inclined to consider the lady of Pre-Raphaelite splendor as a gift from the gods. She was turning out to be insatiable in her appetites-a charming attribute he’d half suspected but was nevertheless grateful to confirm. There had been something about her that morning, beyond her voluptuous beauty-perhaps her hot-tempered resistance or the brief glimpse of passion he’d seen in her eyes. And now he was here reaping the benefits of his earlier presumption and her highly charged libido.
As though in response, he felt her first little preorgasmic ripples slide up his cock, and recognizing her soft, suffocated groan, benevolent once again, he buried himself deep inside her in readiness for the approaching onslaught.
Half a heartbeat later, her climax detonated with full-scale violence and her high-pitched cry exploded like a shrapnel burst into the shadowed room.
Her voice resonated in her ears as though from a distance.
Less overwrought, Fitz heard it clearly and from very close range.
Her screams persisted, a fierce, seething climax convulsing her senses, spilling into every palpitating crevice in her body, dispersing flame-hot, soul-stirring ecstasy in rapturous profusion for seemingly endless moments.
At the last, as her grip relaxed on his shoulders and her cries died to whimpers, Fitz unwrapped her legs from his waist, withdrew, and came on her stomach in one of the more prolonged, tempestuous ejaculations of his life.
Afterward, she didn’t open her eyes for so long he began to worry; she hadn’t even moved when he wiped his semen from her stomach.
When she finally lifted her lashes, she looked up to find him propped on his elbow beside her, watching her with concern.
“What?”
“Nothing. How are you feeling?”
“Deeply satisfied,” she murmured, sleepy eyed and blissfully content.
Relieved, he grinned. “Friends? ”
“Oh yes, very much so. How do you do it, Your Grace?” Her voice was playful. “My toes are still curled, and my toes
She smiled. “I suspect it has more to do with you than me. I must say, I feel deliciously and sumptuously ravished. Like all those languishing Danaes male artists love to paint.” At his lifted brows, she translated, “You know a woman in the grip of an orgasm is a male favorite.”
He grinned. “And there’s something wrong with that?”
She laughed. “Touchй. I’m definitely not in the mood to complain.”
“So, if I were to keep you orgasmic, you’d be disinclined to complain?”
“You say the
“It’s pure selfishness, darling.”
Her green gaze was sportive. “Am I your darling?”
“Without a doubt.” They were by chance or happenstance or the aimlessness of fate physically matched-as in a perfect fit. And he should know.
“I rather like the idea,” she whispered, reaching out and sliding her finger up his only marginally diminished erection. “And him, of course, and his very credible talents.”
There was something electrifying about the lush Mrs. St. Vincent, he decided, drawing in a small breath, sumptuous pleasure still pulsing through his penis and gonads-albeit in lesser measure. “We thank you for your inspiration,” he murmured, leaning forward slightly to kiss her, a politesse learned at his French governess’s knee. Literally.
“How nice you are. Thank you, too.” Rosalind smiled at the conventional courtesies. “Did we just finish a waltz?”
“In a manner of speaking.” He grinned. “You’re a very good dancer.”
“And you’ve done this once or twice before.”
“Yes, once or twice,” he said, not sure where she was going with her remark.
“I should be grateful, I suppose.”
What had she expected? That he was some saint? “I certainly am grateful for your participation.” His voice was urbane, his smile charming. “You’re quite amazing.” Women were prone to talk about their feelings after sex. Why should Mrs. St. Vincent be the exception?
“So your reputation remains intact, does it not?”
“Are you complaining?” For a woman who’d just climaxed three times, he rather thought he’d done her a favor.
She had the good grace to blush. “No.”
“Good,” he softly said, slipping a finger under her chin and holding her gaze. “Because we’re not anywhere near finished.”
As if on cue, she saw his erection begin to swell, and quite removed from reason or intellect, an answering ripple of arousal shimmered through her vagina.
“This is sheer madness,” she said much too softly.
Her equivocation in word and tone was a flashing semaphore to an experienced cocksman like Fitz. “Probably,” he said as softly. “Because I’m thinking about taking you into the country for a month.”
Her eyes flared wide. “You wouldn’t!” But even as she protested, the pulsing between her legs accelerated, her nipples stiffened, and a wild lustful flame burned through her body.
“I would,” he said, pointed and deliberate.
“You can’t.”
“I can do anything I want.”
He was a duke and rich. She understood rules didn’t apply to him. “You have no compunction about coercing a woman?”
“Until now I would have said yes.” He suddenly smiled. “You affect me differently.”
Gratified to see his teasing smile, she said, “It’s only lust. You’ll get over it.”
“I hope so. Now then, you were looking for adventure. What did I do with my tie?” Rolling off the bed, he walked toward the pile of his discarded clothing. “Maybe we’ll play harem after all.”
He didn’t ask her permission; there was something provocative in his assumption of authority. Was he her eunuch come to life? Or was he the master of the harem, or simply Groveland in the flesh? Or didn’t it matter who he was after he’d said
“Here we go.” Holding the strip of white silk aloft, he returned to the bed. “I’ve only heard about slave markets, so we’ll have to improvise.” Leaning over, he lifted her to her feet, drew her hands together before her, and bound them with a loose slipknot. “What is it that appeals to you about harems? Stand there.” He indicated a point near the bed with his finger.
“The exotic atmosphere, I suppose,” she said, moving the few steps. “Where women are-”
“Sexual objects, receptacles for a man’s pleasure?” His brows rose. “How does that appeal to a woman of your independence?”
She shrugged. “The departure from the norm or the blatant sexual content or-”
“Being tamed and mastered and forced to have sex?”
She took a small breath to contain the prurient rush of lust flaring through her senses, felt a need as well to meet the challenge in his soft query. “I’m not sure,” she said, holding his gaze. “Does it matter?”
He smiled. “Not to me. You’re the one on the auction block. I’m just here to make a purchase. Should I find you pleasing.”
“Then I must do my best to please you.”
This time it was he who required a small inhalation to suppress the ruttish surge bringing his penis fully erect, Mrs. St. Vincent’s whispered reply shocking in its impact. He didn’t particularly like the feeling, the lack of control she provoked. Perhaps taming her wouldn’t be exclusively a game. “Where do you come from?” His voice was crisp. “Circassia with your auburn hair?”
