Fascinated

by Bertrice Small

  "Write," he softly commanded, placing the supplies in her lap, grabbing a book from the bedside table for a writing surface and handing it to her. All the while she repressed her impulse to reach out and touch his arousal. Moving toward the telephone, he asked, "Do you want one of your servants' relatives to deliver your note?"

  She hesitated, not sure she wished to expose her indiscretions. On the other hand, aware of the speed with which gossip traveled below stairs, she knew her stay in the Wales's suite of the Hotel de Paris would be impossible to conceal. Better someone she knew to perhaps mitigate the worst of the gossip. "Ask for Claude." She began to write.

  Lord Grafton spoke rapidly in flawless French, the voice of authority resonating in his soft tone, his replies to a series of questions brief yeses and nos. Hanging up the ornate receiver, he turned to her with a half smile. "Apparently Claude has been waiting for your summons. It seems Daniel had been looking for you. Do you have a curfew?"

  "Oh, Lord. How embarrassing. I suppose everyone knows."

  "I was assured your presence here would be kept in the closest confidence."

  "Who are you anyway?" Wide-eyed, she gazed at him, wondering why the staff was so accommodating.

  "I spend a good deal of money at the casino."

  "You're not going to tell me." She signed her name to the few brief sentences.

  "I did tell you."

  "It really doesn't matter after tonight anyway," she said, taking note of his evasion. "And I do owe you a tremendous debt."

  "Is that why you're here?" One brow lifted in skeptical regard.

  "Do you really care?"

  He gazed at her for a moment, voluptuously nude, beautiful beyond the general standards for beauty, impatient for her first orgasm with a man. "No."

  Her mouth quirked in a faint smile. "I didn't think so."

  "Are you finished, then?" He nodded at the note, his momentary cynicism dismissed. "Claude's on his way up."

  As aware as he of the reasons that had brought them there, she quickly folded the sheet of paper, slid it into the envelope and handed it to him.

  Taking it to the desk, he sealed it. Then pulling a gray silk robe from the armoire, he slipped it on and walked from the bedroom, shutting the door behind him. The knock on the suite door sounded as he was counting out a number of bills guaranteed to buy silence from the staff. If Miss Greenwood lived in Monte Carlo, it would be best if her stay with him were forgotten. When he opened the door a few moments later, he conveyed his instructions to Daniel's brother with a decisiveness that couldn't be misconstrued. And money aside, the soft threat in his voice would have been sufficient to see his orders obeyed.

  "Your note is being delivered," the duke declared, reenter-ing the bedroom shortly after, "and I was assured not a hint of your presence here would go abroad."

  Lounging against the pillows, she lazily scrutinized him. "You must be dangerous or very rich."

  Some might say both, but choosing to disclose as little of his life as possible, the duke said instead, "I gave Claude some of the money I won tonight."

  "A lot, no doubt."

  "Enough." She was so lush and inviting lying on his bed, he would have willingly spent more if necessary. "Now that your concerns for your servants are alleviated, you no longer need worry." His smile gave evidence of his supreme good humor. "And we can concentrate on pleasure until morning."

  "You make this very, very easy."

  "I have the most selfish of motives."

  She playfully shifted into an odalisque pose. "You're sure I'm worth it?"

  "Definitely, and I'm always right."

  She laughed, delighted to be the object of such regard. "And modest, too."

  "Modesty is much overrated." He untied his robe and slipped it off.

  She gazed at his tall, muscled form, bronzed from the sun, honed and taut, exquisitely aroused. "You could never be regarded as modest in any way."

  "Nor you." He climbed into bed and settled between her legs with a comfortable ease that bespoke much practice. "Let's begin your first lesson in having an orgasm with a man," he murmured with a smile, guiding his penis to her heated cleft. "Stop me at any time if you have questions."

  "I have no intention in the world of stopping you." The feel of him poised to enter her sent waves of pleasure upward from the thrilling point of contact.

  "A woman after my own heart."

  Her gaze came up, the sentiment oddly put.

  "A generic phrase," he quickly noted, mildly confounded himself when he scrupulously avoided romantical utterances.

