Gorgeous as Sin (9 page)

A short time later, he returned with towels, two peaches, and a half-empty bottle of champagne to find her sitting on the side of the bed, dressed in a robe, her back ramrod straight, her hands clasped in her lap. A determined look on her face.

“Forgive me for making a mess,” he said, coming to a halt near the bed. “I’m usually not so juvenile.”

“You’re forgiven, but I’d like you to go now. I dislike feeling so dependent on that”—she pointed at his crotch—“particularly with a man like you.” His penis even in repose was impressive, she grudgingly noted.

“Whatever you say. Would you like one?” He held out the peaches cupped in one palm.

“No. Now please go,” she firmly said before she could change her mind. He was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. An assessment quickly seconded by her libido that was beginning to divorce itself from her pragmatic resolve.

“I actually know someone who’s been in a harem,” Fitz observed, dropping the towels on the bed and sitting beside her. “If you’re interested. Champagne?” He offered her the bottle.

She shook her head.

A taut, restrained gesture, he decided. One open to equivocation, he also decided, since she’d not repeated her dismissal notice. “A lady I know accompanied her family on a diplomatic mission to Constantinople.” He didn’t say
her husband
in the event Mrs. St. Vincent had become prudish about fidelity as well as making love. “She became friends with several of the sultan’s concubines. The harem is a world unto itself apparently—very luxurious if not for its lack of freedom, of course. Many of the women were quite content, though, Sally said.” He set the bottle on the floor, one peach on the bedside table, and took a bite out of the other. “Your peaches on the kitchen table reminded me of her stories,” he said a moment later. “Apparently, peaches are favorites in the harem.”

“Was she actually inside a harem?”

Ah, that first nibble of curiosity. Gratifying. “Her family was at the court of the sultan for three years. Very eventful years for Sally.” He smiled faintly. “She became very fond of hashish as well as peaches.”

“She smoked hashish?”

He was delighted to hear a modicum of excitement in Mrs. St. Vincent’s voice. “Everyone does, I’m told. It helps with the tedium of the harem.”

“Does it enhance sensation as rumored?”

“She says it does. I could have brought some if I’d known you’d like to try it.”

“Oh, no, no . . . That is, stories tell of a heightened imagination under the influence of the drug.”

“There’s hashish dens enough in London. Wales likes to end his evenings there—or he did when he was younger. It’s another amusement for the haute monde. If you’d like to try it sometime, let me know.”

“No, thank you. I was wondering though”—an impetuousness in her voice again—“did she tell you anything about eunuchs?”

“Let me think. She did mention two. One was a very large Ethiopian, the other a Greek, I believe. Both were favorites in the harem.”

“Do you know why?” Avid interest in her query.

He told her all he’d learned from Sally, racking his brain for details that might intrigue her, remaining scrupulously polite during his recital, although he was pleased later when she agreed to several sips of champagne. And in time, when he moved to sit back against the headboard and said, “Come sit with me and I’ll describe all the costumes Sally brought back from Constantinople,” she didn’t resist. Fortunately, Sally had modeled several of the harem designs for him so his descriptions were detailed.

“I’ve read many travel accounts of Constantinople, but to hear firsthand from someone actually having seen a harem and returning with all those wonderful clothes”—she gave him a small smile—“is quite wonderful.”

“Diplomatic credentials open doors otherwise closed to visitors, not to mention, England’s influence is considerable at the sultan’s court.” Fitz offered her another drink of champagne. “It’s still moderately cold.”

While they finished the champagne, Fitz answered more questions about harems. All with cultivated grace and scrupulous self-restraint, taking care not to so much as touch her as she sat beside him.

“You’re extremely informative,” Rosalind commented, when at last she’d run out of queries. “And restful as well”—she made a small moue—“when you’re not making me feverish with lust.”

“It’s always a good idea to take a break. It makes it better the next time.”

“There shouldn’t be a next time.”

“Why not? It makes you feel good.”

There was no reasonable answer to his simple statement. “I suppose I shouldn’t bring up moral arguments.”

“You could if you like.”

