Sexy As Hell (Berkley Sensation) Page 4

  Dispensing with further unwanted emotion, he guided his cock into her silken cleft, slowly invaded her, and set about bringing this particular stage of their amorous encounter to an end.

  Long past any notion of leisurely sex, Isolde swiftly slid her hands down his back, cupped his firm buttocks, and with surprising strength propelled him forward. “More,” she ordered, as a countess in her own right was wont to do, the single word faint but audible.

  Perhaps more familiar with accommodating females or less familiar with demanding ones, or maybe taking issue with her blind carnal need, Oz gruffly said, “You want more?”

  Her eyes opened briefly at the low, guttural sound.

  Not quite sure why he bridled at the lady’s explosive sexuality, nor currently reasonable enough to resolve his peremptory impulses, he instead relinquished further thought, plunged forward, drove into her with barely restrained violence, and gave her what she wanted.

  Her scream rocked him back on his heels.

  “No, no, no!” she precipitously cried, desperately clutching his hips to drag him back.

  Quickly scanning her face—although there was no mistaking her fierce grip—he decided she wasn’t in pain. “Hush—here, I’m back,” he whispered, gliding in again, bottoming out in her intoxicating heat, resting engulfed and motionless in her snug cunt while a raw, spine-tingling ecstasy bombarded his senses.

  Her small, blissful sigh brought a smile to his lips, her soft exhalation strangely touching. Although why it struck him so was a mystery. But not enough of a mystery to alter his irrepressible carnal focus. Grasping her hips firmly, he drove in that slight intoxicating distance more—where the world disappeared and only pure feeling held sway.

  Her manifestation of pleasure was no high-pitched scream that time but a series of whisper-soft gasps punctuated with little breathy moans that echoed lewd and sibilant in the quiet of the room.

  And the reason that explicitly needy, salacious little sound was drifting into his ears, he pleasantly thought, giving himself up to the soul-stirring rapture, was because his cock was buried in her delectable cunt. Because he’d found safe haven in this soft-as-silk enchantress. Because he’d discovered a measure of paradise in room thirteen of Blackwood’s Hotel and suddenly, inexplicably all was right with the world.

  He felt curiously alive for the first time in ages. There was no explanation, nor was he actually interested in one. A practical man, he was rather more interested in reconstituting the indescribable, all-encompassing, cosmic bliss. Slowly withdrawing in order not to upset the lady, he drove back in again. And then again. And once again—with deftness and ingenuity, with competence and expertise garnered in temples throughout India. The path to ecstasy had been refined over thirty-five centuries, and with conscientious study he’d come to appreciate the concept of the divine body as the source of infinite delight.

  The countess feverishly clung to him as he masterfully transported them toward orgasm, meeting his downstrokes with wild eagerness, whimpering softly each time he withdrew, distrait, wanting more.

  Then she’d sigh as he filled her again, her little sumptuous exhalation inevitably making him smile. Miss Perceval, he cheerfully decided after her second riotous climax, was a damnable gift from the gods, a unique blend of joyous innocence and shamelessness, sweetly and sometimes not so sweetly asking him for more, always taking what he gave with a voracious appetite.

  Gentleman that he was, he saw that she came several more times before he allowed himself fulfillment. Well trained in his youth by the mystics as well as the courtesans in Hyderabad, he was capable of withholding his orgasms. But not forever.

  Even in extremis, though, he was practical.

  He came on the countess’s stomach.

  Having seen too many illegitimate children in India struggle for identity in the ambiguous no-man’s-land they occupied, he didn’t want to add to that population. There or here.

  Once his breathing returned to a semblance of normal and reality reaffirmed itself, he wiped the countess’s stomach with the sheet while she lay, eyes shut and unresisting—other than a soft groan when he rubbed her dry between her legs. To which sound his cock instantly reacted, as if her voice alone was magnet to his lust. Drawing in a breath of restraint, he reminded himself that the night was still young and proceeded to wipe himself off rather than plunge back into her enticing little cunt.

  Tossing the soiled sheet on the floor, he dropped into a comfortable sprawl, put his arms behind his head, and gazing up at the tester, basked in an agreeable surfeit of excess. And rare contentment.