  "Do make love to me," she purred, moving her hips in invitation. "And I mean it in the most generic way."

  He moved forward, penetrating slowly, gliding into her heated interior with deliberate languor, wanting to give pleasure, but also selfishly wishing to feel each centimeter of the intoxicating invasion. He couldn't remember when he had had sex with such an inexperienced woman, and her breathless desire brought new dimension to his arousal. "Stop me if I'm hurting you."

  "Au contraire…" Her hands were hard on his back, her hips rising to meet him, the melting heat of her desire flowing around his long, rigid length. "Please… more…"

  As he obliged her, he met a small resistance and, unsure, hesitated.

  "It doesn't hurt… really…"

  Gazing down, he saw the entreaty in her lavender eyes, the glowing flush on her cheeks.

  "Don't stop… I want it all…" she implored.

  A saint couldn't have withstood such a plea and he had never aspired to sainthood. "You're sure?" he asked when he wasn't sure himself how much longer he could act the gentleman.

  "I'm dying," she whispered, desperation in her voice.

  So long celibate, she couldn't wait, nor in truth could he, his explosive need controlled only with superhuman effort. With her breathless consent, he gave in to his own rapacious urges and plunged forward, burying himself deep inside her, holding himself immobile against her womb, filling her, stretching her. The pleasure was so intense tears came to her eyes. Then he gently moved, and she moaned, the sleek friction stimulating every sensitized nerve and cell to fever pitch. Inhaling sharply at the agony of restraint, he forced himself to ignore the savage pleasure bombarding his senses. Although it wouldn't be much longer, he recognized. Her thighs opened wider to accommodate him, and her panting cries had reached a new level of need.

  Settling into a slow, luscious flux and flow, he gave her what she wanted, what they both wanted, the exquisite rhythm of thrust and withdrawal overwhelming all but stark, finite sensation. She cried out, and he softly grunted each time at the blissful point of deepest penetration when the focus of the world centered on the tremulous imprint of his engorged penis against her throbbing tissue. And then breath held as he withdrew, gliding back to the farthest limit, they waited in sweet, shuddering agony for the next powerful downstroke.

  The scent of sex engulfed them, the heated odor of passionate bodies in sleek fusion, the raw, primitive act of mating permeating the civilized luxury and sumptuous decor of the bedroom in the Hotel de Paris. An incongruous concept for a man who viewed sex as a casual game, equally incongruous for a woman who had spent the greater part of her life as pure as a vestal virgin.

  But at that moment they existed in their own universe, joined in a dance as old as time, abandoned to a wild, audacious carnality, body to body, torrid desire to torrid desire, fevered, delirious, ravenous for each other. Until she whimpered and he instantly shifted direction, recognizing how close she was to the brink. Plunging forward, he buried himself so deeply she gasped. And then her low keening cry shattered the night air, the sound rising in soaring exultation as her orgasm tempestuously broke, surged, swelled. With blessed relief, he allowed his own fierce urges free rein. His long withheld climax exploded, flowing downward in such violent ejaculations he shut his eyes against the savage assault.

  For reeling moments in the self-contained paradise of the canopied bed, convulsed with
rapture, they clung to each other, experiencing a wild, tumultuous consummation so intense the world narrowed to blissful sensation and the heated contact of their bodies. How could she have known, she thought, ravished and saturated and filled with sperm, that sex could be so shockingly good. Was her naivete alone capable of such sorcery? he wondered, his senses still on fire despite his climax.

  But resisting the notion of intense feeling on principle, intent on retaining the comfortable habits of a lifetime, he dismissed his errant feelings and, raising his forehead from the pillow, brushed Felicia's cheek with a casual kiss. "That was fantastic."

  "And now I know what it's like." Her voice was the merest wisp of sound, her eyes half-shut in languor.

  "When the world is perfect," he murmured, adjusting his weight on his elbows and smiling down at her.

  "With you, you mean." Her lashes lifted, and contentment shone from her eyes.

  "Is it better than alone?"

  Her smile appeared, beatific and radiant. "As if you didn't know, you arrogant man."