With an agreeable contentment warming her senses, she said with a soft sigh, “Maybe later.”

In the interest of curtailing such an event, Fitz said, “There’s something else I heard about the harem. If you’d like to try it.”

The sudden silence was pregnant with possibility.

“You’ll like it.” His voice was velvet soft.

She hesitated, bit her bottom lip.

“I was told it can be very arousing,” he lied, thinking Sally wouldn’t mind sharing one of her favorite treats.

“How do you know all this?” She turned to meet his gaze.

“Sally talks a lot.” He smiled as he perjured himself; he and Sally did more than talk. “Really,” he added at Rosalind’s skeptical look. “We’ve known each other for years. She grew up near me; we spent summers together when we were young.”

Rosalind wasn’t sure she could picture him young, this elegant, polished seducer. “How old were you?”

“When Sally and I roamed the countryside?”

She nodded.

“I suppose we were eleven or twelve. What did you do during your childhood summers?”

“Searched the countryside for fossils and plants. It wasn’t work,” she said to his pained expression. “I enjoyed it.”

“And yet here you are in the city.”

Rosalind shrugged. “One never knows. Have you planned your life?”

Fitz chuckled. “Hell no. Things happen, I’ve discovered.”

“Like this.”

“Yes.” She was right, despite his ulterior motives. “Like this.”

“So then?”

He turned to her, enticement in her innocuous phrase.

“Since we seem to be engaged in a serendipitous adventure.” Her voice was very soft. “And I’m experiencing a curious sense of addiction . . .”

“I must not be derelict,” he softly drawled.

She smiled her agreement. “Opportunities like this don’t come my way everyday, you know.”

“Nor to me.” Strangely, despite his prodigal life, he meant it. “Are we ready then for whatever unplanned events transpire?”

“I believe I’ve been ready since you walked in tonight.” An admission long in coming.

“How nice.” Not that a woman wanting him was unusual, but that it mattered to him, was. “I admit I may not have come for the paintings alone,” he said with a boyish grin.

With her libido seriously focused on harem adventures, equally aware that an amorous situation such as this might not befall her again, Rosalind held his gaze. “Compliments aside, darling, must I ask again?”

“God no.” Her impatience was charming, as was her appetite for sex. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he helped her off with her robe. “There now,” he said a moment later, reaching up to hang her robe on the bedpost. “Lie back against the pillows just a little.” He arranged the pillows behind her so she was half reclining. Then he gently spread her thighs wide, bent her knees, and crossed her feet at the ankles. Her sex was now prominently displayed. “Does that stretch your muscles too much?”

Glancing up, he saw her watching him intently.

“Are you taking notes?” he teased. “Would you like me to go more slowly?”

Her eyes flared wide for a second before she smiled. “I’m just curious. I haven’t the advantage of your considerable knowledge in this area.”

“In that case, ask questions if you wish. Apparently, diversions such as this were not uncommon in the harem. The sultan had four hundred concubines at the time Sally was visiting.”

“Four hundred?” Rosalind breathed. “I hope the sultan was young and virile.”

“Alas, he wasn’t. Consequently, these little pastimes were habitually practiced to whet his jaded appetite and also bring relief as it were to the ladies—like your bottle.” He nodded in the direction he’d tossed the makeshift dildo. “You should have something better than that.”

“At the moment, I do,” Rosalind sweetly replied.

“Not yet.”

“I can wait. Actually, you’ve been a darling already. I’ve never climaxed so many times in my life.”

Such artless innocence was a powerful aphrodisiac. “Hush, darling, or I’ll forget about being unselfish.”

“On the contrary, you’re the most unselfish man I know.”

He’d been complimented by women for years, and yet knowing he pleased her was curiously gratifying. Her husband may not have, he decided, and that, too, was pleasing. And lunatic. He deliberately shut down so bizarre a thought. “Allow me to serve you again, my lady,” he playfully offered instead, preferring the familiarity of boudoir sport. “Consider me the harem eunuch here for your edification and pleasure.”

Startled, she drew in a breath—her fantasy come to life.