  So rare he found himself subscribing the feeling to some mystical force that had come into play in this hotel room in London.

  “I’m so pleased that actor didn’t arrive,” Isolde whispered, lifting up on one elbow to smile at him as though in answer to his musings. “You’re quite lovely in every imaginable way.”

  He wasn’t about to say, You make me feel strangely content , so he said, “I consider myself fortunate to have blundered into your room.”

  “It must be fate.”

  “Indeed.” And a certain degree of motivation on my part. “Although, I’m not finished yet,” he said, putting his odd feelings into a more familiar context. “We’ve plenty of time til morning.”

  “How nice,” she said, running a light fingertip across his muscled chest. “I didn’t dare ask for fear of appearing too forward.”

  His gaze was amused. “Really—after your repeated demands for more?”

  “Mock if you wish, but I hardly know you. I didn’t feel I could ask for more now . . . I mean, now that—you’ve finished.”

  Her lovers apparently hadn’t had stamina. “I’m just pausing for a moment. So demand away,” he pleasantly declared.

  “You’re not annoyed?”

  “No. Gratified certainly, annoyed—not likely. You’re a captivating little puss, Miss Perceval. Tell me,” he said, curious when he never was, “do you do this often?”

  “I don’t see that it’s any of your concern.”

  “Forgive me,” he suavely returned. “Naturally, it’s not.”

  “Do you do this often?”

  “Too often. You’re a damned refreshing change.”

  “Another jaded gentleman. Why am I not surprised?”

  “If it’s any consolation, jaded is not a feeling I recommend.”

  “Then why do you do it?”

  “Boredom, ennui, who knows,” he finished with a shrug. “You must live in the country,” he added, preferring less-encumbered subjects.

  “Yes.”

  “And you don’t wish to disclose where.”

  She sighed. “I don’t know why. After the papers come out tomorrow morning, you’ll know anyway.”

  “So?”

  “I live near Cambridge.”

  “That’s not very definitive.”

  “Two miles north of town.”

  “Better. What do you do there?”

  “Take care of my estates.”

  His brows lifted faintly. “For your despicable cousin to inherit.”

  “Don’t remind me,” she grumbled.

  “Why not marry? That would solve your problem.”

  “Are you asking?” she playfully inquired.

  “Lord no.” For a frightening moment he wondered if his earlier fear of being gulled had been mere prologue to this authentic gulling. “Don’t say you planned this for I tell you straight out, no one can make me marry.”

  “Rest easy, Lennox. I don’t wish to shackle you or myself for that matter.”

  Reassured, Oz drew her into his arms and set out to please her and himself in the bargain.

  They made love that night slowly and gently, fiercely and wildly, like young lovers learning the other’s likes and dislikes for the first time. Neither were innocents, and yet they experienced simple long-forgotten pleasures in each other’s arms. They talked as well with a degree of candor neither had previously offered their lovers. Sh
e discovered he was alone in the world, his family gone. He discovered she was living an equally solitary life without close family. Maybe their common singleness put them in sympathy, or maybe it was their declared ambition to remain unmarried that prompted their unusual accord.

  They both meant it, too, for possibly similar and unspoken reasons.

  Near sunrise, they finally fell asleep in each other’s embrace after what could only be characterized as a night of extraordinary pleasure.

  CHAPTER 3

  EXHAUSTED, THEY SLEPT late. And so they would have continued if they’d not been wakened by Malmsey shouting and pounding on the adjoining door.

  “He’s your barrister,” Oz grumbled, levering his eyes open. “But I’d be more than happy to tell him to go to hell.”

  Dragged from a glorious dream starring Lennox, Isolde struggled to come awake, to make sense of Malmsey’s clamorous outcries. Then she heard the name Frederick and instantly came alert. “It’s about my cousin,” she muttered, pulling away from Oz’s embrace, sitting up and throwing her legs over the side of the bed in one swift motion.

  “The loathsome one,” he muttered, fully awake now, tossing aside the covers.

  “The same.” Dashing to the armoire, she snatched up her dressing gown and called out, “I’ll be right there, Malmsey!”