  "Just checking." He glanced at the clock on the mantel. "And I can make it better again."

  "Impossible. Really," she murmured. "I couldn't."

  "Are you sure?" He moved inside her.

  She softly groaned, tremulous rapture in the delicate sound. "Don't do that. I'll expire of bliss."

  "This kind of bliss?" He slid forward marginally, his erection seemingly undiminished despite his orgasm.

  An exquisite flutter rippled through her vagina, and she purred. "That's not fair."

  "Are there rules?" His smile brushed her lips.

  "Apparently not for you."

  "I can make you come again." Dulcet and sweet, he offered her paradise. "As many times as you want," he added in a whisper.

  A flaring desire burned through her senses, and she understood unbridled lust for the first time. "How do you do it? Only seconds ago I was incapable of moving."

  "Simple. I slide in like this and touch you-here…"

  She shivered at the streaking pleasure.

  "And your body takes note. Now, if I shift a fraction to the right and lift up just a little…"

  Shocked, she felt an orgasm begin, and endless, hysterical, screaming moments later when her climax was over and her brain resumed its normal function, she opened her eyes.

  "… I can make you come," he playfully finished.

  "How do you know that?" she whispered.

  "Years of practice if you don't mind the truth." Slowly withdrawing, he rolled away and sprawled on his back.

  Rising on one elbow, she gazed at the beauty of his lounging form. "If it didn't feel so good, I'd be tempted to take issue with your years of practice."

  Lacing his hands behind his head, he grinned. "Do you want me to apologize?"

  "How old are you?"

  "Thirty-five."

  She softly snorted. "Years of practice aren't the entire reason. My husband was fifty and he didn't know a thing."

  "Sex appeals more to some than others."

  "The pleasure of it, you mean."

  "No, I mean sex."

  "Pleasure is incidental?"

  "Hardly. It's the raison d'être. But you can take pleasure in a great number of things outside of sex."

  "Do you?"

  "Do I look like I'm obsessed?"

  "You're awfully good at this."

  "I have a great number of things I'm good at."

  "And yet you're single. How have you eluded the pursuing women?"

  He instantly looked uncomfortable.

  "Relax, Flynn. I'm not in the market for a husband ever again."

  He visibly relaxed, and she laughed.

  "Force of habit," he muttered, "with a question like that. Would you like a bath?"

  "Are we changing the subject?"

  "Definitely."

  "Do I need a bath?"

  "Not necessarily. But the tub is large enough for two."

  "Hmmm." Her gaze was flirtatious. "Do I detect another lesson?"

  He faintly moved his head on the pillow. "No more lessons darling. I dislike the role. I'm just sweaty and sticky." He ran his hand over his chest. "But if you don't mind, I don't."

  "How big is the tub?"

  "Very. And there's a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket just outside the door." "Since when?"

  "Since I told Claude to bring one up." "Oh, my God! Do you think he heard me scream?" "Servants don't hear anything."

  "What kind of servants do you have? Mine tell me what to eat for lunch."

  He grinned. "Then, you've become much too friendly with them."

  "If you recall, my high-and-mighty Flynn, I once was very near their rank myself."

  His gaze held hers for a moment. "Were you always poor?"

  "Does it matter?"

  "Not to me." He spent a good deal of time in the far-flung reaches of the world; he was content with a simple life.

  "As a matter of fact, my father was a viscount, although a Scottish laird is almost by definition poor. But we lived on a fine old estate, much the worse for lack of funds until my marriage."

  "Why don't you live there now?"

  "I don't get on with my brother's wife."

  "Ah. A common enough complaint. So you were thrown out on the world."

  "I chose not to live there under their sufferance. As it turns out, I much prefer Villa Paradise to the chill of Aberdeenshire. And thanks to you, I can continue to enjoy it."

  "It was my pleasure, chou chou. And at the risk of offending you, would you mind terribly taking a bath with me?"

  "Oh, dear, I smell."

  "We both do, although I'm thinking of a cold glass of champagne with considerable relish at the moment."

  "In a warm bath."