“Don’t be frightened,” he said, misreading her inhalation. “I’ll make sure you’re ready for the sultan’s pleasure before I go on. I’ll kiss you here”—he rained soft kisses on her eyes, nose, chin—“and here”—a trail of kisses followed the curve of her throat. “And then we’ll kiss your pert nipples until you’re wet enough to take what I have for you.”

She’d never realized how effectively words could arouse; he had but to promise her carnal delights and her body opened in welcome, twitched and danced with excitement, sent a lurid message to her brain with quicksilver speed. And when his mouth closed on her nipple, the additional stimulation sent a lascivious jolt through her nervous system.

Mrs. St. Vincent was unconstrained in her desires—as usual, Fitz reflected, increasing the pressure of his mouth, sucking harder on her ripe nipple. She was already squirming, softly moaning, searching for surcease. Like the proverbial nymphet of every male fantasy.

But he took his time and saw that both her nipples were thoroughly worked into hard, peaked crests, that she was visibly panting and pinked with passion before he raised his head and whispered, “Let’s see if you’re wet enough now.”

She nodded, unable to speak, seething inside, trembling, every instinct feverishly focused on consummation.

Slipping a finger inside her vagina, he withdrew it and held it up. “Look. Do you think you’re ready?”

It took considerable effort to lever her eyes open, distracted as she was with the fierce throbbing in her cunt, the overpowering ache of desire.

“See all that white, pearly liquid? You have the most succulent little cunt.”

“I need you,” she breathed.

“If only I could,” he gently replied. “I’m a eunuch.”

“No you’re not,” she whispered, alluring as Eve. “Please?”

“If you satisfactorily discharge your harem duties, we’ll see if we can find someone who hasn’t been castrated to service you later. One of the guards perhaps. But first you must oblige the sultan. Do you understand?”

Restive, she made a fretful face.

“Decide,” he softly said.

She squirmed and fidgeted, wrinkled her nose. “You’ll find me a guard afterward?”

“If you please the sultan.”

She shuddered as a violent tremor spiked through her vagina. “Do I have a choice?”

He smiled faintly. “Of course.”

“Damn you,” she hissed.

“One learns obedience here, my lady.”

She nodded.

The imperious bitch he’d first seen that morning surfaced in her condescending nod, but there was no question who was in charge, so his voice was temperate when he said, “The sultan has these fruits”—he lifted the small peach from the bedside table—“specially grown for his harem. This particular size is much coveted by the outside world and by the harem ladies. Why don’t we see if you like them as well.” Leaning forward, he eased open her labia wide enough to gently wedge a portion of the golden fruit into her soft flesh.

She softly moaned as pressure was exerted on her clitoris.

“The sultan may wish you served up to him later. He has a penchant for such displays. Can you feel that?”

An unnecessary question as she shuddered under his hand.

“You must take more.” Spreading the inner lips of her labia, he slid his finger around the sleek flesh, stretching it enough to force the peach in slightly deeper. “There, now we can see this little bud again,” he murmured, grazing the sensitive tip of her clitoris with his finger, smiling as she softly groaned. “You have to accept more or the sultan won’t approve. He has definite preferences. Are you ready?”

With every impressionable, gushing sensory response screaming its assent, nearly delirious with need, she took a deep breath and whispered, “Yes.”

Fitz was very careful at this stage, intent on keeping the fruit intact, planning on seeing how many times the lady could come when he ate it later. Known for his good hands—part natural talent, part acquired skill—he deftly inserted the peach, stretching her pink flesh little by little until the peach was firmly lodged between her taut vulva lips, the portion of fruit still visible, protruding slightly, golden and tantalizing. “There. I think the sultan will approve. You’ve accommodated it nicely.”

Trembling on the brink, she breathed, “Please, please . . . I need you.”

“Patience, my pet. The sultan dislikes assertive females. I suggest you learn to hold your tongue.” He smiled as she shut her mouth firmly in an effort to please—in hopes of a quick orgasm, he assumed. “That’s better,” he whispered, gently smoothing her stretched flesh, his long, slender fingers delicate as he stroked her glossy tissue and the portion of the golden sphere still visible. “The sultan will be pleased.”