Sexy As Hell (25 page)

“Hush.” Coming to rest on his thighs, she shut her eyes and with a soft moan, swiveled her hips in feverish quest for orgasmic bliss. Twisting, rocking, grinding against his rigid cock, heedless to all but the mounting rapture, she impatiently sought surcease.

Curbing his orgasm with stubborn resolve, tense with the effort, Oz managed to repress his ejaculation if not his temper until Isolde climaxed. At which time, well beyond the cultivated graces, he rapped out in quiet fury, “Untie me or I’ll break this bloody bed.”

Isolde’s eyes flew open and she stared at him as if coming awake from a dream. “You’re angry.”

“Damn right. I almost climaxed in you.”

It took a moment for his brusque words to register. “You didn’t, though,” she said, mildly—imperturbable, postorgasmic.

“No thanks to you,” he snapped, incensed by her casual reply. “Untie me.”

Suddenly aware of his implacable rage, her contentment dissipated beneath the savage fury of his anger. But equally quick-tempered, as disinclined as he to take orders, she snapped in return. “What if I don’t?”

“This game’s over.” His voice was grim, a heavy pulse beating in his neck. “Do as you’re told.”

“I don’t think I like your tone.”

Any of his late enemies would have recognized the danger in his gaze. “I don’t care. Untie me or this bed goes.”

“You’re not that strong.”

He drew in a breath through his nostrils, his gaze hard and intent. “What the
hell
do you think you’re doing?”

“What the hell are
you
doing?”

Reining in his temper, understanding when it came to a fight she was grossly outmatched, he softly sighed. “Could we please stop? Just untie me.”

“No.”

“I’m asking nicely,” he said not entirely nicely after her crisp refusal.

“And I’m telling you no nicely,” she replied, looking smug.

Flexing biceps that would have been the envy of a galley slave, Oz came up off the bed in a brute, explosive lunge that snapped the bedposts like matchsticks. Grabbing the silk cords, he checked the rocketing trajectory of the shattered posts, shoved Isolde onto her back, slipped his wrists free, and extricated his ankles a second later. A second after that, his wife was pinioned beneath him and his fingers were lightly circling her neck.

“Just for the record,” he said, glowering, “I have no intention in hell of fathering a child on you.”

“Nor would I wish you to,” she hissed.

His fingers tightened. “Then you should have gotten off me when I bloody asked you to.”

“It wasn’t a good time,” she insolently retorted.

His eyes went shut, and when his lashes lifted he said in a dangerous voice, “That was
deliberate
?”

“It was not! I couldn’t move if you must know. Is that better?”

“Fuck no.”

“Well, I’m sorry. Apparently, we can’t all be as responsible as you.”

“This isn’t going to work out,” he muttered, unclasping his hands from her throat and beginning to rise. “I’m not going to ruin my life because you’re irresponsible.”

“Wait,” she cried, shocked and confused, her feelings in tumult.

But he didn’t; he swung his legs over the side of the bed. “I’ll never do that again. I promise,” she impulsively blurted out, overwrought, her body still tingling. “Don’t go! Oh hell,” she muttered, disconcerted to feel tears welling in her eyes, embarrassed and wretched and not altogether sure she wasn’t coming apart at the seams for indefensible reasons.

Turning back he saw her pale and distraught, her eyes wet with tears, and hesitated. He was uncomfortable with women’s tears; he normally gave them wide berth. But then Isolde sniffled in an attempt to stifle her little hiccupping sobs and she looked so innocent, her pale hair tousled and disheveled, her cheeks flushed, that he recklessly disregarded the dangers in her overwrought passions. Turning, he lifted her into his arms, settled her on his lap, and as his cock instantly came to attention, he found himself overwhelmed by lust.

Even then, he may have suppressed his impetuous libido if Isolde hadn’t slipped her arms around his neck and lifting her tremulous, wet gaze to him, artlessly whispered, “I’ll be better. I’ll be good. Please don’t go.”

