Sexy As Hell (Berkley Sensation) Page 11

  He didn’t blink or move so much as a muscle. “You’re tired,” he said, his voice level. “I’ll tell Mrs. Aubigny to finish without you.”

  “She can’t. Handle that by imperial fiat,” Isolde spat, sullen and pugnacious.

  Rather than rise to the bait, Oz shrugged. “Mrs. Aubigny must have your measurements; she can do her best.” He was paying her enough; she’d have to manage. “Here, let me unpin you,” he calmly added, coming to his feet and moving toward her.

  “Don’t touch me!”

  He stopped, drew in a breath, and slowly exhaled. “You’re my wife.” An act of excessive charity on his part, he rather thought. “I’ll touch you if I wish.”

  “You’ll do no such thing!” His air of command was exasperating to someone who laid claim to an equal authority in her own life.

  He stopped before her and smiled, a faint, humorless twitch of his lips. “Is the honeymoon over?”

  “It certainly is! But I’m sure you need only lift your finger and any of Mrs. Aubigny’s seamstresses would be more than willing to accommodate you. Perhaps Mrs. Aubigny would herself.”

  Oz lowered his lids faintly. “Is that what this is about?” “No, it’s about me going home!” A half truth, a lie, her own tangled web of emotions beyond comprehension.

  Now that Oz understood their argument wasn’t exclusively about Isolde going home, in the interests of conjugal peace and the two hundred guests arriving in a few hours, he set out to cajole. “I promise you can go home at the crack of dawn,” he said, soft-spoken and conciliatory. “The minute the last guest leaves tonight if you prefer. Be reasonable, sweetheart. Think of all Josef’s work.”

  “I’m not your sweetheart.”

  “You were last night,” he gently said.

  “I’m not anymore!”

  She sounded so much like a child throwing a tantrum that he couldn’t contain his smile.

  “I’m sure it’s all very amusing to you,” she huffily muttered.

  Wiping the smile from his face, he said with punctilious gravity, “Not at all. I want only to serve your interests.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Whatever you want it to mean,” he answered in an ordinary voice.

  “Because you’re always amenable to women.”

  He generally was but this wasn’t the time to admit it. “It means”—he hesitated and added sweetheart anyway—“that I want to give you whatever you want in order to have you at my side tonight. Name your price. I’ll willingly pay it.”

  “I suppose women always say jewelry.”

  He supposed they did. “Just tell me what you want.” He wasn’t stupid enough to mention other women. “I’m throwing myself at your mercy because the reception is that important.” Because of Compton’s whisper campaign and also because, at base, he didn’t like to be gainsaid.

  “You already promised to be tractable tonight.”

  “Ask for something else then.” Compton was coming; below stairs was already buzzing with the news.

  “Something expensive?”

  “Christ, Isolde, I don’t care.”

  This time she was the one who smiled. “When was the last time you faced dissent?”

  “Never. Is that what you want to hear?”

  “I thought so,” she jibed, triumph in her voice.

  “And I didn’t think you could be so bloody stupid,” he cooly returned, suddenly weary of this senseless polemic.

  “This reception is meant to establish the authenticity of our marriage. It’s simple. You smile, I smile, we assure everyone we’re madly in love, your cousin in particular, and after everyone eats and drinks all the food and liquor they go home. Then remind me not to play good Samaritan again,” he said flatly. “Especially with an ungrateful bitch like you.”

  She slapped him so hard she thought she’d broken her wrist. He flinched but otherwise didn’t move, fighting to control his temper as any number of unacceptable options raced through his mind. Then he turned, walked to the door, locked it, and swiveling back, surveyed her with an icy gaze.

  “What are you doing? Unlock the door.”

  He didn’t move. He’d lived an untrammeled life too long.

  “I’ll scream.”

  “Scream.”

  “Because no one will come.”

  “You’re not stupid after all,” he flippantly noted. “Now let’s get those pins unpinned because I’d like some recompense for all my bloody trouble. Or my Christian charity if you like or”—he smiled tightly—“more aptly, my misplaced altruism.”

