Kuzan 02 - Lovestorm Read online

  Alex reached up and gently unlocked her arms from around his neck, brushing her cheek with his lips. "Don't rusk, dushka ['little heart']," he whispered. "There's plenty of time."

  Zena whimpered piteously as Alex moved away, and reached imploringly for him, seeking the elusive release. But he brushed away the imploring arms and languorously resumed the subtle stroking, running his hands over her belly, twining his fingers in the silken hair below, gradually forcing her thighs apart and caressing a delicate pattern along their inner contours. Soon again sensuous fever was provoked; Zena was dewy moist, running wet as convulsive waves of sweet passion built and built. Alex slipped down the bed between her thighs and rested his head on her belly. His face felt softly prickly to her tender skin. Moving downward, he kissed the downy hair, and his warm breath stirred her deliciously. Moving still lower, his lips nudged at the soft folds of her pulsing, turgid, fleshy gates of paradise.

  What was he doing? Zena's eyes widened in alarm. He surely mustn't kiss her there. She reached down and frantically attempted to push the encroaching head away. Indifferent to her ineffectual efforts to dislodge him, Alex explored the outer lips, licking, kissing, softly biting until the horror of paralyzed shock in Zena's mind was overcome by a driving fever that pulsed in time to her frenzied heartbeat. Then Alex parted those lips with his long, cool fingers, and his tenacious tongue probed her innermost dew until he found the tiny lodestar of desire; and when he touched her there, Zena thought she would die. She was flooded with explosive waves of tumultuous passion as Alex tenderly sucked and tongued her rosy pearl. Her body writhed and twisted with the agony of her senses; her fingers curled into the black thickness of his hair and clung as shudders quaked her body.

  When she thought she would explode from the building sensual hysteria, Alex moved the full weight of his body onto her, slid his muscled legs intimately between hers, forcing her soft thighs apart, raised himself, plunged his throbbing hardness into her with a low groan, and drove in hungrily. Zena's thighs closed savagely around him, fusing their bodies in primeval embrace. She felt the hard, flat muscles of his stomach pressing against her, the power of his arms, the broad muscles of his back flexing as each fierce thrust tore into her; the power and energy, the gentleness and sensuous touch of this man filled her senses.

  Alex's hands reached down to grasp her hips, driving home with all the frenzied power of his lower body; his mouth closed over hers, and she moaned against the compulsive lips as she was impaled on his exploding shaft of love. Zena keened a wild cry of raw, primitive fulfillment as her climax burst and rapture flooded every fiber of her being.

  They lay quiet for a long time. The prince felt heavy on her, but she liked the feel of him. His breathing was still harsh, his pulse racing wildly as he brushed her cheek with his lips. Perspiration beaded his body, and Zena quivered pleasurably as she remembered his hard, lean back arched in ecstasy beneath her fingers as he'd released his passion. Many moments later, he stirred against he as if to draw away, and Zena realized with embarrassment that she was still clutching him tightly. Her arms fell away, and the prince immediately rolled off her and onto his back, expelling a long, low whistle of appreciative reverence. Twisting back on his side, he planted a hasty kiss on Zena's cheek.

  "Never, sweet dove, never in my life have I encountered such a hot-blooded virgin," he whispered. "What luck I found you, ma petite. Our holiday from the boredom of Petersburg will be magnifique." He chuckled deep in his throat, contemplating the rich delight in tutoring such untried passion.

  Zena's heart plummeted in shame at the prince's smoldering look of satisfaction, at the lewd insinuation. He wouldn't suggest such a thing to her unless he thought her thoroughly sunk beneath contempt.

  Since Zena had never participated in the conviviality of St. Petersburg's aristocratic society, having only lately come of age, she was not aware that liaisons and holidays of passion were not the sole province of streetwalkers and fallen women. If the arrangements could be cloaked with an acceptable discretion (and in some cases even that commodity was expendable), the upper classes were quite willing, if not daringly innovative, participants in the game of musical beds.3

  "I couldn't go on holiday with you, my lord," she murmured uncomfortably. "I'm so ashamed of myself."

