She smiled her agreement. “Opportunities like this don’t come my way everyday, you know.”
“Nor to me.” Strangely, despite his prodigal life, he meant it. “Are we ready then for whatever unplanned events transpire?”
“I believe I’ve been ready since you walked in tonight.” An admission long in coming.
“How nice.” Not that a woman wanting him was unusual, but that it mattered to him, was. “I admit I may not have come for the paintings alone,” he said with a boyish grin.
With her libido seriously focused on harem adventures, equally aware that an amorous situation such as this might not befall her again, Rosalind held his gaze. “Compliments aside, darling, must I ask again?”
“God no.” Her impatience was charming, as was her appetite for sex. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he helped her off with her robe. “There now,” he said a moment later, reaching up to hang her robe on the bedpost. “Lie back against the pillows just a little.” He arranged the pillows behind her so she was half reclining. Then he gently spread her thighs wide, bent her knees, and crossed her feet at the ankles. Her sex was now prominently displayed. “Does that stretch your muscles too much?”
Glancing up, he saw her watching him intently.
“Are you taking notes?” he teased. “Would you like me to go more slowly?”
Her eyes flared wide for a second before she smiled. “I’m just curious. I haven’t the advantage of your considerable knowledge in this area.”
“In that case, ask questions if you wish. Apparently, diversions such as this were not uncommon in the harem. The sultan had four hundred concubines at the time Sally was visiting.”
“Four hundred?” Rosalind breathed. “I hope the sultan was young and virile.”
“Alas, he wasn’t. Consequently, these little pastimes were habitually practiced to whet his jaded appetite and also bring relief as it were to the ladies-like your bottle.” He nodded in the direction he’d tossed the makeshift dildo. “You should have something better than that.”
“At the moment, I do,” Rosalind sweetly replied.
“Not yet.”
“I can wait. Actually, you’ve been a darling already. I’ve never climaxed so many times in my life.”
Such artless innocence was a powerful aphrodisiac. “Hush, darling, or I’ll forget about being unselfish.”
“On the contrary, you’re the most unselfish man I know.”
He’d been complimented by women for years, and yet knowing he pleased her was curiously gratifying. Her husband may not have, he decided, and that, too, was pleasing. And lunatic. He deliberately shut down so bizarre a thought. “Allow me to serve you again, my lady,” he playfully offered instead, preferring the familiarity of boudoir sport. “Consider me the harem eunuch here for your edification and pleasure.”
Startled, she drew in a breath-her fantasy come to life.
“Don’t be frightened,” he said, misreading her inhalation. “I’ll make sure you’re ready for the sultan’s pleasure before I go on. I’ll kiss you here”-he rained soft kisses on her eyes, nose, chin-“and here”-a trail of kisses followed the curve of her throat. “And then we’ll kiss your pert nipples until you’re wet enough to take what I have for you.”
She’d never realized how effectively words could arouse; he had but to promise her carnal delights and her body opened in welcome, twitched and danced with excitement, sent a lurid message to her brain with quicksilver speed. And when his mouth closed on her nipple, the additional stimulation sent a lascivious jolt through her nervous system.
Mrs. St. Vincent was unconstrained in her desires-as usual, Fitz reflected, increasing the pressure of his mouth, sucking harder on her ripe nipple. She was already squirming, softly moaning, searching for surcease. Like the proverbial nymphet of every male fantasy.
But he took his time and saw that both her nipples were thoroughly worked into hard, peaked crests, that she was visibly panting and pinked with passion before he raised his head and whispered, “Let’s see if you’re wet enough now.”
She nodded, unable to speak, seething inside, trembling, every instinct feverishly focused on consummation.
Slipping a finger inside her vagina, he withdrew it and held it up. “Look. Do you think you’re ready?”
It took considerable effort to lever her eyes open, distracted as she was with the fierce throbbing in her cunt, the overpowering ache of desire.
“See all that white, pearly liquid? You have the most succulent little cunt.”
“I need you,” she breathed.