  She crossed her arms over her breasts, as if so small a gesture would serve as shield. “I refuse to be compensation for some perceived misjudgment on your part.” She lifted her chin and stared daggers at him. “I won’t!”

  “Of course you will,” he said. “You like to fuck.” He pushed away from the door and languidly moved forward, his smile sunshine bright and boyish now. “And I like to fuck you. Really, darling, we’re a match made in heaven. You have to agree.”

  “I agree to no such thing!” She clutched her bosom tighter as he neared. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Taking advantage of my spousal privileges.”

  He came to a halt before her. Even standing on the dais as she was, he towered over her, intimidating and impressively male, and her voice when she spoke held less conviction than she wished. “You can’t always do as you like, Oz,” she said, a small breathlessness of something other than fear in her words.

  He noticed. “But you like it, too, darling. I won’t keep you long.” Lifting his hand, he gripped a handful of soft velvet draped over her shoulder, his slender bronzed fingers slowly closing. As she tensed against his onslaught or his allure or her own base desires, he swept his arm downward and with an effortless strength ripped out pins and basting, dismantling half the gown. A second quick wrench of his arm and the remaining velvet lay at her feet. “Now,” he said, with infinite serenity, “would you like to save your chemise and petticoat or should I destroy those as well?”

  Chafing beneath the small avaricious flame kindling deep inside her, resentful of her susceptibility to a man who aroused desire without even trying, she freezingly said, “Uncouth barbarian.”

  He smiled faintly. “I’ve been called worse. Now, answer my question. My patience is limited.” It had been a busy morning dealing with his shipping and bank business, weighing the significance of the rumors Compton was spreading, making plans for Isolde’s defense—all the while trying to ignore the image of his sumptuous wife asleep in his bed. And here she was, aroused, defiant, and within reach—the first and third qualities of particular interest. “Answer me.”

  The two words were crisp and uncompromising. Oz was in some hotspur, intransigent mood. She could expect no help from her husband’s household, where he ruled like an autocrat. Furthermore, she’d lavished hours of embroidery on her lingerie, she pragmatically reflected, and more craven yet, her senses were in the grip of a rash, reckless, and rising passion. “You have an exaggerated sense of your importance,” she muttered, beginning to unbutton her chemise. “But I’d prefer you not shred my chemise. I have no intention of responding to your boorish behavior in any event. I’m not like all your strumpets,” she said, angrily resigned but still glaring at Oz. “Do with me what you will. I shall remain unmoved.”

  He suppressed his smile with effort. “Really.”

  “You find that humorous?”

  “I do. You’re one hot little piece.”

  Glancing up from her unbuttoning, she shot him a furious glance.

  “An observation only. But in any event, you’re giving me an instant hard-on, so at least one of us will enjoy this.”

  She shouldn’t have looked. She instantly flushed, and when she lifted her gaze, he was smiling at her.

  “You do like it, don’t you?” he murmured.

  “Don’t they all,” she snapped, reminding herself she was one of an endless multitude
.

  “Some more than others. You more than most. Don’t stop your undressing. I find myself damned impatient.”

  “Aren’t you always.”

  “Only with you, darling,” he silkily observed. A revelation had he taken the time to acknowledge it. But driven by lust, he was more intent on seeing her devoid of clothing. To that purpose, he said, “Relax now. I’m going to help you.”

  “I could fight you.”

  “You think so?” But his voice was benign, as was his dark gaze; her breathing had changed, her nipples were taut, the rosy flush of arousal colored her skin.

  “I certainly do.”

  “Then I’ll have to be on guard,” he mildly noted, untying the ribbon at the waistband of her petticoat with a brisk dexterity. He understood her willingness better than she. Letting the fine batiste petticoat slide down her hips, he reached for the buttons on her drawers. “Buttons.” He glanced at her. “That’s different.”

  “I’m sure you’d know.”

  “I’ve just never seen buttons before.” Ignoring her sullen gaze, he smiled. “Is it a Cambridgeshire tradition?”

