Sexy As Hell

“Your nipples are bigger,” he said, gently stroking the taut pink crests. “Do they feel different?”

She smiled up at him. “Everything feels different. More sensitive and tender, oversensitive at times,” she answered, arching her back against the tingling tremors sliding downward from Oz’s gentle stroking to her pulsing sex. “You’re a man of finesse, are you?”

“I try to be. Would you prefer roughness?” he asked, his gaze speculative.

“Heavens no. Whatever you’re doing is sublime. Do. Not. Stop.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he happily said.

“And you needn’t look so smug.”

“No, ma’am.”

“Arrogant bastard,” she grumbled.

“Uh-uh. Grateful as hell, darling, to have you in my bed.”

She smiled. “You can be such an absolute sweetheart.”

He didn’t feel it useful to contradict her; he was very much not a sweetheart, as any of his acquaintances would testify. “Thank you. We try,” he said instead. “See if this is sweet enough for you.” Bending his head, he drew her left nipple into his mouth, slid his hand between her legs, found the nub of her clitoris with his forefinger, and began to softly suck on her jewel-hard nipple.

She was right about the changes pregnancy had wrought on her sensitivity levels. It was almost too easy to make her climax; very little of his virtuoso skills were required to send her over the edge. She literally climaxed in seconds.

He glanced at the clock on the bedside table from under his lashes as he switched his ministrations from her left nipple to the right, as he redirected his attentions to her swollen clitoris once again. The image of a fertility goddess in all her voluptuary ostentation entered his consciousness, reminded him of erotic temple sculpture back home, reminded him even more vividly of his youthful pilgrimages to shrines and sanctuaries that extolled the glories of sexual enlightenment.

It took considerable restraint to suppress his selfish impulses as his erection swelled higher. But Isolde’s appreciation for his largesse was so lavishly profuse after each of her several precipitous orgasms that he honestly replied, “It’s my pleasure, darling.”

“You’re outrageously benevolent,” she breathed, brushing his cheek with her fingers. “I must be making up for lost time; I don’t how to thank you enough.”

As he lay propped on one elbow beside her, he almost said, You’re having my child. That’s thanks enough. But relatively sober, he wasn’t lost to all reason. “You can thank me later.”

“Just tell me what you want me to do. Really-anything.”

“You probably shouldn’t say that to me right now,” he said, his voice a low rasp.

“You don’t frighten me. You’re not at all like your reputation.”

“You encourage my better impulses.”

“In contrast to those-”

“Who don’t.” At which thought, all the untidy perversions in his life came to mind. “I need a drink. Would you like a tisane?”

He was already off the bed and halfway to the brandy bottle. “Was it something I said?” she teased.

She seriously complicated his life, his future, and his peace of mind. Fortunately, there was a time limit to her visit, he decided, pouring himself a drink. Drinking it down, he grimaced at the odd taste in his mouth, and poured another to wash away the sour, acidic tang. Then, carrying the plate of sweets, he set it on the bed, went back to bring the carafe, a cup, and his brandy. Sprawling on the bed beside her a few moments later, he said, “Try the strawberry ones. They’re the best.”

“I will. I’m hungry all the time now. Would you like one?” She held up a small tart.

He leaned forward and she put it in his mouth.

As they ate, a small, increasingly uncomfortable silence fell.

“If you have something else to do,” she said in the awkward hush.

“No.” Curt and abrupt. “No, nothing at all,” he added in a more conciliatory tone. “I seem to be having trouble with my temper today. It’s not your fault. Please stay. You bring me pleasure.”

“The pleasure you give me is oceans wide, darling. I’d love to stay.”

“Do you sail?” He chose a subject less fraught with sentiment.

Recognizing she’d overstepped the bounds of amorous play, she gracefully said, “I’m a farmer, darling. Sailing’s outside my normal venues.”

He grinned. “And a very lovely farmer at that. I’ll take you sailing sometime if you like. I have a yacht at Dover.”

She couldn’t say I’d sail to the ends of the earth with you without causing him alarm. “When the weather becomes warmer perhaps.” She congratulated herself on her measured reply. Her acting skills were improving.

“Anytime. Just let me know. I’ll send a carriage for you.”

If he could affect the role of bland acquaintance, she could as well. In terms of their future child, it would be useful to cultivate a cordial relationship. “Do you ever think of our child?” she impulsively asked. “Sorry,” she quickly said at his startled look. “You needn’t answer. I have no wish to provoke you with my pleasure at stake.”

“Don’t worry. I’m not exactly uninvolved in terms of pleasure. As for the child”-he lifted his shoulder in the faintest shrug-“the answer is no. I’ve not yet come to terms with the notion, although I’m sure I will with time,” he diplomatically remarked. Depending on the identity of the father. “Have you tried the almond tarts?” Picking up the plate, he held it out to her. “They’re excellent.”

“Thank you.” With talk of babies having been politely but summarily curtailed, she took a tart. “Where do you usually sail?” she inquired, as capable as he of casual conversation.

“Anywhere. North to Scotland occasionally, across to Calais at times on my way to Paris, to the Isle of Wight during race week.”

“To India?”

“No.”

His instant withdrawal was palpable. “Maybe you should pick the topic of conversation,” she said quickly.

“Or we could dispense with talk.”

“As you wish, of course.” Her faint smile was sardonic.

“You don’t mean it.”

“I want sexual satisfaction from you, and to that end,” she said frankly, “I mean it. You set the agenda.”

“Even at the risk of offending you?”

She lifted one brow. “Better my temper than yours.”

“That’s true. Are you finished?” He nodded at the plate of sweets.

“I certainly can be.”

His grin this time held a degree of warmth. “Do I detect a renewed interest in sex?”

“I wouldn’t say renewed so much as persistent. I didn’t wish to pressure you while you were relaxing.”

He beat down the resurgent image of a locked room with his wife inside, waiting for him, for sex-her unquenchable passions a libertine’s dream. “Why don’t you put that away,” he suggested with a nod at the food, “and we can get back to business.”

He watched her gather the items on the bed, taking note of the subtle changes in her body. Her sumptuous form was even more curvaceous now, her hips rounder, her waist slightly less slender, her plump breasts ripening and enlarging in anticipation of the future babe. That may or may not be his.

“Do you want me to take your glass?”

Startled from his musing, he saw her point to his glass.

“Penny for your thoughts.”

“I was admiring your beauty,” he urbanely said, handing over his glass.

“Thank you. I, in turn, appreciate your magnanimity.” Setting the glass on the silver tray, she returned and climbed back onto the bed. “You’re much, much better than my dildo.”

“I should hope so,” he negligently said, “or all my practice has gone for naught.”

“Let me assure you it hasn’t. You’re the very best, darling, not that my experience is as wide and varied as yours, but-”