  "Ashamed?" Alex questioned, mildly shocked at such a curious revelation. "It's not your fault I mistook you for a woman of the streets."

  "Ashamed of succumbing to your advances, my lord. It isn't right," she sadly replied.

  "Your flesh just responded to its natural desires; it was bound to happen eventually. Look, my sweet," he said soothingly, reaching out with a fingertip to turn Zena's face toward him, "let me reassure you, from vast experience in the boudoirs of Petersburg, virginity in the brittle, impious society in which I move is as rare and elusive as the unicorn of fable."

  In order to salve the poor girl's conscience, Alex might have been stretching the truth somewhat, but not a great deal, he mused. There was a certain amount of virginity, of course, but generally it was closely allied to squinty eyes, grossly ugly features, or avoirdupois that even flowing silk and tightly laced corsets couldn't conceal. The only reason a lush beauty like the mademoiselles hadn't been ravished yet was apparently that she had been in seclusion— although, from the sound of it, the old general had been doing his damnedest to remedy that circumstance even before the engagement.

  Could he pride himself on having introduced her more subtly, with considerably more expertise and gentleness, to the congress between a man and a woman than ever the aged general would have been able to? Could he assuage his brief twinge of guilt over taking her virginity by assuming that his tutoring in the art of love would be infinitely more enjoyable than that of a fat, corrupt, and practically senile lecher? The answer to both questions was yes, if rationalization was required, but it wasn't, since Alexander Nikolaevich had always done more or less as he liked, taking a page from the behavior of a long line of wealthy, arrogant, charming Kuzan rogues who'd never seriously curtailed any of their desires.

  Alex acknowledged the basic inequity in the matter of female conquest, but he acknowledged it impartially— that is to say, he recognized the necessity in life of female submission to male domination. With a true aristocratic disdain for the prescribed conventions of society, he felt no compunction to resist ruining a virgin. All women were fair game, regardless of age, rank, or condition. The prince would deflower a virgin as casually as he would mount the bawdiest wench. It was simply a need, sometimes a scintillating pleasure, sometimes a vivacious game, sometimes no more than a compelling physical desire that required quenching. It was as natural as breathing and eating, and only his mood determined the direction of his libertine eye. He would never consider forcing a virgin—or any other woman, for that matter. His sexual appetite did not require the erotic stimulation that resistance offered, and his sexual proficiency precluded the necessity. His females were always exceedingly compliant.

  "Don't cry, my dear," Alex comforted as he brushed away the tears tracing a path down Zena's glowing cheeks. "Sleep," he soothed, drawing her into his warm embrace. He stroked her hair gently as he clasped the frail shoulders. "Don't worry—there's nothing to be ashamed of. You'll feel much better in the morning."

  Zena allowed the consoling words to erase her dreadful fears and guilts and uncertainties, for she was very young and very tired and no one had comforted her in three long years. She had almost alone had to care for her brother, ease her father's despair, and, unaided, bear the brunt of her aunt's constant carping hostility. She would worry tomorrow; at least the repulsive general was far behind, she reflected with relief. Within seconds, Zena was fast asleep in the prince's arms.

  It seemed like minutes later, but several hours had passed, when a loud rapping woke Alex.

  "Yes, what is it?" he inquired groggily, his head still beclouded from the bowl of punch.

  "The young child is sick, Your Excellency," a worried woman's v
oice answered through the door.

  "We'll be right there," Alex answered promptly, fully awake now. He gently shook Zena's shoulder, for she was still sleeping soundly. "Wake up, ma petite" he murmured in her ear.

  Zena's eyes opened languorously at the touch of his breath. Drowsy yet, she lazily wrapped her arms around his neck, seeking the delicious warmth of his body.

  For a virgin, his mind noted rapidly, she had an instinct that was decidedly pleasing. He carefully released her arms from around his neck and said softly, "My dear, I'm afraid your brother is ill."

  Zena sat up in panic, her blue eyes now fully alert.

  "Allow me to find you a robe," Alex stated, and went to a built-in wardrobe next to the bed and began pawing through it. Tossing aside numerous garments, he emerged with a brilliant magenta silk wrapper. In an apologetic manner, he showed the dressing gown to Zena. "Sorry, the rest are mine—quite unsuitable. This color is garish, but at least it's female in gender."