  Oz had already left the bed and was stepping into his trousers, proficient at dressing rapidly after being surprised in numerous boudoirs by irate husbands over the years. Slipping on his shirt, he quickly rummaged through his overcoat pocket, pulled out his pistol, and checked that it was loaded.

  “Good God, don’t use that,” Isolde declared, casting a nervous glance his way as she knotted the belt of her dressing gown and ran for the door.

  “Only if I have to.” He didn’t believe in turning the other cheek when it came to survival.

  Isolde was unlocking the door as he spoke and didn’t have time to take issue with Oz’s reply. Jerking the door open, she took one look at Malmsey’s terror-stricken face and crisply said, “Is he on his way here?”

  “Worse, my lady. He’s downstairs with a brace of bullies at his back. Only Fremont’s burly footmen are holding them at bay.”

  “How did he find me?” A brisk query, collected rather than fearful.

  “He must have a spy—in your household I suspect.”

  “Has he seen the papers?”

  “Indeed, my lady. He’s brandishing a copy of the Belgravia Gazette and fit to be tied, he is.”

  “Let him up,” Oz directed, coming up beside Isolde. “Don’t look at me like that,” he said, meeting Isolde’s startled gaze. “I’ll send the blackguard on his way and you’ll be rid of him.”

  She swung back to Malmsey. “How many men are with him?”

  “Five or six.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Oz asserted. “Cowards never stand their ground, retinue or not.”

  “I don’t know,” Isolde equivocated. “What if they’re armed? Perhaps we should flee.”

  “He’ll follow you wherever you go,” Oz gently observed. “Let me take care of this.” He glanced at the barrister. “Tell her I’m right, Malmsey.”

  The barrister was ashen. “I’m not sure, sir—that is . . . Lord Compton has so many ruffians with him.”

  “Then I’ll shoot Compton first,” Oz said in a level voice. “Once he’s dead, paid hooligans won’t stand their ground.”

  “Dead? Good God, Lennox, don’t say such things!” Isolde exclaimed.

  “Darling, he’s trying to take everything you have. He doesn’t deserve a great deal of charity.”

  “Still . . . dead?” Her eyes were huge. “I find the prospect too awful to even contemplate!”

  But a moment later, any further argument became moot as the heavy tramp of feet echoed up the stairs and a confrontation became inevitable.

  “In or out, Malmsey?” Oz crisply queried. “I’m shutting this door.”

  “Really, Robert, you needn’t become involved,” Isolde declared.

  “No, miss, I couldn’t leave you unprotected.” The rotund little barrister pulled himself up to his middling height and tried to look fierce.

  “Excellent,” Oz politely remarked, waving the little man into the bedroom, hoping he wouldn’t faint and cause a distraction. Quickly shutting the door behind him and locking it, he turned to his companions. “I want you both to stay out of sight. I’ve dealt with men like Compton before. Don’t argue, darling,” he firmly added, holding Isolde’s gaze. “You’ll only get in the way.”

  “My dear Lennox,” Isolde said as firmly, “this confrontation is exactly what I need to confirm the story in the papers. I think he should see me. You stay out of sight, although it would be useful if some of your clothing was visible.”

  Oz smiled. “You can’t be serious. Do you actually think I’d remain out of sight while he threatens you?”

  “I’ll simply inform him that the gossip reports are true and he can go on his way.”

  “Suit yourself.” He chose not to uselessly argue. The heavy tread of footsteps was almost upon them.

  The knock on the hallway door a moment later was a rough tattoo, followed by Frederick’s petulant cry. “Open the door, Isolde! I know you’re in there!”

  Isolde shivered, the thought of facing Frederick suddenly less auspicious. “What if I don’t?” She studied the oak-paneled door. “Do you think it will hold?”

  “Of course it’ll hold. But then you’ll be prisoner in here until—” Oz blew out a breath. “Darling, he’s not going away.”

  “I agree, my lady,” Malmsey murmured. “Lord Compton was in high dudgeon when I caught a glimpse of him downstairs.”

