from her chair, she walked the few steps to stand directly before him. Slipping his robe from her shoulders, she let it slide to the floor. 'Look now, my lord, and if you're very good, I may let you touch me.' She slid two fingertips down the cleft of her mons. 'Would you like to feel this with your cock,' she murmured, gently massaging her sleek, heated passage. 'I'm not sure how far I'll let you go. Maybe I'll let you in only partway.' She shrugged minutely and her breasts quivered. 'Or if you're very good, I'll let you put that cock of yours all the way inside me. Do you think you'd like the feel of that?'
'You're pushing the wrong man.' His voice was flat.
'And you the wrong woman,' she sweetly replied.
'So you're going to fuck me?' The words, however softly put, held a distinct challenge.
She glanced down at his lap. 'It looks like you're ready. All I have to do,' she said, moving a step forward and beginning to lower herself over his thighs, 'is see if this lovely penis wants what I want.'
His hands closed around her waist, and lunging up, he lifted her bodily, carrying her effortlessly at arm's length. Striding to the bed, fire in his eyes, he tossed her down and growled, 'Don't move.'
'I have no intention of moving, my lord,' she purred, looking up at him with a correspondingly theatrical gaze. 'Do come join me.'
His breeches were tossed aside in seconds, and he smoothly lowered himself between her legs with the finesse of considerable practice. 'Now then, Miss Leslie, I believe I'll be going in all the way.'
Her lashes lifted marginally. 'If I let you.'
He softly snorted. 'No question of that.'
'Well, then?' Her blue gaze was insolent, perhaps triumphant.
And he immediately took issue with her victress look. 'Perhaps I'll make you wait after all.'
'Dermott!' she wailed, suddenly throwing her arms around him. 'For pity's sake! You win, you win… you'll always win. Now, just make love to me before I die…'
The tension left his shoulders as he lay braced above her, and his flashing grin warmed her heart. 'You beautiful, hot little puss,' he whispered, bending his head to brush her mouth with a kiss.
'
'Hell no,' he cordially answered, cheerful once again, his joy out of all proportion to the simple act of intercourse. 'I don't mind at all.' Because of who it was, he thought, because this tantalizing beauty touched some hidden source of pleasure within him. Easing himself forward, he forced her thighs wider with the pressure of his hips. 'Relax now,' he murmured.
'I am,' she breathed, clinging to him, letting her thighs fall open, her pulsing interior wet with desire.
But he was scrupulously cautious as he advanced forward, easing his erection into her sleek warmth by very slow degrees, watching her face for any indication of pain. She squeaked in the merest breath of sound when he struck the barrier of her hymenal tissue, and he paused, not sure himself the degree of brutality required.
'Dermott…' Her soft cry was urgent, feverish.
Feeling like some plundering barbarian, he took a deep breath.
'I need you…'
She was gently writhing beneath him as he hesitated, his erection clasped tightly in her heated passage, the friction intense on the very crest of his penis.
'Dermott!' she cried.
He suddenly plunged forward, his momentum propelled by the full force of his lower body, the resisting tissue swiftly pierced, rent, his erection smashing through, driving in so deeply, he was fully submerged before she screamed.
'I'm sorry,' he whispered, utterly motionless inside her, feeling the worst of brutes, the echoes of her cry ringing in his ears. 'I'm sorry…'
Her nails cutting into the flesh of his shoulders loosened. He felt her take a deep breath, saw the color return to her face. And then her eyes opened.
'That's the worst of it, I think.' Regret colored his voice.
Her smile gave him heart. 'And now I'm an heiress again,' she whispered. One brow rose in teasing query. 'Are you going to do anything else for me, my lord?'
He softly chuckled. 'I'm ready if you're ready.'
'Try.'
His talents for finesse were put to the test, but then, he'd passed that test a thousand times before, his expertise in the boudoir both a gift and a skill. He moved by infinitesimal degrees, prudent and deliberate at first, until her arms eased their grip, until the rhythm of her breathing altered to a more natural state, until he felt the liquid heat of her desire flow around him. Until at last she arched up into his downstroke.
'Better?' he whispered, his breath warm on her cheek.
'Very, very good, my lord,' she murmured, her hands sliding down his back, resting at the base of his spine. 'Exceptionally good…' she purred, her palms pressing down hard to hold him in place for a lush second more, the sweet ache spiraling outward, the intensity of sensation filling her brain. 'I'm going to keep you here forever.'
He found the thought appealing at the moment, his own desires beginning to peak, the only question that of timing. He took the briefest moment to insert a sponge to prevent conception, something she'd learned at Molly's as well. And then gently entering her again, he carefully watched her face as he moved within her, listened to her breathing, matched the increasing urgency of her rhythm, repressing his own eagerness-waiting for her.
And some moments later, she clutched at him, whimpering, and understanding the merits of opportune harmony, and he drove in, buried himself deep inside her, held himself hard against her womb. As she cried out and melted in orgasmic delirium, he too climaxed, flooding her, filling her, experiencing a primordial ecstasy so deep and pure and thrilling, it seemed as though they were meant to mate by some grand design of the universe.
'Don't plan on sleeping tonight,' Isabella whispered a moment later, intoxication still stirring deliciously in the core of her body. 'I'm going to need you as stud.'
'Your devoted servant,' he urbanely replied, wondering if they'd been touched by some mystical karma and this woman who'd stumbled into Molly's one rainy night was the Circe of his soul.
'Ahem…' The voice was Pomeroy's from the other side of the door.
Isabella went rigid in his arms. 'Go away!' Dermott shouted.
'Away, sir?' A very real indication of tears echoed through the door.
'Does he cry often?' Isabella inquired, surprised a man of such hauteur succumbed to emotion.
'Never to my recollection. Don't go away,' Dermott murmured, kissing her lightly. Gently withdrawing, he wiped himself on the sheet and was shocked to see blood. 'Jesus,' he muttered, turning to her, having forgotten. 'I'm really sorry. You're going to need some hot water.' Jumping from the bed, he shouted, 'Wait, Pomeroy!'
Quickly throwing on a dressing gown, he strode to the door and threw it open just as Isabella hid herself under the coverlet.
'We need hot water. And I'll take the food too,' he said, glancing at the numerous footmen holding trays, all of whom must have heard Isabella's screams, for they looked either sheepish or entertained. 'I'll take the trays in myself,' he quickly said. 'Just leave them.'
'How much hot water, sir?' Pomeroy's face was expressionless.
'A bath, I think.'
'Now, sir?' His master's wishes were difficult to read.
'Yes, now.' Dermott glanced at all the food. 'I suppose the chef is in a temper.'
'He has taken to his bed, my lord, with a bottle of brandy. My apologies if the food isn't up to the usual standards. The sous-chefs have done their best.'
'Thank them for me, Pomeroy. Things are a bit-er-irregular tonight.'
A moment of strained silence ensued.
'You may give all the servants a bonus,' Dermott abruptly said. 'Talk to Shelby in the morning.'
'Very good, sir.'
'And once we have the bath, we won't require any more service tonight.'
'Yes, sir.'
'Is that clear?'
'Perfectly.'
Dermott nodded. 'Good.' Picking up a tray, he walked back into the dressing room and shut the door.