  “Do you really care?”

  He shook his head and watched her drawers drop to the floor. “Now this I care about,” he murmured, gently brushing her mons with his fingertips. “I’ve been thinking about you—about this . . . all morning,” he said, stroking her pale pubic hair, “about the feel of you as you take me in—your heat, warmth . . . the way you whimper when I’m deep inside you.” He looked up and met her fevered gaze. “Does that interest you?”

  She clenched her fists. “Not in the least.”

  “I’ll wager you a thousand pounds it does,” he said, sliding her chemise down her arms and disposing of her last item of clothing. “Think about it,” he added, lifting her in his arms and scanning the room for a suitable piece of furniture. “If I’m mistaken, you’ll be the richer for it, and if I’m not, I’ll donate my winnings to your favorite charity. This little episode could be a profitable venture for—” He grunted as she sank her teeth into his earlobe. Curbing his temper and his urge to strike back, he drew in a restraining breath. “You’re drawing blood,” he grimly said of the warm trickle running down his neck.

  Little episode indeed! Isolde enjoyed a moment more of satisfaction before releasing his ear. Leaning back in his arms, she cooly surveyed the damage she’d done. “I don’t respond well to authority,” she said.

  He felt like saying he disliked aggressive women. But he had blood dripping down his neck, which indicated she wasn’t in a reasonable mood, so politesse would better serve his purposes. “I apologize of course.”

  “You don’t mean it.”

  “I might.”

  “And I might bite you again.”

  He sighed. “I wouldn’t recommend it.”

  “Am I supposed to be frightened?”

  “Christ, Isolde, can we stop this wrangling?”

  “Someone’s going to have to wash those blood stains from your collar,” she said instead, reminding him of her little triumph.

  “Maybe you could.”

  “If only I knew how.”

  “I could have someone show you,” he said in a tone of voice any of his dueling opponents would have recognized.

  “I doubt I could learn.”

  “What a defiant little wife,” he unpleasantly said, considering forcing himself on a woman for the first time in his life. “Then again, you’re always more manageable after a few orgasms.”

  “Not today.”

  His brows lifted slightly. “Why is today different? You were always ready for sex yesterday.”

  “Because I despise you today,” she peevishly said. But her traitorous body was considerably less hostile, Oz’s allusion to her sexual readiness triggering a flood of lubricant in her vagina, her unruly senses effectively priming her for intercourse without so much as a by-your-leave from her brain. “Damn you, Oz,” she hissed, trying to quell her ruinous yearning even as her arousal spread and pulsed through her blood with every beat of her heart. “I hate you. I hate your arrogant assumption that every woman wants you. And that insolent smile. Stop it. Do you hear? You needn’t look so bloody smug.”

  “I can smell you, that’s all. You need me.”

  “So I should jettison my principles.”

  “We’re talking about sex, darling—not principles. You feel good, I feel good, we feel good together. Don’t make it complicated.”

  “What a romantic soul,” she sneered.

  “I didn’t know it was romance you wanted. I thought it was hard cock.”

  “And you’re here to serve me.”

  “You could have had two orgasms by now.” He didn’t say, I don’t have all day, but that’s what he meant.

  Quite independent of logic and good judgment, the word orgasms was instant impetus to another flame-hot wave of prurient sensation, her body reminding her flamboyantly and graphically of the inexpressible bliss of sexual congress with the glorious Lord Lennox. “Very well,” she briskly said. “I yield to your pragmatism and irresistible charm,” she acidly added. “But Mrs. Aubigny will never forgive you.”

  He was tempted to ask her whether her crosspatch tone precluded screaming during orgasm but decided against it in the interests of speed and future harmony. “Don’t worry about Mrs. Aubigny. I’ll deal with her.”

  “After you deal with me.”

  He smiled. “I have my priorities.”

  “Sex first, last, and always.”

  “Same as yours.”

  “Just for the moment,” she matter-of-factly said, having come to terms with her insatiable desire for her husband, the fierce pulsing between her legs a potent reminder of the immense pleasure he delivered.

