Sexy As Hell

“I, on the other hand, haven’t been counting your brandies.”

“I applaud your restraint. So?”

She smiled. “Such impatience.”

“On the contrary, I’ve been exceedingly patient. You could take that blancmange with you if you like.”

“I might.”

“Excellent.” He pushed his chair back and stood.

Setting down her spoon, she watched him walk toward her, serenely smiling, relaxed, his tall form gilded by lamplight. “Would you think me absurd if I said I’m feeling different about”-she half lifted her hand-“this.”

“Sex?”

“Now that I’m home,” she rapidly finished as he stopped beside her.

He picked up her spoon and bowl of blancmange. “Let me change your mind,” he gently said.

The house was strangely empty of staff as they made their way to Isolde’s bedroom. “Did you say something to the footmen when you dismissed them?” she asked. “There’s not a soul in sight.”

“I said we’d be retiring soon. Did I put them to the blush?”

“How exactly did you say it?” A maid or footman could generally be seen in the midst of some task or errand.

“Politely. Unlike, I might add, your Will’s belligerence.”

“He’s not mine, but point taken.” She abandoned the subject. Oz was her husband, at least in her staff’s eyes; he could issue orders as well as she.

Oz had no intention of pursuing the discussion either, and as they made their way to Isolde’s bedchamber, he politely inquired about the various portraits they passed, about the date of a splendid solarium they walked through, why she’d chosen so small a bedroom for herself. The last query uttered as he stood on the threshold of her childhood room.

“We’ll need a larger bed,” he said once she’d explained. “I’ll have one sent up from London if you don’t mind. One with bunny rabbits painted on it,” he added with a grin. “Although that might take an extra day or so.”

“Very humorous. I like my old bed.”

“I might too if I could stretch out my legs. What of your parents’ rooms, or is that-”

She wrinkled her nose.

“I understand. Surely in a house this size you have other choices. Perhaps some state rooms are available? Queen Elizabeth must have slept here once or twice; she did in every other Tudor mansion, I’m told.”

“Is that so?”

The small, quick petulance in her voice prompted a tactful reply. “I was merely alluding to common lore.” And to Amanda Hawthorne’s annotated tour of her Tudor palace one weekend when her husband was in London. “But if you prefer your bunny bed, I’ll manage.”

She softly sighed. “I have no earthly reason to be jealous.”

“Nor I.” He lifted his brows. “Or at least not until Will returns.”

“Enough said on that score,” she muttered. “I apologize again for his presumption.”

Oz put up his hand and grinned. “Please-talk of Will affects my amorous mood.”

“I’m surprised anything can affect your libido,” Isolde said drily. “For which I’m naturally grateful. Come.” She crooked her finger. “We’ll find a bed better suited to your size.”

He followed her down several more hallways of the sprawling house, which had obviously been enlarged over the centuries by Percevals with a penchant for building. She stopped at a small door framed by two beautifully carved female figures attired in gilded medieval courtly dress. “Bend your head going in,” Isolde warned, opening the door and reaching for the light switch. “The room itself is commodious, but Grandmama had a fancy for follies.”

“Along with modern conveniences,” Oz remarked, taking note of an elaborate chandelier suddenly aglow with faux candles as he dipped his head and walked through the doorway. He entered a spectacular room constructed in the English Gothic style, the white-painted ceiling a spiderweb of delicate, soaring arches, its decorative gilt agleam. Tracery windows embellished with scenes from troubadour chronicles lined two walls, the theme mirrored as well in the splendid carpet modeled after the famous unicorn tapestry from Amiens. “Very impressive,” he said. “Including the bed. Thank you.” The vast, canopied bed was large enough to sleep six.

The Gothic revival had been popular midcentury. His grandmother had built a summer house in Hyderabad in a similar style. He said as much, then added, “My cousins and I used to sling ropes over finials like those”-he pointed to the decorative moldings on the ribbed vaults-“and climb the walls. Speaking of ropes,” he murmured, his gaze studiously bland.

Isolde laughed. “I have none. Although, come to think of it,” she said, “tying you up might be interesting.”

“We’ll toss a coin.”

“I don’t like being tied up.”

“You speak from experience?”

“Do you?”

“Does it matter?” he replied with composure.

“What if I were to say it does?”

“I repeat, we’ll toss a coin.”

“Or we could just do it the usual way.”

“Which usual way?” Oz pleasantly inquired. “Although we’ve plenty of time for whatever you like. I’m not going anywhere.”

Isolde’s sudden smile warmed her eyes. “I’m very happy you’re staying.”

He debated making his position clear in terms of staying but decided against disturbing her good humor. “While you make me happy in countless ways.”

“Even without rope?”

“Keep it up and I’ll rip those cords from the bed curtains and we’ll see who likes what. Speaking of likes-where do you want this?” He held out the dish of blancmange.

“Whatever do you mean?” she purred.

He laughed. “Focused on sex, are we?”

“You aren’t?”

“I believe I’m quickly becoming focused on blancmange.” He smiled. “Then bondage. And don’t say a word about your staff. This room is built like a medieval fortress. No one will hear a sound.”

She offered him an unblinking look of amusement. “Should I be alarmed?”

“You should,” he said with amiable delicacy, setting the dish down on an oddly shaped table carved from an oak burl.

“But having waited through a long afternoon and an extremely lengthy dinner, I’m first inclined to end my abstinence-if you don’t mind.”

“And if I do?”

He smiled faintly. “You never do.”

“I could.”

“Why don’t we see?” He shut and locked the door.

“Are you going to take off your boots?”

“No.” Catching her by the arms, he turned her and backed her toward the door.

“You are in a hurry.”

He couldn’t say he’d not gone without sex for an entire day in years. “Watching you at dinner took its toll on my restraint. I promise to be more polite next time.” As she came to a halt against the oak panels, he leaned into her, his arousal blatant between them. “Feel that?” he whispered, swiftly opening his trouser fly. “He’s about to explode.”

She normally would have taken affront at such bluntness, but then nothing had been normal from the moment she’d met Oz; she had but to feel his hard, rigid cock and every erogenous portion of her anatomy turned feverishly rapacious. “Me first,” she insisted, as selfish as he, as impatient and greedy.

Hell no. But she was busy hitching up her skirts and untying her drawers, so calling on all his charitable impulses, he drew in a breath of constraint and muttered, “Spoiled brat.”