Gorgeous As Sin

Wiping his finger on his trousers a few moments later, he silently watched her until her eyes slowly opened. “It’s always a race with you, isn’t it? ” he said, grinning.

“I appreciate your benevolence,” she whispered. “I couldn’t wait.”

“I could tell.”

“I want you next time, though. You’re better.”

He shook his head. “Maybe we shouldn’t tonight. I wouldn’t want to hurt you.”

“I feel fine-really.” She grinned. “Especially now. Please-I want you inside me.” Just saying the words sent an anticipatory flutter up her vagina. But then as Sofia had pointed out, he was the gold standard.

Fitz blew out a breath. “It’s tempting as hell, darling, but I don’t know.” He held up one finger. “This is all you can accommodate.”

She sat up. “Why don’t we try?” Reaching over, she unbuttoned one of his trouser buttons still undone.

He stopped her, his hand hard on hers. “No, let’s not.” It wasn’t as though he’d been abstinent anytime the decade past. He could wait.

“Then let me see that you come another way.”

No fool he, he lifted his hand from hers.

“I’m enamored of your lovely cock.” Looking up from her unbuttoning, she smiled at him prettily. “If you don’t mind.”

He grinned. “What do you think I’ll say? ”

Her brows flickered in facetious reply. “Tell me if you like it later.”

“I can tell you right now I will.” The thought of her mouth on his cock added inches to his erection.

After she’d opened his trousers, she unbuttoned his silk underwear. As she pulled his rigid upthrust penis away from his stomach, he slowly inhaled, waiting for her to lower her head.

But she didn’t. She traced his length with her fingertips, partially circled it with her fist, brushed the shiny crest with her knuckles, lightly squeezed his testicles. Gently she stroked his engorged length, up and down and over again.

He was breathing hard at this point, growing frustrated and wondering suspiciously why she was toying with him. “If you don’t mind,” he said tautly, taking her head between his hands, “I need more than that.” And cupping her head with one hand, he pressed downward, grasped his cock in his other hand, and brought her mouth on target.

Fighting his hold, she looked up, wide-eyed. “Am I supposed to put this huge thing in my mouth? ”

The little vixen was toying with him. And fuck if it wasn’t working; his cock increased sizeably. “It’s no bigger than it was last night,” he said, and shoved her head back down.

“Oh yes it is.”

But the last of her words were muffled as her lips closed over his cock.

He gasped at the initial contact and then he shut his eyes against the agonizing pleasure as she slowly drew him in, and when his cock bumped the back of her throat, he softly groaned.

He had no idea why her mouth was any different than any other woman’s mouth, but it was. Nor did he understand why her tongue licking the flanges of the crest of his cock and gliding down the shaft made him break into a cold sweat, made him think of words like nirvana and everlasting bliss. Made him consider coming in two seconds like a green adolescent. But he didn’t because he knew how good it would feel if he repressed that impulse-a lesson learned long ago-and he let the lady continue.

He couldn’t know of course that Rosalind had other plans. Devious, selfish plans, she’d learned yesterday, worked well. Wanting what she wanted, she thought with an inner smile, like Groveland. And she rather thought she’d be successful because his observations about her receptivity aside, she knew her body rather better than he. Or at least since she’d met the darling of every lady in London she’d come to know her body-and the creamy droplets running down her thighs meant she’d have him.

When the duke’s breathing grew labored, when she felt his penis begin to twitch, she quickly lifted her head and said to his astonished gaze, “Don’t move,” and a second later was straddling his thighs.

He said, “No,” but with little conviction this near orgasm.

“Oh yes,” she said in her prim schoolmistress voice that under other circumstances might have been grating but now sounded like the “Hallelujah Chorus” to his ears, and before he could take another labored breath, she was sliding down his cock.

Not easily, but so incredibly and exquisitely snugly, he thought his head would explode from the rapturous friction.

He didn’t move; he didn’t so much as twitch a muscle, not wishing to hurt her-and even more, not wanting her to stop. And when she finally did, when she was impaled well and good on his cock, he decided life couldn’t get any better than this.

But she slowly raised herself and settled back down again and life got considerably better. And in the following few minutes as she moved up and down he saw the world in vivid colors previously obscured, heard birdsong with fresh clarity, felt a soul-stirring delirium warm his senses.

He held her gently when she finally climaxed, and only after she raised her head from his shoulder and kissed his cheek, did he lift her away and come himself.

He wondered afterward as he silently wiped himself dry with his shirt whether their adversarial roles in the Monckton Row project somehow accentuated his passions. Whether hostility in one arena turned to violent feeling in another? Because he’d never felt this mad hysteria and impatience, the raging lust as he did with the delectable Mrs. St. Vincent.

When Fitz hadn’t spoken for some time, Rosalind quietly said, “Are you angry with me? ”

“No, God no,” he said, quickly refocusing his attention. “Far from it.”

“Oh good. I wouldn’t want you to think me a conniving female.”

He laughed. “Hardly. You’re enchanting.”

His urbane reply reminded her of what he was. A virtuoso at this game while she was a tyro. And perhaps in a libertine’s world, she’d outstayed her welcome. “I should be getting home,” she said, offering him an opportunity to conclude her visit.

“Why don’t we go inside? It’s cooling off.”

“You needn’t be polite.”

More than cursory politeness after sex wasn’t his strong suit, but then nothing about Mrs. St. Vincent fit his normal pattern. “I’m not being polite. I enjoy your company.”

“The sex you mean.”

“Very well, the sex.” He smiled and began buttoning his trousers. “Come inside anyway.”

“I’d love to.”

“You’re a refreshing little puss. No pretense. I like that.”

Brushing her skirt back down, she said with a sweet smile, “You know what I like about you.”

NEITHER ONE SLEPT much that night. Neither was willing to forego the pleasure. Both considered such chimerical, high-flying sensations fleeting and best savored in the here and now.

She shouldn’t want him so.

He shouldn’t crave her with such rash disregard for their strategic differences.

But she did and he did and reason took a holiday that summer night at Mertenside. He ordered them a snack long after midnight, his kitchen willingly obliged him, and they ate on the balcony outside his bedroom, lying side by side on a chaise meant for one. He found she giggled and adored it when he’d never liked women who giggled. And he further endeared himself to her by reciting wholesale her favorite poem, Byron’s “The Destruction of Sennacherib.”

“I’m impressed,” she whispered, kissing him afterward. “That’s a very long poem.” She wanted to say, Did you learn it for a woman? but didn’t so as not to shatter the affectionate mood.

“My governess liked it,” he said, scrupulously refraining from adding more, the evening and company more agreeable than any in memory.

Comforted and disburdened of her jealousy, she gently touched his cheek. “You bring me enormous pleasure, darling Fitz.”