Sexy As Hell (12 page)

Sheer will along with years of practice kept Oz from instantly ejaculating when her mouth slid over the hypersensitive head of his penis. Stepping back from the orgasmic brink, he slipped his fingers through her pale curls, held her prisoner between his large hands, and said, taut and low, “Let’s see how much you can take.”

His terse, brute authority registered with dazzling impact in the liquid core of Isolde’s body, that coercion along with the forceful advancing pressure of his cock, perversely intoxicating. Conscious only of the hot, pulsing ache deep inside her, wet with longing, openmouthed and submissive, she struggled to swallow more of his enormous penis.

“Slowly, darling . . . slowly—there you go . . . that’s a good girl.”

His deep voice was perfectly modulated, soft as silk, yet he was imposing his will, demanding obedience, and where in other circumstances—more rational, cool-headed ones—she might have resisted, seething and overwrought, Isolde willingly capitulated.

His grip on her head was gently determined, the pressure inexorably driving his erection deeper into her mouth, his domination rousing her every sexual nerve, tantalizing and titillating, inciting a hot flood tide of ecstasy to spread outward from her pulsing vagina. And rather than offend, his authority only further fomented her overwrought passions, touched her to the quick, left her trembling.

Feverish and needy, her thighs clenched hard to contain the seething rapture, the head of Oz’s cock suddenly struck the back of her throat.

She choked.

Under ordinary circumstances her muffled utterance would have gone unnoticed. But in the throes of a single-minded obsession, Isolde’s small gurgle was consent to a man well beyond prudent deliberation, and with a monstrous lack of control Oz abruptly climaxed.

Held firmly by his large hands, Isolde swallowed and gulped and swallowed again, the hot gushing deluge of semen inciting some primal dynamic of male-female affinity that triggered her own wild orgasm. The convulsive spasm swept upward through her body, ravaged her quivering senses, left an indelible, thrilling imprint on every throbbing, impressionable nerve ending, raged and seethed red-hot and exquisite until overcome and overwhelmed, with a last breathless shudder, she collapsed.

Oz instinctively caught her, his consciousness more fully absorbed by feverish sensation, and for a considerable length of time only the soft rasp of heavy breathing echoed in the large, high-ceilinged room. Neither was capable of moving, each preoccupied by the glowing bliss of sated pleasure, the unexpected ferocity of their passions.

Less given to emotion, Oz yielded first to reason, and gently easing his penis from Isolde’s mouth, he lifted her into his arms and deposited her limp form on the bed. Bending, he kissed her flushed cheek. “I apologize for climaxing so quickly.” He never did.

“Anytime,” Isolde whispered, her voice the merest breath of sound, her eyes half-shut. “Force majeure is intensely arousing.”

“So it appears,” Oz muttered, restive under his novel impatience. He gazed at his wife as she lay on his bed, naked and rosy pink, her legs languidly disposed, her pouty sex luring the eye, and any chafing scruples he might harbor gave way to his own fervent feelings about force majeure. Jerking open the buttons on his shirt front, he dragged his shirt over his head, shoved his trousers down his hips, and a second later, stepped out of his underwear.

High-strung, disturbed by a heretic intensity of feeling, he stood motionless for a moment beside the bed.

Looking up from under the pale drift of her lashes, Isolde whispered, “Do I get
you
now?”

“In a minute,” he replied, turning to pour himself a drink in an effort to restore some sanity to what could turn out to be an afternoon of savage debauch if he didn’t control himself. He wasn’t sure his recent bride was up to such hard use. Draining his drink, he glanced at Isolde. “Would you like your cake now?” A technical pause, a moment of reason, a means of clearing the lewd anarchy from his brain. “And some brandy to rinse out your mouth?”

She smiled and nodded as though he’d asked perfectly normal questions. Then she dutifully took a sip of brandy as he held a glass to her lips. Lying back against the pillows, she ate as he sat on the edge of the bed and fed her, as if that too was ordinary. As if he was always so unselfishly obliging.

Up was down and down was up was more the case.

He fed her Achille’s torte between kisses, playing the gentleman with ease, conversing in banalities, urbanely charming and amusing.

She answered if somewhat tardily at times—often replying only when Oz lifted his brows and said, “Don’t go to sleep on me, darling. I have plans.”

“Never fear—not when
that
awaits me.” And she’d reached out and fondle his upthrust erection.

It always took a moment afterward to rein in his more prodigal inclinations, but he did because he still could. Then he’d offer his wife another forkful of cake as if his chivalry might translate into an equally bland sexual gallantry.

Undeterred by any need for restraint, Isolde considered herself exceedingly fortunate to be the recipient of Oz’s splendid sexual expertise. In fact, she was quite willing to overlook any number of her husband’s lovers in order to take advantage of his lovely virility and talents. Which delectable thought encouraged a heated tremor to shimmer up her vagina.

Heavenly days!
Being fed chocolate torte with crème anglaise by her gorgeous husband while experiencing a rush of desire surely must be counted as one of life’s beautiful moments. Oz was, without doubt, the most irresistible of aphrodisiacs. She glanced at his seemingly indefatigable erection pressed hard against his belly and shivered in pleasure.

Oz met her gaze and set down the cake plate. “Ready again?” “Always with you,” she answered simply. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. I can’t remember when last I contemplated fucking myself to death.”

“I never have, yet the notion’s vastly appealing. Do you think marriage does that to one?”

He laughed so long she had her answer, or at least his answer. “You’re no romantic, I see.”

Swallowing his last chuckle, he swept the back of his hand across his mouth to stifle his lingering smile. “No, nor is any man of my acquaintance. A fundamental difference between the sexes I’m afraid.”

“Even while sex itself is
always
compatible,” Isolde drolly countered.