  He wrapped the ruffled and beribboned froth around Zena's shoulders, then quickly slipped into his robe. When she'd tied the sash and run her fingers quickly through her tousled curls, he opened the door and gestured down the narrow hallway. "Second door down. I hope it's nothing too serious," he added, with conventional sympathy.

  Bobby was cradled in the maid's lap, his breath coming in labored, rasping gasps.

  "Good Lord!" Alex exclaimed in alarm. "He's having trouble breathing. We'll stop the train and find a doctor." He was several yards down the hallway before Zena could stop him.

  "Please, my lord, that won't be necessary. Bobby's often like this in the winter; his chest is so susceptible. If we could just have some kind of steamer brought into his room, he'll soon be quite comfortable."

  Alex had servants scurrying about in a thrice, and within five minutes a large silver samovar was bubbling furiously in the center of the room, steam drifting from it in wispy trails up to the ceiling. The mist soon saturated the small room. Zena held her young brother in her lap, crooning and soothing the feverish child as the water droplets in the air eased the horrible rasping breath. When the boy at last fell into an untroubled rest, Alex lifted him into his bed and admonished the maid to call them should the wheezing begin again.

  When they'd returned to Alex's room, Alex propelled Zena toward the bed and gently tucked her in. She looked quite exhausted. Sinking down on the edge of the bed, he said gravely, "Bobby needs a doctor. We must find one as soon as we reach Moscow."

  Zena nodded in agreement, dispiritedly, for she was all too aware that a doctor's services were definitely beyond her means at the present.

  The prince, studying one quilted cuff of his robe, obviously choosing his words with care, suggested with formality, "If you would reconsider granting me the pleasure of your company on my holiday, I should be happy to render service to Bobby in any way whatsoever."

  Zena dropped her eyes before the bold invitation.

  With the ruthless male practicality that selfishly overlooked the subtle nuances of respectability or decorum or sentiment, Alex coaxed softly, "Come now, ma petite. Think how Bobby's health would improve. Don't let considerations of virtue intervene, for you can't lose twice that which is already irrevocably lost." His golden eyes caught her and held them. "You can't bring back yesterday, little dove," he said gently, and a mild discomfort gripped him as he saw the confusion in her eyes. Casting aside the momentary pang, he briskly continued, "And, as an alternative to bedding with General Scobloff, surely I'm more . . . er . . . satisfactory." A brief smile touched his mouth.

  He encountered a stony silence. Zena had half turned her back on him and was staring at the wall.

  "My dacha will be secluded and remote," he whispered into the auburn ringlets curling softly against her neck. "I'll make love to you in the sunlight and by firelight, dushka" Alex murmured persuasively.

  Zena hesitated, unwilling to admit to herself that even on this short acquaintance (but acquaintance was hardly the word for such base sensuality! she snorted to herself) she was decidedly inclined to go with the charming prince anywhere, anywhere at all.

  "Think of Bobby," Alex repeated as he turned her toward him. "His cough will disappear. He'll have the finest of care, anything money can buy." Knowing how deep was Zena's love for her young brother, how concerned she was for his well-being, he struck where she was most vulnerable. "Just be my guest for a few days until Bobby is better. Look ... on my honor, I promise not to touch you." (At least, not until you want me to, he thought confidently.) He spread his hands wide in an open gesture of conciliation and smiled winningly.

  Zena looked up, startled at his sudden capitulation to integrity, not understanding the smug self-assurance that motivated his promise. "Very well," she said quietly, telling herself she was doing this so Bobby could get well, but knowing deep in her heart there were other, more complex, bewildering, indefensible reasons for her acquiescence.

  The prince allowed himself only the smallest smile of triumph. "Excellent decision, my sweet." He bent to caress her cheek. "We reach the Moscow station in forty minutes."