“If only I could,” he gently replied. “I’m a eunuch.”
“No you’re not,” she whispered, alluring as Eve. “Please?”
“If you satisfactorily discharge your harem duties, we’ll see if we can find someone who hasn’t been castrated to service you later. One of the guards perhaps. But first you must oblige the sultan. Do you understand?”
Restive, she made a fretful face.
“Decide,” he softly said.
She squirmed and fidgeted, wrinkled her nose. “You’ll find me a guard afterward?”
“If you please the sultan.”
She shuddered as a violent tremor spiked through her vagina. “Do I have a choice?”
He smiled faintly. “Of course.”
“Damn you,” she hissed.
“One learns obedience here, my lady.”
She nodded.
The imperious bitch he’d first seen that morning surfaced in her condescending nod, but there was no question who was in charge, so his voice was temperate when he said, “The sultan has these fruits”-he lifted the small peach from the bedside table-“specially grown for his harem. This particular size is much coveted by the outside world and by the harem ladies. Why don’t we see if you like them as well.” Leaning forward, he eased open her labia wide enough to gently wedge a portion of the golden fruit into her soft flesh.
She softly moaned as pressure was exerted on her clitoris.
“The sultan may wish you served up to him later. He has a penchant for such displays. Can you feel that?”
An unnecessary question as she shuddered under his hand.
“You must take more.” Spreading the inner lips of her labia, he slid his finger around the sleek flesh, stretching it enough to force the peach in slightly deeper. “There, now we can see this little bud again,” he murmured, grazing the sensitive tip of her clitoris with his finger, smiling as she softly groaned. “You have to accept more or the sultan won’t approve. He has definite preferences. Are you ready?”
With every impressionable, gushing sensory response screaming its assent, nearly delirious with need, she took a deep breath and whispered, “Yes.”
Fitz was very careful at this stage, intent on keeping the fruit intact, planning on seeing how many times the lady could come when he ate it later. Known for his good hands-part natural talent, part acquired skill-he deftly inserted the peach, stretching her pink flesh little by little until the peach was firmly lodged between her taut vulva lips, the portion of fruit still visible, protruding slightly, golden and tantalizing. “There. I think the sultan will approve. You’ve accommodated it nicely.”
Trembling on the brink, she breathed, “Please, please… I need you.”
“Patience, my pet. The sultan dislikes assertive females. I suggest you learn to hold your tongue.” He smiled as she shut her mouth firmly in an effort to please-in hopes of a quick orgasm, he assumed. “That’s better,” he whispered, gently smoothing her stretched flesh, his long, slender fingers delicate as he stroked her glossy tissue and the portion of the golden sphere still visible. “The sultan will be pleased.”
Sitting back, he admired his handiwork, the vision lushly erotic, the voluptuous reclining female, thighs spread wide, was offering up her fruit-filled cunt for his pleasure. And he thanked whatever random act of fate had brought him here tonight, Mrs. St. Vincent one of the more delectable morsels he’d seen in a very long
time. She was flushed in arousal, her eyes shut, her mouth slightly open, her fevered moans softly audible.
Would she come if he touched her?
Or how soon would she come if he touched her?
He proceeded to find out.
With extreme delicacy, he ran his finger over the strained membrane of her labia, pressing gently against the soft fruit imbedded in her cunt, bending low to draw one nipple into his mouth as he caressed her ripe sex.
Whimpering, tormented by the sweet ache throbbing between her legs, her body gorged, her sense of self disappearing in the torrid heat of an all-consuming sexual hysteria, she wondered if he was right after all. That she wanted taming at some primal level, wished to be an object of lust. Like this-like now, offering her breasts to be suckled, lavishly filled to overflowing, bursting at the seams, receptive and submissive, enslaved to the passion he evoked.
Attuned to female arousal, recognizing the rising pitch of her whimpers, his fingers sliding more easily over her drenched slit, the peach inside, slick with pearly fluid, he lifted his mouth from her nipple. “The sultan will be watching now, so be on your best behavior.”