It was no contest.

He softly exhaled, silently denounced himself for a fool, and then heedless of precedence and practicality, quietly said, “Don’t cry. We’ll work something out. Although,” he added, gently wiping away her tears with his knuckles, “I can’t do this alone.” He smiled faintly. “You have to help.”

“I know,” she said, sniffling. “I will. Word of honor.”

He accepted her promise when he wouldn’t have given it credence even as a callow youth. And years past such folly, he knew better than to trust her discretion. But then he was operating outside the pale, in some never-never land of sexual delight, and in that fantasy world he understood that the responsibility for not impregnating his wife was primarily his. Obviously she wasn’t trustworthy—solemn promises notwithstanding. “I’ll be more cautious, too,” he kindly remarked.

“Thank you,” she simply said, her smile radiant. “Thank you for understanding, for giving me such unbounded pleasure. I don’t even care that I’m like every other woman you know who’s enamored of you. I don’t, and I am—so there,” she said with a pretty moue.

“Believe me, darling, you’re unlike every woman I know,” he honestly said, their sexual compatibility rare, the delight she carried within her rarer still. “And I’m sorry about the bed. I’ll have it fixed or replaced tomorrow.”

“No, no, it was my fault entirely. You may beat me if you like.”

But her voice was sultry and low, her blue gaze provocative. “Don’t tempt me, you little vixen,” he said with a grin. “Or I might.”

“Would it hurt terribly?” she whispered, shifting her bottom slightly against his rock-hard cock.

“If you didn’t obey me, it would.” His voice was velvet soft as he eased her back onto the bed and settled between her warm thighs.

“I’ll obey you, darling, in every possible way. You have but to ask and . . .”

Her words trailed away as Oz slid gently inside her, and when he came to rest against the mouth of her womb and said, “You have to wait for me this time,” she shivered, powerless against the vaulting desire flaring through her senses.

“Yes, sir,” she replied, feverish and breathy.

A practiced libertine, Oz understood the orgasmic sequence might require altering. Fortunately, her tears had minimally dampened his lust and he was always capable of a certain restraint in any event. Not that it was ever necessary to wait long for his bride to reach climax—one of her endearing qualities.

As it transpired, they did indeed take turns that night. Both conscious of their recent row, they were careful to mind their manners in terms of who climaxed when. But Oz was infinitely more indulgent. Having long enjoyed an intemperate life with sexual revel commonplace, he was less frantic than his bride, who’d only recently been introduced to prodigal sensation.

That wasn’t to say he didn’t find his lovely wife exceptionally desirable. He did.

As for Isolde, she was wholly smitten.

But then every woman Oz dallied with was equally enamored, she understood. There was no point in being foolish.

CHAPTER 15

FAMILIAR WITH OZ’S early rising habits, Isolde wasn’t surprised to find her husband bathed and dressed when she opened her eyes. “How do you do it?” she murmured.

“I get hungry,” he said with a grin.

“Then go by all means. I think I’ll loll in the tub this morning.”

“Would you like to ride after breakfast?”

“I’d love to. I’ll show you Oak Knoll.”

“Sam will have messages for me from Davey. I’ll speak with him over breakfast and meet you later. I might be out in the stables. Sukha likes reassurance when she’s in a new home. Send someone for me when you’re ready to ride.”

Oz’s use of the word
home
was gratifying, even though she knew it was casually uttered, and she was careful to keep her voice as neutral as his. “The weather looks as though it’s cooperating,” she said, glancing out the window. “The rain has stopped.”

“A rarity this time of year. Perhaps the gods are looking on us with favor.”

“I ordered it for you.”

“In that case, order me a few hours in bed with you this afternoon as well,” Oz said with a grin.

“It would be my distinct pleasure. Now go, before I have you undress again.”

Sam was waiting, so Oz said, “I’m gone.” With a wave, he walked from the room.

