Seductive as Flame (20 page)

Zelda smiled. “Liar.” Although his admission, false as it was, was nonetheless charming. “Oh, very well,” she said with a sigh. “You might as well tell me which gown you prefer because I really don’t care.”

He told her with exquisite courtesy.

She gave in with equal grace and prepared to politely accommodate the earl and the seamstress.

Alec was surprised he cared whether Zelda had a dress for dinner. He’d always taken little or no interest in his paramour’s gowns; in fact, he preferred his lovers nude. Not that he didn’t understand what was expected of him when it came to his lady loves’ wardrobes. But he’d never escorted any of them to a dressmaker or, like now, actually anticipated the role of observer.
Get what you want and send the bill to my man of business
, he’d always said in the past. That had been the extent of his involvement
.

Violetta’s wickedness had unwittingly given him the opportunity to do what he’d never done before—or more to the point—cared to do. The thought of taking Zelda to Worth’s in Paris suddenly leaped into his brain; he found it beguiling.

Christ, he must have drunk too much at lunch if he was thinking about taking Zelda to Worth’s. He scoffed at men who treated their lovers like some pretty pet to be flaunted. And Zelda wasn’t a pet—far from it. Even if she had been, he wasn’t in the market for a pet. The only thing he was in the market for was sex and more sex—until such a time as he wasn’t.

There now. Having marshaled his personal defenses, he watched with relative equanimity as Zelda’s riding clothes came off—jacket, blouse, boots, breeches. Only at the last, when she was divested of all but her silk drawers and chemise and his gaze was focused on her large breasts straining the soft white silk, did he find it necessary to cross his legs to hide his erection. Then Zelda shifted her stance, drawing his attention to the small rise of her mons visible beneath the sheer silk of her drawers. He slowly surveyed the slight elevation, then his gaze drifted lower to the shaded juncture of her thighs, and his fingers involuntarily flexed against the urge to reach out, push aside the silk, slip his hand between her legs, and slide his fingers in just so . . .

He almost ordered,
Stop! We’re done!

But Katy suddenly moved into his line of vision, holding out the violet-shaded moiré gown for Zelda to step into, and that brief respite was enough to rein in his surging lust. A barbaric thing, lust. He exhaled softly, looked away, deliberately counted to ten, then ten again. At which point, having disciplined what needed disciplining, he was able to contemplate the pinning and tucking, the snipping and ripping—with, if not patience, stoic resignation.

The gown’s bosom as well as the hem had to be let out appreciably. Lucy Winthrop was neither tall nor curvaceous . . . more’s the pity for Harry. Although he’d always liked Harry. They’d played together as boys and later, too, in different sport.

Before long, Katy stepped away and offered her handiwork for Alec’s approval. “Well?” She indicated the pinned gown with a sweeping gesture. “Will that do?”

Is
Venus de Milo
acceptable
?

With any other woman, he immediately would have said yes. With Zelda, he said, “Ask Miss MacKenzie.”

Zelda smiled at her astute lover and, without so much as a glance at any of the mirrored doors, pronounced the gown perfect.

“I’ll have it ready by six, then.” Katy began unpinning the back of the gown.

Alec smiled. “You’re a dear.”

“Liz is the one who’s a dear,” she said with a flicker of a glance at Alec. “I hope you’re paying her well.”

“I had John tell her she can name her price, including a bonus for watching your mischievous brood.” He grinned. “Battle wages.”

“For my darlings,” Katy said with a mother’s pride.

“But they’re always perfect angels when they’re sleeping, aren’t they?” Zelda observed.

“Absolute angels,” Katy agreed, sliding the last pin free. When Zelda stepped out of the gown a moment later, Katy picked it up and folded it over her arm. “I’ll be back at six. Now make sure Alec shows you Will’s coops while you’re here, Miss MacKenzie. He’s right proud of them.”

“Will’s my gamekeeper,” Alec explained, rising from his chair and moving toward Zelda. “Thanks to him, I’m the envy of every pheasant-hunting noble in England. My thanks again, Katy. I’ll have someone bring over the other frocks. Or if you prefer, take some of the servants with you.”