  He smiled. "Our own touch of paradise." Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he walked around the end and, coming up beside her, held out his hand.

  "I'd be a fool to refuse, wouldn't I?"

  "I think you'll like it."

  "That tone of voice makes your offer even more tempting."

  "I was hoping it would. You might like to ride me, I thought."

  "Flynn!" She felt her body instantly leap in response.

  "It doesn't appeal?" His dark eyes held a touch of amusement.

  "Everything about you appeals, as you well know."

  He didn't pretend false modesty. "Good," he said. "Then, we'll both enjoy ourselves."

  The bathroom was enormous, tiled in gleaming red and gold faience that reminded her of the Provencal countryside. The tub was indeed large enough for two or four or six, she didn't doubt, the gold fixtures ornately cast, the designs of dolphin spouts and sea shell faucets exquisite. Opposite the sunken tub, three flower-painted porcelain sinks were backed by a mirrored wall. Above the sinks stretched a long glass shelf filled with such a variety of colorful toiletries, the array could have stocked a small boutique.

  A balcony lay outside wide glass doors facing the sea while two paneled doors in antiqued yellow punctuated the opposing wall.

  "If you'd like to use the facilities," the duke offered, indicating the doors with a wave of his hand.

  After drinking so much champagne at dinner, the offer was inviting. "You can't listen."

  His brows rose. "It's a bit late for modesty, isn't it?"

  She blushed, reminded of all that had passed between them.

  "I'll begin to fill the tub if you like. Would that be better?"

  "Thank you." She lifted her hands slightly in a nervous gesture. "I'm very new at this."

  Aware of the unusual desires she evoked, he gently said, "Maybe we both are."

  "How gallant." Her voice was less uncertain, her gaze once again composed. Turning to the doors behind her, she opened them both before selecting the room with the bidet. Glancing back before she entered, she sweetly smiled. "I feel terribly grown up."

  Alarm tightened his stomach. She was a lush vision of womanhood, but so entirely without guile, that inc
onsistency could pose a danger. "Don't tell me you're sixteen."

  "I wish I could tell you I was sixteen and forget I was ever married. In a more perfect world, perhaps-"

  "I'm not interested in a long discussion right now." His voice was terse. "How old are you?"

  "You're nervous," she teased.

  Nothing so genial resonated in his voice. "Just tell me."

  "Twenty-six."

  His relief was so apparent she laughed out loud. "Now that was a moment of sheer terror."

  "Damn right it was. Men have been forced to the altar for far less."

  "Let me assure you, dear Flynn, I'm only interested in your"-her gaze traveled down to his penis, and his libido instantly responded-"ability to perform on command," she purred. "By the way," she added, her gaze coquettish, "I like that I can do that to you."

  "Go," he gruffly said, at a loss for an offhand remark when he was taut with lust. As the door shut behind her, he took himself to task, reminding himself that innocents like Miss Greenwood were outside his purview for a variety of reasons that bore recall, like families that might object or notions of accountability and responsibility he didn't care to face. He would enjoy her tonight because he would be a fool if he didn't, but worldly women were more his style. They knew the rules of the game. And with that sensible reminder, he walked to the tub, turned on the faucets and went to the second bathroom. He had every intention of drinking enough tonight to obliterate his disturbing attraction to the artless Miss Greenwood.

  Even with the tub water running, Felicia heard him in the adjacent bathroom and found herself listening like a voyeur. How strange, she thought, that she was intrigued with even the most earthy facets of the man when she would have considered such conduct coarse and vulgar before tonight. Why this inordinate interest? she wondered, trying to make sense of the intense attraction she felt.

  He was handsome as a god, of course, but that wasn't reason enough to be so fascinated in every detail of his life. His lovemaking was glorious, but sex didn't rule her world, or it never had, she ruefully noted, until tonight. As for his charm, he had that in abundance. But charm alone didn't explain her profound desire to know the intimacies of his life. Did he clean his teeth in the morning or at night or both? What kind of bed did he sleep on at home? Did he like scent on his shirts? Did he whistle? Her mind raced with new and peculiar curiosities.