She only half heard him, overwrought, so near to orgasm his voice came from a great distance. But instinctively, selfishly, nearly wild with longing, she breathed, “I’ll be good,” because she knew that’s what he wanted to hear.
There was no reason to feel such gloating satisfaction at her blanket submission; he immediately chided himself for such vanity. And then because he was adored for his kindness in the boudoir and not his physical splendor alone, he set about furnishing the lady with a richly deserved climax. Uncrossing her ankles, he made room for himself between her legs, drew her engorged clit into his mouth and licked and sucked with exquisite restraint, with unstinting competence, with a crucial sense of place. With a flare for timing.
She screamed much louder that time, he thought, but then she’d waited longer than usual.
As her breathing returned to normal, he gently soothed her, running his hands slowly down her arms, over her breasts, delicately brushing her eyebrows, skimming her flushed cheeks with his fingertips, tracing the smooth curve of her belly with his warm palm. And after a time, moving his hand lower.
She jerked awake as he exerted pressure on the peach. “No, no… no more.”
He gazed up at her from between her legs. “Hush, darling, you always want more. Trust me.”
She had no way of knowing he was right until afterward. She never did. But having stood stud to a good many women in London, he did. And after her third climax, he ate the peach in situ, not spilling so much as a drop of juice, bringing the lady to a shrieking orgasm once again. He wondered if Mrs. St. Vincent and Sally would enjoy each other’s company, similarly inclined as they were to delight in peaches.
Moments later, as Rosalind lay in a deeply sated torpor, Fitz came up on his knees and entered her very, very gently, barely moving until she opened her eyes, smiled up at him, and whispered, “Don’t ever go.”
“Not likely,” he said with an answering smile, in full agreement about the merits of carnal sensation. “How are you feeling?”
“Sexy,” she purred. “Very, very sexy.”
“Then there’s no need for me to say, ‘Ignore me, this won’t take long,’ ” he observed with a grin.
“Since I seem to be addicted, no. Take all the time you want.”
He did, and they both entered a new realm of sensation, one where sentiment intruded into sensual pleasure and tenderness pervaded even the most self-indulgent, prurient play.
Very late that night as they lay postcoital, panting side by side, he turned his head and said with a smile, “I’d be more than willing to shower you with gold… my darling Danae of Bruton Street. Just say the word. I’m totally bewitched.”
“Speaking of bewitchment,” she murmured, wallowing in bliss, “I’m going to need… just a little more of him.” Reaching over in a lazy drift of her arm, she ran her fingertip down his rampant erection. “You have the most phenomenal cock. He’s indefatigable and most charitable. Thank you, Your Grace,” she teasingly purred.
Since she’d been effusive in her thanks, he already knew she was appreciative. The question was whether he could keep up with her. So far so good. But he was well aware that tonight would be a record of sorts for him; that from a man who already held all the confirmed records in the world of amour. “Give me a minute,” he said, good-humored and obliging. “I’ll be right with you.”
On the other hand, the thought of fucking himself to death with the hot-blooded Mrs. St. Vincent was not without its novel appeal.
Chapter 10
IT WAS SHORTLY after nine, the air already heavy with heat, the muslin curtains hanging limp at the open windows of Rosalind’s bedroom. Fitz was almost finished dressing. He was debating wearing a coat when he was already sweating. But his shirt looked like it had been walked on… more than once. Which may have been the case. Not that his coat and trousers weren’t the worse for wear as well. Oh, what the hell; he slipped on his swallow-tail. It wasn’t as though this was the first time he’d come home in rumpled evening rig.
Nor was it likely the last.
As for the lovely Rosalind-all sweet tenderness this morning-he was definitely inclined to call on her again.
They’d previously exchanged all the courtesies, each thanking the other in turn, he with suave practiced grace, she more impetuous in her sentiments. But then she’d been pleasured beyond her wildest dreams. It was only natural.