But one look at Sam’s face when he met him in the doorway of the breakfast room and Oz knew he had more for him than Davey’s messages. “What’s on your mind?”

Sam frowned. “Grover came to me early this morning. Compton’s in the village. One of the tenants saw him at the inn.”

Oz lifted his brows. “I’m surprised at his speed. I assume he didn’t come alone.”

“No. Grover says a few bully boys and—”

“His solicitor.”

Sam nodded.

Oz sighed. “How many men did you bring?”

“A few. Enough.”

“Come then,” Oz said, Sam’s competence never in question. “We’ll talk to Grover. He knows the neighborhood better than we.”

Grover rose from behind his desk the moment Oz walked into his office. “Thank you, sir. I’ve been waiting for you to come downstairs.”

“Sit.” Oz waved him into his chair, and he and Sam took chairs on the other side of the desk. “Tell us what you know. Start at the beginning.”

“The grooms were riding through the village to the downs for the horses’ morning gallop and saw Frederick big as life walking from the inn.”

“With others, Sam said,” Oz prompted.

“Three thugs and a man in a suit.”

“Where were they going?”

“To the livery stable it appears. Naturally, the grooms turned back to warn me.”

“Has he entered the property?”

“Not as far as we can tell.”

“You have men who can handle a weapon, I presume,” Oz said.

“Every man jack hunts, sir. Miss Izzy allows shooting and snaring on her land—for the cook pot. It keeps the rabbits in check.”

“I’m going to have Sam organize your men and send them out with mine to patrol the property. I would prefer Compton be on his way back to London before the end of the day.” He glanced at Sam. “Is that possible?”

Sam nodded. “We’ll find him.”

“Compton’s been listening to his mother’s praise too long. He actually thinks he deserves more than he does.” Oz softly exhaled. “My little chat with him in London apparently wasn’t sufficient, so we’ll move on to other options. Here’s what I’m thinking.” Briskly sketching out his plan, Oz added at the last, “There’s no point in waiting to see what Compton’s planning. Whatever it is will prove unpleasant for Isolde. At base, he seems unwilling to accept our marriage.” Oz didn’t mention Compton’s possible eavesdropping at the reception. It was irrelevant. He wanted Compton well away from Isolde, and to that purpose he was willfully disposed. “If the knave behaves, he can come back to England later.” Once Isolde was remarried. “Now, for the solicitor. Is he going to be a problem?”

Sam shook his head. “I expect he can be bought off for very little. Or so our sources tell me. The man lives on the fringes of the legal world.”

“Then do it,” Oz crisply said. “See that the man understands he’s not to so much as whisper a word about Compton. Take the two men back to London separately so they won’t plan something nefarious. Pay off the hired ruffians as well. I expect they don’t care who pays their fee. Then see that Compton ships out tonight. Hatch is ready to sail. There’s no reason for you to go into London, Sam. Send Jimmy and his crew. As for Isolde, I’ll find a way to tell her”—his brows lifted—“some reasonable story when Compton’s disappearance becomes known.”

“His flight won’t surprise anyone,” Grover pointed out, flat and direct. “Not with the state of his finances.”

“It might surprise his mother. Although a note from her son should mitigate any alarm. Have Davey arrange it, Sam.” Oz suddenly smiled. “The way I see it, we’ve done a service to the community . . . and more specifically to Isolde—which is the point. Thank you, Grover,” Oz said, “for your attentive staff. Give your men a bonus; Sam has funds.” Oz came to his feet. “Are we all agreed?”

“I know I speak for the entire household when I offer you our thanks, sir,” Grover said with a soldierly straightness to his shoulders and a lift of his chin. “The blackguard should have been struck down long ago.”

“Nevertheless, he’ll have money enough to live abroad, Grover. I don’t want him on my conscience for Isolde’s sake. Having said that, you’re more than welcome for my help in seeing him off on a lengthy journey beyond England’s shores. If everyone could remain silent, though, until I find the appropriate time to tell Miss Izzy, I’d appreciate it.”