  “At last we agree. So tell me what you want,” he murmured, moving toward a large red damask, down-cushioned sofa. “Slow, fast, nothing but orgasms, or playtime?” Bending, he deposited her on the scarlet cushions.

  She looked up at him with a mocking smile. “You’re giving me a choice?”

  “Of course.” He had what he wanted; the menu was hers to choose.

  “First, a few orgasms,” she neatly said. “After that—playtime.”

  As if he didn’t know. “My pleasure, sweetheart,” he blandly replied, sliding his frock coat down his arms, undressing with more than his usual speed.

  But she was trembling when he lowered himself between her legs, her sex his current Nirvana, and it took no more than a second to bury himself to the hilt in her tight little cunt. They both stopped breathing for an instant while the earth steadied on its axis and more practiced, or perhaps more impatient after so much useless resistance, Oz moved first. But she wouldn’t let him withdraw, her grip on his back sensationally strong. “Stay,” she whispered, inundated by bliss.

  Since he was infinitely stronger and single-mindedly intent on pleasure, he broke free and launched himself into a driving rhythm of thrust and withdrawal he was confident she’d like even better.

  It was like an explosion of bodies the first time, forceful and wild, predatory, neither interested in anything but taking and taking. Isolde was wet with craving and lust, voracious; Oz’s cock was so hard his eyes were slits against the agonizing ache. Both were frenzied, impatient, resentful, too, of their mutual compulsions, engaged in something more than fornication as they hammered their way to a violent climax that ended with Isolde in tears.

  Dragging her into his arms, Oz kissed away her tears, whispered apologies that were more courteous than penitent, and wondered why sex with her was so different. Lurid instead of lucid, crude, rude, and barbarous—a desperate onslaught he was unable to contain. And the more he fucked her, the more he wanted her. Not his usual pattern where tedium quickly extinguished desire.

  But Isolde suddenly twined her arms around his neck, pressed her soft, lush body against his, began kissing him back with sweet fervor, and his thoughts focused on more pertinent issues.

  Soon their skin was
slippery with sweat, Oz’s hair was damp, Isolde’s blonde tresses clung in coils on her face and neck as they explored sensory overload in a swift succession of orgasms. Not that anyone was counting orgasms or was even rational enough to count. Not that even a scintilla of thought was involved in their continuous, frantic coupling.

  She shoved Oz away once, pushed him on his back, and straddled his hips with a kind of purposeful concentration that brought a furrow to her brow.

  Lying spread-eagle on the sofa, Oz flicked his wet hair behind his ears with his forefingers and grinned at his rosy-cheeked wife, who was up on her knees, absorbed in conducting the head of his penis to her slick cleft. “Don’t I get time to catch my breath?”

  “No,” she said without looking up, in the process of lowering herself over his undiminished erection. A moment later she came to rest on his thighs with a contented sigh and met his amused gaze. “You’re my new toy. Mmm.” She shifted slightly to experience the full measure of his massive size.

  He groaned, his libido highly charged and infinitely resilient in close proximity to his wife. She was a damned fine jockey, too, he decided soon after, watching her ride him, feeling a deep sense of gratitude as she languidly slid up and down his erection. And when her desires reached that wild, impassioned stage he was beginning to recognize, she shut her eyes, threw back her head, and rode him full tilt. Grabbing her hips, he secured his hold on her slippery skin, saved her from tumbling off, and saved himself from unnecessary injury.

  In their frenzied search for sensation that fine winter day, desire and lust melded in a tempestuous composite of slick skin and melting friction, sweet stickiness and sweeter rapture, redolent scents and lush tastes, heartrending touch, all faintly wild, fresh, and new. New even to a jaded man.

  For Isolde, every sensation was new.

  She’d led a different life than Oz.

  “I’m broadening my horizons,” she playfully murmured much later, trailing kisses over Oz’s face as he rested briefly between bouts. “Does that feel good?”

  “Do fish swim?”