Sexy As Hell

there would like to be doing what I’m doing right now.”

“Speaking of Tattersalls and sex, how did you dispatch Nell?” A blunt question perhaps, but she knew he wasn’t about to throw her out in his current state of arousal-his erection impressive as usual.

His smile faded and he paused, his fingers motionless on the third ornate button. “She responds to money,” he mildly replied, resuming his unbuttoning. “Unlike you.”

“I have enough money.”

He glanced up. “Apparently.” He didn’t say, I know because you tried to buy my child.

“I’m jealous of her when I shouldn’t be, when your life is your own.” Isolde envied his cool restraint, her own feelings in tumult.

“She means nothing to me, nor I to her.”

How was it that he could cooly dismiss a woman linked with him by gossip and she didn’t see him as heartless. She only saw the man she loved. Although, she’d be sensible to remember that this occasion was about sex, not love, and to that purpose, she said, “I shouldn’t have mentioned Nell. It was tactless of me.”

“Say anything you like.” His smile was indulgent, his voice untouched by umbrage. “I’m just happy you’re here.” The buttons freed, he slipped the violet silk jacket over her shoulders, down her arms, and over her hands. Tossing the garment aside, he stood for a moment surveying her, a forceful sense of droit du seigneur suborning his better judgment. “Your breasts are-”

“Larger.”

My property by law. “Stunning,” he said instead, her splendid breasts straining the delicate silk of her chemise, his libido in a decidedly proprietary frame of mind. Locked rooms suddenly inviting his interest.

“Pamela tells me it’s the first visible sign of pregnancy.”

He took a small breath to steady his brutish impulses. “You’re sure then, about the pregnancy.”

She smiled. “Very sure.”

An unmistakable concern entered his gaze. “Is it all right-that is… would there be any reason to-”

“Sex is permitted if that’s what you’re wondering.”

He exhaled. “Good. Thank you,” he simply said. “I’m very much a novice when it comes to this.”

“We both are.”

“Indeed,” he softly agreed, the full impact of Isolde’s pregnancy suddenly undeniable. His gaze examined her with naked interest. “If I should touch you in any way you find uncomfortable,” he said, precise and delicate, “please let-”

“Oz, stop,” she said with exasperation. “I’m just the same. Other than perhaps being slightly more demanding sexually,” she added with a lift of her brows.

The term sexually demanding gave him pause when in the past he would have greeted it with delight. “Perhaps we should think about this. How can you be sure it’s safe?”

“Good God! Don’t tell me you’ve brought me this far to begin to equivocate! I won’t allow it! Do you hear?”

He looked at her for a considering moment. “So I must perform no matter what,” he said with a sliver of a smile.

“Surely it’s no hardship.”

“And if I don’t?” he lightly inquired.

“Then perhaps I’ll go somewhere else and-”

“Don’t say it,” Oz said in sudden anger, Will, too convenient, too available, as unmarried as he.

“I was joking. Unlike you,” she said, her blue gaze direct and open, “I’ve not been entertaining at night.”

He felt a fleeting surprise, followed by an elation he chose not to decipher. “I apologize. I spoke out of turn. Allow me,” he blandly replied, “to render whatever services you require.”

“I should reject such a cooly dispassionate offer. And if I wasn’t so famished for sex,” she said, leaning back on her hands and shrugging faintly, “I might. But you’re here and I’m here and-”

“You’re famished,” he finished with a practiced smile. “I remember your charming impatience.” Her uncorseted breasts were raised high in her languid pose, the taut nipples and plump contours conspicuous through the sheer white silk of her chemise. “And I’m not in the least indifferent to you. In fact, I’m deeply moved by your presence in my home and bed.”

“While I look forward to being deeply moved by your presence in me,” Isolde sweetly replied, amusement in her clear-eyed gaze.

“We always did agree on that,” he drily said. “Even when all else was at odds.”

He was standing quite still, his gaze unreadable. “I feel as though I’m negotiating something of grave consequence instead of an afternoon of sex,” she said just a trifle shortly. “Is my pregnancy prompting your reluctance?”

“No-yes… no,” he gruffly concluded. “I beg your pardon again.” He smiled faintly. “I’d be very much obliged it you’d make love to me.”

“Finally,” she said. “I thought I might have to attack you.” He grinned. “An irresistible concept. If only I didn’t prefer my own rules of war.”

“War? Should I have come armed?”

“You already are, darling, in every way known to man.” And reaching out, he grasped her bare shoulders, dipped his head, and kissed her with a fierce, pent-up desire he’d held in reserve the weeks past-apparently for her alone. His erection stood waist high, horniness and lust a hard, pulsing ache so intense he could feel the rush of blood coursing through his veins, his nerves oversexed and skittish. He attributed his unique response to Isolde’s long absence, although the uncharacteristic involvement of his entire nervous system was staggering. Not that he gave a damn, though, when he was moments away from burying his cock in the hot little cunt that had haunted his dreams for weeks.

While she kissed him back with frenzied yearning, he smoothly untied the ribbon at the neckline of her chemise, unfastened the small buttons running down its front, and unwrapped her arms from around his neck long enough to slide off her chemise. “Your skirt,” he said against her mouth as she clung to him once again. “Let go a minute.”

She was feverishly panting as he freed himself from her fierce grip, the small irresistible sound ringing every randy bell in his libidinous memory as he quickly disposed of her skirt and petticoats.

Smiling up at him, her gaze heavy lidded and heated, she whispered, “No one else makes me feel this way- desperate and ravenous, weak with longing.”

“Lucky me.” He took pleasure in her admission when even the hint of exclusivity had been anathema to him in recent years. Untying her drawers, he slid them off along with her silk stockings; his weeks of deprivation were nearly at an end. Inhaling deeply, he cautioned himself to restraint-her condition and the battering ram of his libido a ruinous mix. “Are you sure ten orgasms might not be excessive?” Had he ever in his life opted for sexual moderation?

Her rampant desires running high, Isolde took a moment to fully comprehend his question and a moment more to breathlessly say, “Excessive?”

“Considering your, er, condition.”

“Is ten too much for you?” Explicit demand in every acid syllable.

He smiled. “My darling little bitch.” He flicked a finger downward. “You tell me.”

The stretched fabric of his trousers sent an anticipatory shiver up her spine. “I thought London amusements may have sapped your vigor.”

Whether she was goading him out of spite or toying with him mattered little now that the rules were clear. Ten and carte blanche. Kicking off his shoes, he pulled off his socks and shrugged out of his jacket.

“Hurry.”

Ah, his imperious, randy wife of fond memory. “I am, darling.” Swiftly unbuttoning his waistcoat and shirt, he pulled them off and dropped them to the floor.

“Oz, have pity,” Isolde pleaded, her eyes half-shut, her hips undulating faintly, flame-hot need in her ragged whisper.

Wrenching open the last button of his trouser placket, he saw her clench her thighs together in an effort to