“With some women at least. You in particular. Move over a little and I’ll demonstrate our unique compatibility.”

As she made room for him she was suddenly struck by the randomness of fate that had brought them together. “Do you realize we were thrown together completely by chance? What if I hadn’t stayed at Blackwood’s? What if I’d left with Malmsey?”

Dropping into a sprawl beside her, Oz said, “I wouldn’t have let you go.”

Her eyes widened a little. “You don’t say.”

“I do. I wasn’t finished with you.”

“I beg your pardon?” That was beyond callous. “Did
my
feelings come into account at all?”

“Are you trying to start a fight again?”

“No, we’re
discussing
the fact that your wishes superseded mine.”

“I rather had the impression our wishes were in accord,” he said, soothingly. “Or do you have wild sex with any man who walks into your room?”

“Of course not.”

“How do I know?”

She had the grace to blush. “Well, I don’t.”

“Excellent because I’m in a possessive mood. God knows why, but there it is.”

“Unfortunately I don’t care to be possessed.”

He grinned. “Sometimes you like it a lot.”

“I don’t happen to at the moment. Maybe I should leave,” she said pettishly, more coolheaded postorgasm.

“You could try.” He knew the difference between willingness and unwillingness. Not that the latter figured largely or at all in his life.

“Don’t say that.” But even as she spoke, she felt a powerful surge of prurient craving and a flush of arousal crept up her neck in rosy denial.

“Then why don’t I say I’m going to fuck you until I can’t fuck anymore.” Sliding upward into a seated position, he flexed his fingers in a gesture of taut restraint. “Or is that in bad taste?” he drawled, looking down at her.

She turned her head on the pillow and met his gaze. “Arrogant bastard.”

“Fuck me anyway.”

“I should refuse.”

“You don’t want to, and I won’t let you in any case. Let me apologize in advance. I’m not in the mood for resistance. Perhaps it was the long afternoon of worthless, vain, and empty conversation. Now, come here,” he said, crossing his legs easily in a yoga pose, knees wide, feet together. “Sit on my lap.”

She should take offense at his volatile presumption and bluntness, and yet every impressionable nerve in her body was not only in full compliance but shamelessly eager. “On your lap?”

“A euphemism, darling. I expect you’ll sit where it pleases you best.”

“What if I said your brazen insolence is wearing?”

“I’d say come here anyway. I want to feel you around my cock.”

“Maybe I won’t.”

He should have coaxed or cajoled; he knew perfectly well how to do both. But the long afternoon of tea and malice had left him thin-skinned and restive and he wasn’t in the mood. “Sure you will.” Leaning over, he smoothly lifted her onto his lap facing him. Ignoring her scowling protests, he wrapped her legs around his hips, quickly slid his hand under her bottom, raised her enough to adjust his cock precisely under her sleek cleft with his other hand, and shifting his grip to her hips, rammed her down his rigid length.

He knew, she knew, they both knew, protests aside, all was forgiven the moment he was completely submerged and her honeyed sweetness fully engulfed his rampant erection.

A strumming, mutual enchantment brought the world to a standstill.

“How do you do this to me?” she finally whispered. “Make me want you and need you—with or without cake,” she finished with a smile. “I’m ravenous for you.”

“Perfect. Hush, now, don’t move—listen.”

He spoke to her, softly, softly, explaining how to feel her heartbeat, her pulse, the tingling nerves in her fingers and toes, him inside her, the liquid heat that bathed their sex. His voice was hushed and low, his hands warm on the small of her back, his erection swelling inside her as he sat motionless and held her stationary.

Then he spoke in a language she didn’t understand, the phrasing and syntax lyrical, melodic, the tenor of his voice seeming to touch her inside—slowly at first and diminuendo. Harder and stronger after a time, each syllable alive, a fingerprint on her senses, eclipsing reality, taking her deeper and deeper into a fathomless pleasure where lust devoured temperate emotions and only boundless, heart-stirring passion held sway.

When it finally happened, she climaxed with starry-eyed wonder and wanton artlessness and a very soft, breathy cry.

She lifted her lashes after a time and met Oz’s placid gaze. “How did you like it?” he said.

“Was that poetry?”

He nodded.

“As you already know, I’m sure, considering your many talents, I liked it very much indeed. I’m sorry I can’t return the favor.”

He raised her up his erection. “You can return the favor just fine,” he whispered and slid her back down his rigid cock. “This won’t take long.”

It didn’t, but then Isolde wanted more and then he did and so it went through a long and bewitching night.

It was almost morning when Isolde said, “For something that began as a temporary solution, I seem to have become rather dependent on your stud services.”

He dropped a kiss on her forehead as she rested on his shoulder. “I’m not complaining. Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m not worried so much as trying to understand what’s happening to me.”

“We’re enjoying each other’s company, darling. That’s all.”

“You’re right. There’s no need to decipher every nuance.”

“Speaking of nuance—once more before morning?”

“I’m going to die of pleasure.”

“I won’t let you. I’ll be gentle. I’ll barely move.”

He didn’t and he
was
gentle and she nearly died of pleasure.

She fell asleep shortly after, and content and gratified, Oz watched over his new bride.

She was the first woman in a very long time who’d engaged his interest.

Perhaps naive country girls were a welcome change from the hothouse flowers of the ton. Perhaps her charming artlessness appealed. Or the fact that when roused, she was really quite remarkable. Or maybe it was nothing more than the fact that he was dealing out justice to a cur like Compton.

He smiled. Or all of the above.

Whatever the reasons, he found himself contemplating the future with a new degree of pleasure.

That he even thought beyond the moment was a radical change for a man who’d lived by a carpe diem philosophy since arriving in England.

And even more surprising, toward dawn, he fell into a restful sleep, something that had long eluded him.

CHAPTER 7