Sexy As Hell

“Pray desist from mentioning your experience,” he brusquely returned.

She mimicked locking her mouth. “I apologize most profusely.”

“Because you need me.”

“Very, very badly as a matter of fact.”

Such unequivocal eagerness required a moment of restraint to curb his first intemperate impulses. Would anyone assuage her sexual yearning? He didn’t allow himself to answer that question, although his temper showed in his voice as he tautly commanded, “Up on your hands and knees then.”

She immediately complied, curtness marked in his soft order. When he neither moved nor touched her for some moments, driven by her own intemperate needs, she glanced over her shoulder. “Is there something more?”

“No,” he gruffly replied, struggling to curb his treacherous thoughts. Her need for sex was insatiable, damn her, and talk of dildos aside he suspected that Will might be a frequent visitor at Oak Knoll after all. Breathe in, breathe out, relax. Keep in mind she might be the mother of your child; taking out your temper on her isn’t right, proper, or even legal anymore.

Coming up on his knees, he moved behind her. Running his hands over the soft, silken curves of her bottom, he slid one finger over the slippery wetness of her pouty vulva-what he viewed as her eternal readiness evident in the sleek, hot flesh. As if further testing her receptiveness-unnecessarily, he sullenly thought-he gently stroked her prominent clitoris, and at her shuddering gasp, a covetous jolt pulsed up his cock.

The worst kind of heavy-handed tyranny suddenly overwhelmed his senses, the feelings unnatural for a man who generally played at love. For some ungodly reason, Isolde brought out the brute in him. He should send her home before he hurt her.

Then like a sorceress inducing him to succumb, he heard her soft plea.

“Please, Oz, I need you,” she implored, impelled by her own demons, lust a constant whenever she was within sight of her husband, reason yielding to incomparable need.

He took a deep breath, still marginally in control. “I might hurt you.”

“You won’t. You can’t. Please, Oz,” she whispered. “I’m not in the least fragile.”

“In the event you turn out to be wrong, scream or hit me if I get out of hand,” he cautioned. “I mean it.”

“I’ll hit you if you don’t give me what I want,” she hotly retorted, swiveling around to glare at him, wanton desire an irrepressible pulsing ache inside her. “I don’t need politesse. I need you now!”

Could any man refuse? Although the fact that she suddenly reached behind her, grabbed his erection in a fierce hard grip, and swung her hips back to meet the swollen crest of his cock served as added incentive.

And quickly resolved his qualms.

At which point, he obliged her or she obliged him; it wasn’t absolutely clear who ultimately did what to whom. But he rammed into her luscious cunt as he’d promised himself he wouldn’t, and she welcomed the hard, lusty pounding with an equally gluttonous fervor.

Neither had ever felt such desperation, nor equated sex with violence, or felt the smallest impulse to engage in wild, brute fornication with others. But then neither had ever felt the faintest jealousy with anyone else or cared so much as to be desperate-not that such outrй emotions were acknowledged in the course of the fiery, tempestuous mania that resembled a combat zone more than what passed for dalliance in the fashionable world.

When Oz eventually climaxed, his ejaculation left him momentarily lightheaded and gasping for air.

Isolde hadn’t thought her orgasms could get any better, but this one did, shocking her senses with a hot, intense blaze of glory and a flying-too-close-to-the-sun ferocity that left her prostrate.

“I should move,” Oz murmured, semicollapsed on her back, his weight lightly supported above her.

“Don’t,” she breathed, shifting slightly to better feel his hard cock. “You feel wonderful.”

“Speaking of wonderful.” Flexing his thighs, he forced his erection deeper, gently testing the limits of her vagina. “You keep me in constant rut.”

“And that’s a good thing.”

“How good.” He drove deeper.

“Better than anything.”

“Damn right,” he whispered, his voice husky. “I’ve been thinking of locking you in a room and keeping you here for sex.”

“I might let you.”

“You might not have a choice.”

“Better yet.” She felt his laugh on her back and inside her, and if it were possible to measure pleasure and happiness, hers would run off the charts.

“My bewitching little wife. How the hell do you do it?”

“I could ask the same of you. Perhaps it’s karma.”

She wondered afterward what in those few words had irrevocably altered the mood. She never did know, but he suddenly withdrew, shoved a towel between her legs, and left the bed to pour himself another drink.

He didn’t throw her out; he wasn’t so discourteous. He just reverted to the charming, practiced rogue who enjoyed sex, who gave pleasure in full measure, who amused with cool versatility and politesse.

Whether he actually counted her orgasms or not, there came a time when she saw him glance at the clock twice in a short span of time.

“Grover’s going to be wondering what happened to me,” she tactfully noted, kissing him lightly on the cheek as he lay beside her, resting from their most recent climax. “I can’t thank you enough for your hospitality this afternoon.”

His dark lashes lifted, and turning his head, he smiled at her. “Come again. You’re always welcome.”

A dismissal, however gracious.

In the course of their dressing, he spoke of trivialities with an urbanity that bespoke of other times like this when leave-takings had turned awkward.

He helped her with her toilette, laying out a brush and comb, shaking the wrinkles out of her skirt with a practiced hand, offering to have his servants iron her gown if she wished.

“No, that’s not necessary,” she said, thinking he always knew the right tone to take. “The long drive home will only add more wrinkles anyway.” And she accepted the comb he held out to her with a smile.

CHAPTER 27

A SHORT TIME later, standing utterly still in the vast entrance hall devoid of servants, Oz said, “I’d be happy to accompany you back to Perceval House.” He was barefoot, dressed only in a shirt and trousers, his hands loose at his sides, his gaze completely shuttered.

Like his heart, Isolde thought. “Please don’t,” she said, conscious of the dearth of servants, wondering if he’d been expecting a scene. “It would only make things worse.”

There was no reply that wouldn’t offend. But he murmured “Thank you for coming” very softly and meant it-that small corner of his soul momentarily exposed.

“You’re entirely welcome.” Her reply was neutral, as if they’d completed some business transaction of no consequence. Then she glanced at the door, Oz quickly moved to open it, and looking out, she saw Sam waiting at the curb.

A moment later, as the carriage pulled away, Oz closed the door and turning on his heel, swiftly made for the bathroom off the entrance hall where he was violently sick.

When it was over, he was white and shaking, gasping for breath. Pushing himself off his knees, he slowly rose to his feet and walked to the green travertine sink. The man in the mirror was wan and gaunt with dilated eyes, his skin moist with sweat. He looked away, turned the faucets on full, rinsed out his mouth, then shoved his head under the stream of hot water until he stopped shaking. Straightening, he smoothed his wet hair back with his palms, wiped his face with a towel, and walking out into the hall, said to Josef, “Don’t let anyone in you don’t know.”

“A problem, sir? Do you need help?” Oz was sweating profusely.

“Not just yet.” And he made for the kitchen, sheer will keeping him upright.

Once there, he waved for Achille to follow him into his apartment and told him to shut the door. As Achille