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
