We're going to have to be damned polite to each other." Standing, he unbuttoned his trousers.

  "For that, I could even be polite to Cousin Dickie." The tempting bulge in his trousers was irresistible.

  "For this?" He drew out his erection, the heavily veined penis framed by the opened placket of his trousers, the length astonishing, the gleaming crest swollen to gigantic proportions.

  "Oh, my," she gasped, the pulsing between her legs responding to the glorious sight, to the tantalizing expectation as he stripped off his trousers and silk underwear. "Help me with my gown. I want to feel you everywhere." Scrambling from the bed, she turned her back to him and, trembling, waited. "Hurry, please…"

  He heard the tremor in her voice and understood her urgency. He had heard the politesse as well and appreciated her understanding. Although he wasn't sure he wouldn't fuck her, orders or not, in his present mood.

  "The buttons are ever so small. I apologize."

  But he had done this so many times before, he swiftly unfastened the small covered buttons and slid her green chartreuse gown from her shoulders.

  As it fell to the carpet, she was already slipping her chemise off, and short moments later, she stood naked before him, breath held and hopeful. "If you don't mind," she whispered, her thighs clamped together to maintain the most tenuous control over her approaching orgasm. "The sight of your- arousal… is very exciting…"

  She was literally trembling for him, and such helpless need inspired a strange degree of involvement quite apart from his usual lust. It gave him pause, but not for long since fucking was a familiar standard in his life. His body responded automatically to a beautiful nude woman, his intellectual impulses secondary to his libido. "Let's try the bed the first time," he murmured, sliding his arm around her waist and moving forward.

 
It was too much-the implication that there would be more, the possessive feel of his hand on her hip, her tremulous desires-and with a gasp, she stopped halfway to the bed and climaxed in a series of tiny sobs.

  He gently held her while her orgasm shuddered through her body, careful not to intrude on the heated flow, discreetly watching, waiting till the last before he lifted her into his arms and whispered, "Sorry. "

  "It's not your fault. I'm not very good at this."

  "You've been waiting too long."

  "Do you mind?"

  "Not if you don't. We've all night."

  "All night?" She looked alarmed. "I can't stay all night."

  "Why not?" He wasn't about to let her go without exploring the full range of her delights.

  "My servants will worry."

  He masked his shock. "Send them a note."

  "What will they think?"

  Sitting down on the bed, he cradled her on his lap. "Darling," he softly said. "They're servants. A note is more than sufficient."

  "They're really friends."

  "A note's good for friends, too. You write it and I'll ring for a messenger." Lifting her off his lap, he placed her on the bed.

  "I'm so sorry."

  Ignoring his throbbing hard-on, he said, "It's not a problem."

  "I really am sorry," she murmured, her gaze on his erection as he rose and walked away.

  "I can wait."

  "You're ever so nice."

  "See if you feel that way in the morning," he replied with a grin. "I intend to keep you up all night." Pulling open the desk drawer, he picked up a sheet of stationery and an envelope.

  "Really? All night? You don't… I mean-not actually all night?"

  His dark gaze held a hint of amusement as he plucked a pen from the holder. "Actually."

  She took a deep breath. "My goodness."

  "It should be extremely good." Adding a bottle of ink to the items in his hand, he moved back toward the bed.

  "Better than my orgasm?"

  "Oh, yes. I can guarantee that."

  How comfortable he was with his nudity, she thought. "Because you do this often and you know about women?"

  "Because you fascinate and intrigue me and I feel like fucking you all night."

  "Oh, my." Somehow the blunt phrase didn't offend, the soft promise in his words triggering a liquid heat deep inside her.