Sexy As Hell (Berkley Sensation) Read online

  “Perfect. Hmm . . . you have such beautiful eyes.” She brushed her mouth over his dark brows. “And a perfect nose.” A light kiss down the bridge of his nose. “And of course your delicious mouth.” When she finally lifted her lips from his, her breathing was labored and her lips were pursed in a sulk. “Must you do everything so damned professionally?”

  He laughed. “Is that a compliment?”

  “I’m practically climaxing after a kiss for God’s sake.”

  “If it makes you angry, I won’t kiss you anymore.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  He knew what the point was and he wasn’t going anywhere near the subject

  “How many women have there been?”

  He silently groaned. “Need I remind you that you’re not actually my wife?”

  “Don’t be so reasonable. I’m not in the mood.”

  “I could probably put you in a better mood. Come, dear,” he softly said, “this is a foolish argument.”

  Drawing in a small, restorative breath, she reminded herself of their temporary arrangement, reminded herself as well that taking issue with the women in Oz’s life was useless in countless way. “You’re right; I stand corrected. I’m fine, really. Where was I?” Returning to her amorous play, she kissed the firm line of Oz’s jaw, dipping her head lower after a time to lightly caress the smooth curve of his shoulder blades, his hard, muscled shoulders.

  Relaxed now with Isolde’s brief resentment resolved, Oz lay and watched her from under his lashes as she suddenly came up on her knees and pressed her mouth into the little dip at the base of his throat.

  And began sucking with vigor.

  He lightly touched her head. “You’re going to leave a bruise.”

  “I know,” she said against his throat, the vibration drifting down his nerve endings in lush temptation, mitigating a portion of his unease. “I want to,” she whispered, moving upward slightly, adorning his throat with a second brazen imprint.

  She was deliberately leaving bruises on his neck when he’d never allowed the London ladies such latitude. His policy was a hands-off one when it came to proprietary claims. The little puss was bold and cheeky. On the other hand, he knew where her trail of kisses would end.

  By the time Isolde had satisfied her jealous pangs and paid homage to her husband’s splendid body—kissing and caressing his bulging pectorals, his nipples, the hard ripple of his abdominal muscles, the dip of his navel, the crisp black hair at the juncture of his thighs, Oz was in a cold sweat, curtailing his climax by sheer will alone.

  Circling his penis with her fingers, Isolde drew it away from his stomach and met his hot gaze. “You’re not going to last much longer, are you?”

  He shook his head.

  “Then I suppose it’s up to me to do my wifely duty.”

  “Sooner rather than later or you won’t have to,” he said on a suffocated breath.

  “But of course I want to. Wait—wait!”

  He was almost undone by her wistful zeal, and as she quickly obliged him and the crest of his penis slid into her mouth, he felt an unparalleled suffusion of spine-tingling pleasure. Whether it was her accommodating mouth, the continuous assault on his libido, or the rare level of delirium she incited, the fierceness of his ejaculation coursed through his body like a shock wave.

  When Isolde swallowed the last drop and he was debating whether he was paralyzed or could still move, she slid up his body and kissed him on the mouth, her lips still wet with semen. Lifting her head, she smiled at him. “How was that? Do I please you, my lord?”

  He smiled. “It was perfect, darling, and yes, you please me. I must send Fremont a thank-you gift.”

  “Not just yet,” she sweetly said. “If you don’t mind.”

  “Not while I still have a heartbeat,” he replied with a grin, sliding a finger inside her as if her willingness was ever at issue. She was open and ready, her cunt slick and warm, pulsing around his finger. “The gates of paradise are ever open, I see.”

  “Always for you,” she whispered, wiggling against his finger. Reaching up, she brushed the light bruises on his neck. “And these are for me.”

  He laughed when in the past he would have risen and left. “Is that a fact?”

  Her smile was bright and she spoke not rationally, but with her heart. “They mark you as mine.”