He bent to pick up his watch that had been discarded on the floor the previous night. Sliding the leather band around his wrist, he clasped the gold buckle as Rosalind offered up another appreciative compliment on his kindness-a curious word, he thought. But as he smiled and answered her in kind, he found himself thinking this might be an opportune moment to bring up buying her store. She appeared to view him with considerable affection.
So he did. Ask.
Lounging in bed, Rosalind looked at him with mild surprise. “Was last night just a way of negotiating with me?”
“No, and yet I can’t say I wouldn’t like you to reconsider,” he pleasantly replied.
“Sorry, darling. But thank you nonetheless for a night of unbelievable pleasure.” She smiled. “Although I expect you hear that often.”
He didn’t like her blasй tone; he particularly didn’t like to think of her lying nude in bed like that speaking to some other man with such casualness. Not that it was any of his business, he quickly reminded himself. Reaching into the pocket of his evening coat, he pulled out the jewelry from Grey’s and set it on the bedside table.
“What are you doing?” A decided umbrage rang through her query.
“Leaving a few small gifts.” In the light of day, habitual custom held sway, the heated passions of the previous night appeased.
“Are you paying me for sex?” Frost in every syllable.
“God no. It’s nothing of the kind.”
“Then take them back!” Rolling over on her side, she reached out, grabbed the glittering pile, and gimlet-eyed and wrathful, held the jewels out to him. “Here, take them!”
“I don’t want them. They’re engraved with your name in any event, so they won’t do me much good.” He was moving toward the bedroom door as he spoke, feeling equally sulky and resentful. Why the hell was she indignant? Any other woman would have offered profuse, heartfelt thanks! But then she was the same obstinate woman who was standing in the way of Monckton Row!
Half turning as he reached the doorway, he cooly measured her with his gaze, as though calibrating her entertainment value. “Thank you for your hospitality and”-he paused in his drawling delivery just long enough to let the insult drop into the silence-“gratifying enthusiasm.” Then he turned and walked out, pulling the door shut behind him.
He heard the jewelry hit the door.
Bitch, he thought.
A damnably sexy bitch, he had to admit-one who’d kept
his prick primed and ready for action all night long. Unfortunately, she was also a major thorn in his side. And that defiance trumped even world-class sex.
As soon as he’d paid his compliments to his mother, he’d call on Hutchinson. Perhaps his barrister’s agents had discovered some unfavorable information about the St. Vincents since yesterday. Hopefully, something he could use to destroy the irritating cunt who stood in the way of his development project.
Or if not precisely destroy-perhaps that was too malevolent a verb after Mrs. St. Vincent’s excessive receptivity last night-at least convince her to sell.
LYING IN BED, Rosalind silently fumed as she listened to the swift echo of Groveland’s footsteps descend the stairs. Only when the back door slammed and silence reigned did she finally give vent to her feelings. Swearing like a trooper, yelling at the top of her lungs, she conjured up every derogatory expletive she’d ever heard and pithily and comprehensively bestowed them on Groveland’s reprehensible person. And with an older brother to ape, she’d acquired a large and colorful repertoire.
When both her breath and invective had run its course, she lay panting. In that small lull, she found herself peevishly contemplating her blackened and besmirched reputation. And allocating blame where blame was due.
To the dissolute Groveland, naturally.
At present, logic and reason were truant with hell-hath-no-fury in charge.
How dare he view her as some whore or doxy who could be bought off with a few sparkling bits of jewelry! And prior to that, she hotly contended, how dare he invite himself upstairs! And prior to that, why did he present himself as some benevolent noble interested in buying all the art on display! Fraud and charlatan! He was nothing but a scurrilous rogue as everyone well knew, and she had mistakenly forgotten after several glasses of champagne! She softly groaned-not only galled at her blunder but also concerned that she might have hurt her vocal cords while tantrumishly screaming. Damn-it hurt when she swallowed. Reaching for the bottle of champagne left on the bedside table, she thought to remedy her sore throat with a soothing draught.
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