  “I’m going to send him on his way,” Oz calmly said, moving toward the door. Or shoot him where he stands. “I’d like you both to stay back, but suit yourself.”

  Turning the latch a moment later, holding his pistol in a deceptively slack hold, he opened the door. “What can I do for you, Compton?” he lazily drawled, his pistol barrel aimed at Frederick’s paunch, his gaze swiftly surveying Frederick’s burly entourage. “Make your comments brief because my pistol has a hair trigger and I’m testy after being wakened from a dead sleep.”

  Frederick seemed to shrink into his skin at the sight of Lennox, his rage at Isolde’s public scandal subsumed by terror. The feeling increased along with his pallor as his gaze flicked to the pistol Oz held aimed at his stomach.

  “You’d best be on your way, Compton,” Oz gently said.

  But the prospect of Isolde’s vast fortune firmed Frederick’s spine, as did recall of his hired thugs backing him up. One man against six; the odds were in his favor. “I’m not here to see you,” he said with a hint of his normal haughtiness. “I came to speak to the Countess of Wraxell.”

  “The lady’s indisposed at the moment, Compton. She’s rare tired after last night,” he added with an insolent smile.

  Flushing red with anger, Frederick glanced over his shoulder to assure himself his hired roughs were in place. “Nevertheless, I must insist on speaking with her,” he said, the extent of his gambling debts prompting him to stand his ground. “This is a civilized country, Lennox,” he added, the obvious slur referring to Oz’s Indian background. “I have simply come to call on the lady.”

  “With bully boys at your back.” Oz nodded at the menacing crowd. “If you recall, Compton, I shot Buckley last month for irritating me. So don’t fucking irritate me or I’ll shoot you where you stand.” What the hell is he doing with a frock-coated minister? The man suddenly hove into view behind a brawny ruffian.

  “I have armed men to protect me,” Frederick blustered. As if mention of his bodyguard gave him fresh courage, Frederick foolishly added, “Step aside, Lennox. I have business with Lady Wraxell.”

  “If you wish to see her, you’ll have to go through me,” Oz silkily said. “I have six shots. One for you and the rest for your thugs if they choose to die today.”

  The men hir
ed by Frederick lived in a hazardous, dog-eat-dog world; they were survivors or they’d never have lived to adulthood. None of them questioned the cold-blooded malevolence in Oz’s eyes or the steadiness of his pistol hand.

  “There now, that’s a sensible lot,” Oz said. Not one man so much as shifted his stance. “I have some money in my coat pocket, Malmsey. Give it to these gentlemen so they might have a pint or two on me.” He calmly waited, his finger on the trigger, while the barrister found the coat and the money and hurried over to the door.

  “All of it, sir?” the barrister quavered, holding up a thick bundle of large notes.

  “Yes, I’m in a charitable mood.” He was patently undisturbed, his voice unemotional. “Buy the wife and kiddies a present from me, too, gentlemen.” Taking the bills from Malmsey’s outstretched hand, he tossed them well down the passageway.

  As Frederick’s guard melted away in raucous pursuit of the windfall, Oz nodded at the minister who’d not been touched by the greed of lesser men. “Come in, sir. I have need of you. It’s not a request,” he gruffly added as the man hesitated. “Although, if you do your duty by me,” Oz said with a pleasant smile, “your parish will be richer for it.”

  Ah, there are calibrations of acceptable greed, he thought as the minister walked toward him. “Good day, Compton.” He waved him away with his pistol. “Although, I’m more than willing to put a bullet in you if you want to argue the point.”

  Left to face the formidable Lennox alone, Frederick could do little but glower. “You won’t get away with this disgraceful behavior, Lennox! I shall have my revenge on you and my cousin!”

  The man must be obsessed by the prospect of Isolde’s fortune that he dared threaten him. Most men would have been more prudent. “Not, I think, before I have mine, Compton,” Oz returned, a plan having leaped full-blown into his mind at the sight of the minister. And so saying, he shut the door in Compton’s fat face and locked it securely.

  Turning, he set his pistol on a small table and offered Isolde a graceful bow. “Fear and money, darling—an incomparable combination.”

  “Very effective. My compliments and thanks.”