  5

  Alex cradled Bobby, who was securely wrapped in a sable robe, while Zena, despite her shabby appearance, in deference to the fact that she was apparently the mother of this child Prince Alexander was personally carrying, was offered the arm of the stationmaster as escort. A veritable phalanx of porters and railway officials, with the consummate efficiency produced only by immense wealth, once again conducted the prince's small party down the length of the train shed. A certain arrogance and pride of bearing, both utterly unconscious and unfeigned, characterized the prince as he strolled unhurriedly toward the street. Two elegant troikas were waiting, cordoned off by a row of black-uniformed security police. All this obsequious homage was casually accepted with perfect equanimity by Alex, who'd had a lifetime of such deferential treatment.

  Ivan distributed the prince's generous acknowledgment in the form of hundreds of rubles, and beaming faces and ready hands helpfully assisted the prince, Bobby, and Zena into the cherry-red troika, while servants and baggage were stowed, equally respectfully, into the second, teal-blue, sleigh.

  Zena was seated pressed close to the prince in the small velvet-upholstered seat, holding Bobby in her lap. Her baby brother was still drowsy, resting comfortably against her shoulder. All three occupants had been securely covered with numerous fur robes. Despite the unorthodox sit-

  uation and the gross irregularities of the previous turbulent night, she couldn't help but feel a cheerful elation. She briefly, ever so briefly, chastised herself for not feeling the requisite remorse and humiliation that society would have prescribed, given the circumstances that had befallen her, but her youthful joi de vivre kept her from responding in this suitably contrite form.

  As the prince had pointed out with such blunt practicality, there was no sense in bemoaning the loss of her virtue, for no amount of self-reproach, not the most punctilious future conduct, would ever restore it. And, she was far removed from the ugly general, who would have robbed her of that virtue soon enough in any event. If one was obliged to be ruthlessly pragmatic—and for the past three years, ever since her mother's death, Zena had been forced to embrace the unvarnished reality of the adult world—the loss of her virginity was simply a relative issue; it had happened last night instead of next week, that's all, and she was not tied for life to a sixty-one-year-old loathsome toad. She and Bobby would soon be with her grandfather and he would take care of them. With the exception of one minor drawback—if one could consider lost virtue minor, she thought wryly—everything had worked out quite well.

  The three matched horses were restless in anticipation, held in check by a young street boy. Prince Alexander, leaning forward and speaking rapidly in a subdued voice, was imparting some last-minute instructions to Ivan. This was the first time Zena had seen him in the light of day and she regarded him with admiration, noting the finely chiseled profile against the thin, gray, wintry
light, the crinkling round his eyes as he chuckled softly over some rejoinder from Ivan. When he suddenly leaned back in the seat and smiled lazily at her, she was a little disconcerted to be caught staring and looked away, quickly focusing her eyes on the beautiful horses, which were tossing their heads with impatience.

  "The horses are absolutely exquisite," she exclaimed appreciatively, feeling a need to make conversation with this virtual stranger.

  "Yes," the prince answered absently as he relayed one last order to the sleigh behind, then turned back to face Zena. At sight of that fair cameo face framed by a soft cascade of auburn curls, those wide, bewitching blue eyes, that captivating soft pink mouth, his breath caught and he repeated quietly, apropos female rather than horse flesh, "Exquisite. Very exquisite indeed."

  Zena blushed crimson at the intensity of his gaze and lowered her eyes.

  Alex reached out to caress her cheek, but arrested his gesture in midair when she shrank from him in alarm. Throwing his head back, he laughed boyishly. "Forgive me, dushka. I did promise not to touch you, didn't I? A momentary lapse. Please don't cringe; it's extremely lowering to my reputation as a bon vivant. Come, we can be friends. I'm really quite harmless." He turned his most prepossessing smile upon her, profoundly confident of the devastating effectiveness of the Kuzan charm.

  Zena found herself impetuously returning the smile, as she was meant to do, no more immune to the irresistible Kuzan magnetism than scores of females before her.

  The prince winked conspiratorially, "Capital! Friends, then?" When Zena nodded, his grin widened appreciably— an unguarded, natural grin far more effective and dangerous than the most seductive smile. "Ivan, we're off!" he called, and in an instant the horses were sprung and the troika was flying through the bustling streets of midday Moscow.