  “In that case I’ll have to make you mine,” he drawled, fully rational and proficient at this game, his cock apparently engaged in some endurance contest. Rolling over her, he slid her under him with practiced ease and plunged into her slick sweetness with the unclouded concentration of a libertine in full command of his much-practiced talents. “This is mine,” he whispered, withdrawing completely and driving in again. “And this . . . and this . . . and this,” his lower body slamming into her on each blunt utterance.

  She gasped at each forceful downstroke, a soft, breathy pleasure sound, and on each upstroke, she clung to him—loathe to lose him.

  It was never enough—no matter how many times they climaxed that afternoon.

  They were filled with lust, vibrating with lust.

  Seething, feverish, out of control.

  Until wild-eyed and hysterical, she shoved him away, fell on her stomach, and shuddered uncontrollably.

  Oz gently stroked her back until her tremors ceased.

  She rolled over then, her eyes wet with tears. “Hold me.” He gathered her into his arms, settled her on his lap, and leaning back against the sofa arm, held her with unaffected tenderness. He whispered all the love words, the play words, the amorous phrases meant to soothe and placate and disarm. He knew them well, glibly some would say, but his make-believe wife pleased him and he willingly uttered the words of affection.

  She fell asleep quickly, like an exhausted child after too much excitement.

  He waited for her breathing to settle before carefully shifting his position and easing her onto the sofa. Placing a pillow under her head, he covered her with a paisley shawl, and in an unprecedented gesture of sentiment, bent and kissed her cheek.

  Conscious of the time, his dressing was swiftly accomplished, and when he left the room, he closed the door with the utmost quietness.

  Going directly to the conservatory, he ignored the pointed interest of the young seamstresses and apologized to Mrs. Aubigny. “I understand the delay is a serious inconvenience with time so limited. Allow me to offer you a substantial monetary incentive to both forgive the interruption and bring in additional help to complete my wife’s gown. I do apologize,” he said again.

  “There’s no need to apologize,” the Frenchwoman said, fully conscious of Lennox’s wealth as well as the power of amour. His lordship was still sweating, his hair damp. “My lady has a mind of her own. It alleviates the boredom, I wager.”

  “Indeed,” Oz replied with a faint smile. During the past two years, he’d spent considerable time in Mrs. Aubigny’s shop with one woman or another; he and the modiste were on friendly terms.

  “I’ll need the fabric, of course,” she said with a lift of her brows.

  “A servant will fetch it. Ask Josef for whatever else you need and he’ll see to it. Davey will bring you the additional bank draft for your trouble, and when my lady wakes, I’ll see if she’s available for another fitting. Although, I’m not sure,” he carefully said, “if she will be or not.”

  “I have her measurements.”

  His expression cleared. “I thought you might. Excellent. By seven then.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  He bowed with grace. “I’m in your debt.”

  She watched him walk away, the brilliant light in the conservatory betraying the bruises on his neck as well as the bite marks on his ear left by his wife’s passion. Despite his bride’s look of innocence, they appeared well matched. As for Lennox, his wildness was common knowledge. He was also as experienced as any man when it came to amour. He wouldn’t have been marked unless he’d allowed it.

  Oz went next
to meet with the jeweler.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting, Martin,” he said, walking into his office and smiling at the heavyset man who looked more like a prizefighter than a jeweler. “Did you get coffee? Good. I hope you have pearls.”

  “Some very fine ones, sir. The kind that rarely come on the market.”

  “Sounds intriguing.” Oz pulled up a chair beside the jeweler. “I’m sure my wife will appreciate them,” he said with such obvious good cheer Martin was taken aback.

  Martin, as the premier jeweler to those of prodigious wealth, had served Lord Lennox on occasions too numerous to count, but none in which the baron had appeared in such jovial spirits. He wasn’t a man one would characterize as jovial. Or even animated; his natural reserve was as notable as his willfulness.

  Martin briefly wondered at his lordship’s sobriety. He was known to drink away his days with some frequency. But after a surreptitious glance as he was laying out the splendid necklace of large matched pearls, Martin saw that the baron was surprisingly sober.

