Fascinated

into a convulsion of unspeakable sensation that just didn't end.

She didn't want it to end. How could she bear it if it ended? And if Jeremy left, as he must certainly do before the morning ended.

Don't think about that. Think about how rock-hard he is and that he's in a fever for your body. That's all there is. And if you want to keep him in your bed, that's all there ever can be…

All, all, all, all, all, all-alllllllllllllllll-

A clock struck somewhere in the distance, and she forced herself to move. She didn't want to move. The morning was perfect, with Jeremy lying beside her naked and asleep, and the wonder of him was that when he slept, that rebellious other part of him didn't.

And what an amazing part it was, all muscle and heat and a life of its own. She touched him, sliding her hand down the long, hard shaft and into the thick thatch of hair at the base.

Soon, soon, he must leave her. And then what? She didn't expect this complication about being- pretending to be?-a mistress. She hadn't expected any of the realities, least of all the kind of bone-sapping pleasure of which she was capable.

No wonder coupling like this was forbidden, secret, immoral. It was so powerful, in so many ways, and so hurtful in others. If she even thought she had feelings for Jeremy, for instance, she might be devastated the moment he walked out the door.

It was so much better that she had initiated their intimacy for her own purposes, and that she was in control of her feelings and could and would play the pleasure game as often as he wanted.

Unless she tired of him.

A delicious thought, but truly, how could anyone tire of being the object of desire? It had all worked out perfectly, she mused, tugging lightly at his hair. He had fulfilled her father's mandate to distract and divert her, and she in turn had taken the best revenge on him by becoming his mistress.

And the game wasn't over yet, she thought. Her supposed obsession with Raulton could still be in play. It couldn't hurt to make Jeremy jealous while she enjoyed what he was willing to give. While she could.

A man wouldn't hesitate. And neither would she, now that he had taught her all the tricks worldly women knew.

The reward for capitulating was enough in itself: pleasure beyond words, knowledge beyond all that was knowable, and the sensual power to make any man come to heel.

Something hot enclosed him. Something wet that pulled at the very tip of his engorged member. Something that felt so good, he didn't want to make a move lest he interrupt the steady sucking of his penis head. And those erotic little noises she was making… she loved it. He loved it, and the way her still-innocent hands kept fumbling all over his shaft and his balls…

Damn… that tongue would set off a firecracker, the way she was using it on him. No one had ever licked him and sucked him so thoroughly and with so much enthusiasm, not even the lamented Marguerite.

Forget about that.

… Forgotten.

He felt himself swelling, his penis distending, his body tightening, gathering, pointing… right there, right to the very center of all that heat, all that wet and that rhythmic erotic pull that now compressed just the turgid tip of his penis.

He wanted to jam himself into her, to see if she could encompass his length that way, her way, his way. He followed the pull of her lips and tongue, his body lifting, grinding, thrusting toward the pulsing sucking of him. Just that, just there-never never never… it was too much, not enough.

Even he… he wanted more more more, just that little more deep in her mouth, stroked by her tongue-the whole head, nothing more… nothing ever more. And she took him, right to the ridge, and it was cataclysmic, the fury with which he came, the way she pumped and sucked it right out of him until there was nothing left. He spurted. Nothing. Another gust. Over now. Drained and gone.

No. Not over. Damn and hell, she was not getting it all. Not by hell. He wrested himself from her greedy mouth and levered himself up on one arm. Oh, yes, he was still hard and hot to spume. More than enough to blast inside her. And her breasts already smeared with his cream… He wanted those breasts in his hands now… and her flat on her back.

She looked so smug he wanted to mount her right there and ride her until the sun went down.

No. He wouldn't last.

Really?

'Lie down.' That was about the best he could do at the moment, and he didn't like that cat-lapping smile she gave him; but she willingly lay down, and he rolled onto her and just plunged himself between her legs.

Control. Had to keep control.

He rolled onto his back so that she straddled him, and the expression on her face was wondrous. He was even deeper now, pressing against her pleasure point, and her breasts were there before him, her nipples tight and inviting. She leaned forward to offer them, and he took each one between his fingers as he thrust into her.

Startled, she ground downward to receive him, her hands braced against his shoulders. Was there ever such pleasure? Between his fingers voluptuously compressing both nipples and the short, heated thrusts of his penis, she thought she would dissolve altogether.

She looked like a goddess, with her wild tumbling hair, her pumping hips, her round, taut-tipped breasts, and her responsive nipples that were the only way a mere mortal could contain her.

And this-he drove into her with all his violent need- this… her nakedness, his; this... her nipples, his; this… her sex, his; this... his cream, his, discharging explosively between her legs…

This…

He had to cool off. It took every ounce of strength to leave her, and even then, he wasn't sure he should have. He didn't like the look in her eye, but she could ignore Reginald no longer; it was already well after noon.

He was still primed as a pistol when he slipped down the servants' stairway, and getting in deeper and deeper. He could have pinned her and popped her until she cried for mercy the way he was feeling, and it shocked him.

Damn, damn and damn. Taking a vestal vixen like that and making her his mistress. Was he sane? And because she wanted it. For how long? And when would the recriminations start? Could he believe anything she said? Or was his penis totally in control and he didn't care?

God, he needed a drink. He needed to sit by himself and stew in his own hot blood with a tot of whiskey to tame the rampant beast.

There was always Heeton's, that bastion of male dominance, the most select club in the whole of London, where men of influence and wealth conducted the business of the nation in the hushed sanctity of shadowy corners.

That was the place for a man to ruminate on his sins and excesses. And regain what little sanity he had left.

But it was not to be. He was accosted immediately by the aging quartet known as The Four Crack Hands, who presided over the Betting Book and the Calendar, and who dispensed any information about social venues as though they were meting out water torture.

But the Book at Heeton's was the be-all and end-all of the Club. It was infinitely more exclusive than the one at White's, private, secure and sacrosanct; nothing written in the Book ever went beyond the doors of Heeton's for fear of total ostracism, and The Four Crack Hands guarded it as if it were the crown jewels.

Bodley was the Keeper. 'Here's a familiar face, gentlemen'-he raised a toast-'and not a wager as to when he might reappear amongst the living after dispensing with the fair Marguerite…'

Jeremy blanched as he shook hands all around. Marguerite? After all this time? Still?

'How did we slip up on that plum pot…?' This was Berkleigh already calculating guineas lost, a sum that didn't bear thinking about. 'When did you get back to Town, exactly?'

'Three days ago. I didn't snuff it, gentlemen. I've been rusticating. And now I'm back in full cry. So what's to do?'