“I might do that.” The dressmaker began gathering up the sewing supplies she’d brought over.

Having reached Zelda, Alec held out his hand and quietly said, “Ready?”

“Need you ask?” She, too, spoke in an undertone.

He smiled.

“Don’t be smug.”

“Me?”

She sniffed. “Insolent man. If you hadn’t kept me waiting so long, I’d walk away.”

He lowered his hand. “But you’re not going to.”

“I might.”

“And I might become king of England, but”—he grinned—“we both know neither of those things are going to happen. So let’s not fight. I can get that anywhere.”

“I didn’t think all the fawning women would fight with you.”

Nor would they.
“Let’s just say they can annoy me.”

“And yet?” A steady stare.

“You can’t masturbate all the time.”

“I don’t know about that.”

He softly laughed. “May I watch?”

“If I can watch you.”

“We’ll work something out. Later.”

“And now?”

“I think we should retire next door.”

“Oh good and finally and thank you,” she said, moving close, sliding her arms around his neck, melting against his body. “Be warned. I’m in a greedy mood.”

He tensed. Katy was still in the room.

“I don’t care about her.”

“I see that.” He, on the other hand, disliked public displays.

“Are you afraid of her?” Zelda rested her chin on his chest and smiled up at him. “You should be more afraid of me.”

“Or you of me,” he growled, still not touching her.

“How afraid?” A soft, feline purr.

Swearing under his breath, the question of an audience summarily dismissed, he finally moved, placed his hands on her bottom and dragged her hard against his body. “How afraid, you ask? Sound-the-alarm afraid. Pillage-and-loot afraid. Don’t-look-for-help afraid.” It was threat and warning, however softly put.

“I don’t know if I should be frightened or excited,” she whispered, a small tremor in her words as her breathing quickened. His cock was like a post between them.

“You just have to be submissive, darling,” he quietly said as the door closed with a click on Katy. “I’ll do the rest.”

For a flashing moment, carnal expectation hovered dangerous and flame hot in the wake of his words. Was he serious? she wondered even as her senses, immune to intellectual conundrums, feverishly responded. Was he serious? he thought, surprised. Since when did he require submissive with his sex?

But astonishingly, he found he did with her. And why not? He didn’t require dispensation for his actions. He never had.

Spreading his fingers wide, he exerted sufficient pressure for her to feel the full extent of his erection—the means, as it were, of his oppression. “I can keep you prisoner if I want. Did you know that?”

She began to shudder, his stark, unyielding erection hard against her belly a graphic promise of pleasure. Whether she’d heard him or not was a matter of indifference to her necessitous cravings, to every ripe nerve quivering with longing. Her body opened in welcome. “Please, Alec,” she whispered. “I’ve waited long enough. Please!”

“Soon.” His novel need for mastery prevailed.

“Don’t do this,” she wailed, moving her hips against his erection. “I need you!”

“You want this?” He matched the rhythm of her lower body.

She whimpered; he was huge. “Yes, yes, oh God, yes . . .”

For a jaded man, he’d forgotten satisfaction could be so sweet. “Yes to anything?” he quietly said as she shivered in his arms.

“Yes—yes . . . anything.” Disjointed, breathless words.

“I can’t hear you.” It was cruel to ask for abject capitulation, a perverse quid pro quo perhaps for his own irrepressible need.

His words were half muted by the lustful pounding in her ears. “Whatever you want,” she gasped.

He wanted everything, he thought. He wanted to exhaust himself in her. He wanted to possess and occupy her like the lord of the manor he was. He wanted to put his
practice makes perfect
sexual credo to maximum use. “I’ll show you what I want,” he said, forcing himself to speak mildly. “In a minute.” Then he lowered his head and kissed her like he felt—brutish and afflicted.

This from a man who’d always viewed amour as casual play—a man who often wasn’t sure whom he was kissing or fucking after a bottle or two, a man who’d cultivated a masterful lack of involvement.

Now, suddenly, sex was no longer sex as entertainment. It was gut-wrenching and primal, a force majeure impulse without mercy. A full-scale burning of bridges and taking what he wanted.