  He gently arranged the pearls in a circle on the pad of black velvet he’d set on the small table before him. “This exquisite piece was a Napoleonic trophy brought back from Italy—from a Venetian collection. The maker’s mark on the diamond clasp, however, indicates Constantinople as the original provenance, with the original recipient Empress Theodosia. See—here—the imperial cipher.”

  Oz leaned forward to witness the imperial stamp. “I’ll take it,” he said, sitting back and offering Martin a smile. “I don’t suppose you have earrings to match?”

  “Unfortunately not. Sets rarely survive the centuries. But I have some superb pearl pendant earrings you might appreciate.”

  “I’m sure I will. Your taste is always impeccable.”

  Martin spread out a collection of expensive baubles; Lennox only wanted the best. A design question from the baron, another about a diamond clasp, a query as to gem-stone quality, one about a goldsmith, and their business was quickly done. Lennox generally knew what he wanted, but then Martin understood the baron owned ruby mines in India. He wasn’t a novice with gems. In short order Martin left Lennox House with a light step and a broad smile. The baron never quibbled over price, but more surprising—as gossip suggested—he seemed enamored of his new wife. His lordship had purchased all the jewelry shown him, including the diamond and onyx tiger brooch that was so dear even the Prince of Wales had balked at the price.

  Needless to say, the faint scent of sex clinging to the young lord’s person, in addition to the disheveled state of the baron’s clothing and hair, bore witness to the fact that he’d only recently left his wife’s bed. As any jeweler knew, such gratifying creature comforts lent themselves to a certain generosity on the part of husbands.

  CHAPTER 9

  ISOLDE ’SGOOD HUMOR was as fulsome as Oz’s when she woke, or rather when he woke her with a kiss.

  Drowsy with sleep, she wrapped her arms around his neck and whispered, “I need you for a few minutes if you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t mind, but my valet will,” Oz lightly said, untwining her arms from around his neck. “Karim’s been fussing over me for the past half hour.”

  Isolde eyes snapped open. “You’re dressed!”

  “As you see.” Oz was splendid in full evening rig, diamond studs sparkling down his shirt front, his black unruly hair schooled into place.

  “Good God, how long did I sleep?”

  “It’s seven.”

  “Seven!”

  “You needn’t panic, darling.” His voice was particularly indulgent—a contrast to long held custom, the afternoon of wild, frantic sex no doubt cause for his conversion. “Your bath is being drawn, Mrs. Aubigny and servants are awaiting your commands in your dressing room, and Achille has sent up a small collation to tide you over until he serves his lavish reception repast. You have well over two hours.”

  She groaned. “I find you thoroughly disagreeable.”

  He smiled. “No you don’t.” Her orgasmic screams were still vivid in his memory. “One evening, sweetheart, and you’re free of any further appearances. Your obligation to society and to my inflexibility on the subject will be over.”

  “Then I may be rude to you again without fear of your ruthless temper?” she sweetly said.

  “As rude as you wish.”

  “Arrogant man. As if I can resist you.”

  “Hold that thought,” he said with a grin, “and we’ll both better survive this tedious affair. Thank you, by the way, for this afternoon. You’re damned entertaining, and my bites and bruises hardly show.”

  She blushed furiously. “Oh Lord, what will people think?”

  “That I’m a very lucky man. Now come, darling, a good number of people are awaiting you.”

  “Must I?”

  “Duty has it own rewards,” he drolly noted.

  “How would you know?”

  “I believe one of my tutors had me write that phrase a thousand times. But in your case, I’d be happy to serve as your reward.”

  “How can I refuse?” she purred.

  “How indeed when you haven’t had an orgasm in three hours.” At the look in her eyes, he quickly put up his hand. “Afterward, darling. If I disarrange so much as a hair on my head, Karim will sulk for a week.”

  “In the interests of household amity,” she said with a pout not altogether feigned, “I suppose I must renounce my desires.”

  “I’ll make it up to you.”

  Her smile was instant. “How nice.”