And he knew about that.

Having lived a less troubled life, Zelda was immune to mind-wheeling tumult. She wanted only orgasmic surcease, now, immediately—then again and beyond again. She’d been craving Dalgliesh since before she’d reached Crosstrees, lunch had been almost unendurable, and how she’d survived the dress fitting was testament alone to her indomitable will.

And now, headstrong and determined—enough was enough!

She broke his grip easily or he let her, and as she reached for his trouser buttons, she snapped, “Play tyrant
after
I climax.”

He suppressed his urge to laugh. He could play tyrant anytime he wanted. But charitable
and
horny—perhaps not now. “Here, let me. I’m faster.”

“You’d better be.” Spinning away, she strode toward the bedroom. “Or I might go on without you.”

He looked up, one booted foot in hand. “You think so?” he said in a tone that would have warned off anyone else.

“I know so.” Having pulled her chemise over her head, she dropped it behind her.

“We’ll see,” he said under his breath. The boot off, he flung it. A second later, the other boot joined the first. Stripping off his trousers and underwear with record speed, he slid off his jacket and discarded it before he reached the doorway to the bedroom; his waistcoat and shirt were left behind a moment later. Catching up with Zelda in three long strides, he swung her off her feet just as she reached the bed.

“Finally,” she said, her smile close.

“Your finally or mine?”

“Does it matter?”

“I find it does.”

“Then yours naturally. Or I’ll never get what I want,” she said, sultry and low.

“Which is?” He dropped her in the middle of the bed.

“Your glorious, extremely talented cock inside me,” she murmured, spreading her thighs wide and lifting her arms to him. “My ambitions are rather fixed.”

His were rather more comprehensive. “Do you know what I want?” Midway through his question, he thought about stopping. But he didn’t.

“Whatever it is, you can have.” She wiggled her fingers.

He took a small breath at such largesse. Then the practiced libertine regained control, the most cynical force majeure was locked away, and he said with a slight smile. “In that case, come here.” He patted the side of the bed where he stood.

“What if I say no.”

“Don’t.”

“Ummm. I adore that rough authority.”

He laughed. “Christ, you like everything.”

“Everything about
you
. My interests are quite specific. I don’t regard every man as fuckable as you do women.”

How to answer that?

“Don’t bother,” she said.

“I’m not so foolish.” He patted the bed again. But when she responded to his summons, he lifted her down, took her hand, and drew her to the windows overlooking the parkland. “We’ll do your finally first because I know how impatient you are,” he said, having repressed his strange authoritarian impulses. “Then I’d appreciate my finally next.”

“Of course.”

It annoyed him that she didn’t ask what he wanted. Had she no boundaries? This from a man who had never considered the word before in relation to sex. “No questions?”

“How soon can I come?”

He experienced a ridiculous surge of anger, instantly curbed. “If you’d care to lean over this”—he pulled a small upholstered chair up to the window—“you could enjoy the view while I enjoy your tight little cunt.”

She smiled faintly. “A mutual enjoyment, Dalgliesh.”

“I expect so.” He indicated the chair with a nod.

She obligingly leaned over the chair back, and he thought for a moment of the complaisant females at Margo’s in London. “Have you ever considered working in a brothel?” he crisply inquired.

“Have you ever considered hurrying?” She knew male affront when she heard it. It never failed to amaze her that men expected resistance from women, as though that in itself stamped them as virtuous. “I was under the impression neither of us were novices. Was that unclear somehow?”

It occurred to him to hit her, an astonishing impulse. “Jesus, you’re a bitch,” he said instead.

Abruptly coming upright, she spun around. “Does that affect your interest in me?” With a contemptuous smile, she surveyed his rampant erection pulsing against his stomach. “It rather looks like it doesn’t.”

He stared at her narrow-eyed, a tick fluttered across his cheek; he visibly brought himself under control. Then he took her by the shoulders, swung her around, pushed her down, kept her in place with a hand on her back, and said very softly, “My interest is the same as yours.”

Her hands braced on the chair seat, she glanced over her shoulder. “Only our timetables differ,” she said, sarcasm light in her voice.