  OZ TOOK CURIOUS pleasure in watching Isolde bathe and dress, even sharing in the light collation Achille had sent up, when he’d previously steeled himself with a good deal of liquor for occasions such as this. How many times had he impatiently watched some lover taking overlong to outfit herself or primp before a mirror for his benefit, how many times had he counted the minutes and drunk to excess? Tonight he was practically sober, his drink at hand but barely touched, his enjoyment of the intimate scene affording him a degree of contentment long absent from his life.

  He’d recognized how restful his wife was their first morning together, and so she was now—allowing the maids to bathe and dress her without complaint or direction, doing what was necessary with amazing good humor.

  It was simply a matter of keeping her well fucked, he decided.

  A task he was more than willing to assume.

  She smiled at him over the heads of her maids from time to time, and he smiled back from his chair across the room, his libido reacting to her smile. At which point, he invariably felt like ordering everyone out, tossing up her skirts, and saying to hell with their guests. But ultimately, sanity prevailed; he softly swore and silently consigned the bloody reception to perdition.

  She heard him, and at the last, watching him in the mirror as the hairdresser finished pinning her glossy curls into an artful arrangement, she dulcetly inquired, “Can I help you?” knowing full well what he was thinking.

  “I wish you could,” he murmured, glancing at the clock with a significant look. “Thirty minutes, darling.” In thirty minutes, they’d be standing at the top of the stairs offering imitation smiles to everyone who arrived to ascertain the reasons for and authenticity of their hasty marriage.

  “My compliments, Mrs. Aubigny. You outdid yourself,” Oz said as Isolde rose from the dressing table and turned to him. The dressmaker had performed her office superbly, the gown fit to perfection: bared shoulders, half-bared breasts, the slenderness of Isolde’s waist enhanced by the subtle drapery, the curve of her hips prominent with the current snug-fitting styles, the glittering diamant ornament on the dark velvet calling attention to the low décolletage.

  “My lady’s beauty enhances any creation,” the modiste replied, although it was obvious she was pleased with the result. “And the pearls are superb.”

  Even Isolde hadn’t begrudged the pearls. The necklace was stunning, its history a thing of romance, Theodosia’s rise to empress a spellbinding tale
.

  Equally spellbinding was the sight of the gleaming pearls resting on the sumptuous curve of her breasts, Oz reflected, drawing in a breath of restraint. She was an amazingly beautiful woman. With another glance at the clock, he decided they’d escape the throng at midnight no matter what.

  Mrs. Aubigny opened her arms with a flourish. “She’s all yours, my lord. An ornament to you and the ton.”

  Isolde might have taken issue with being spoken of as an object if Mrs. Aubigny hadn’t been of such enormous service. She’d called in a hairdresser, procured exquisite new lingerie, had a shoemaker at the ready with a selection of evening slippers suitable for Cinderella herself. “I’m in awe of your talent, Mrs. Aubigny.” Isolde offered the modiste a glowing smile. “Thank you so very much.”

  Oz felt like a proud parent at the success of Isolde’s toilette—or as close to the feeling as he could imagine. She was breathtaking. And so he told her, to which she blushed so prettily he had to further control his libidinous urges. It was all the excitement, he told himself, for he couldn’t blame liquor tonight. Although, perhaps it was nothing more than the pretense of having a wife that prompted such lust—a prurient notion for a confirmed bachelor.

  He rose to his feet, walked to Isolde, and with a graceful bow, offered her his arm. “May I have the pleasure of your company tonight, darling? We are, it seems, about to play husband and wife before the world.” He grinned. “Are you up to it?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Regretfully, no,” he gently said, moving toward the door, leaving the retinue responsible for his wife’s elegant appearance beaming behind them.

  “In that case,” Isolde said with a sigh, “tell me when to smile and don’t expect me to remember names.”

  “Your smile, of course, must be unwavering. As to the names, it doesn’t matter. Our guests are here to see us, not the other way around,” he said, walking through the door held open by a servant. “In any case, they’ll all soon turn into a blur.”

  “You speak from experience?”

  “I do, but then that’s what a majordomo’s for. Josef is nonpareil when it comes to names and titles. I rely on him completely,” he said, strolling down the corridor. “And if someone should be rude don’t be shocked at my response.”