Sexy As Hell (37 page)

He was already off the bed and halfway to the brandy bottle. “Was it something I said?” she teased.

She seriously complicated his life, his future, and his peace of mind. Fortunately, there was a time limit to her visit, he decided, pouring himself a drink. Drinking it down, he grimaced at the odd taste in his mouth, and poured another to wash away the sour, acidic tang. Then, carrying the plate of sweets, he set it on the bed, went back to bring the carafe, a cup, and his brandy. Sprawling on the bed beside her a few moments later, he said, “Try the strawberry ones. They’re the best.”

“I will. I’m hungry all the time now. Would you like one?” She held up a small tart.

He leaned forward and she put it in his mouth.

As they ate, a small, increasingly uncomfortable silence fell.

“If you have something else to do,” she said in the awkward hush.

“No.” Curt and abrupt. “No, nothing at all,” he added in a more conciliatory tone. “I seem to be having trouble with my temper today. It’s not your fault. Please stay. You bring me pleasure.”

“The pleasure you give me is oceans wide, darling. I’d love to stay.”

“Do you sail?” He chose a subject less fraught with sentiment.

Recognizing she’d overstepped the bounds of amorous play, she gracefully said, “I’m a farmer, darling. Sailing’s outside my normal venues.”

He grinned. “And a very lovely farmer at that. I’ll take you sailing sometime if you like. I have a yacht at Dover.”

She couldn’t say
I’d sail to the ends of the earth with you
without causing him alarm. “When the weather becomes warmer perhaps.” She congratulated herself on her measured reply. Her acting skills were improving.

“Anytime. Just let me know. I’ll send a carriage for you.”

If he could affect the role of bland acquaintance, she could as well. In terms of their future child, it would be useful to cultivate a cordial relationship. “Do you ever think of our child?” she impulsively asked. “Sorry,” she quickly said at his startled look. “You needn’t answer. I have no wish to provoke you with my pleasure at stake.”

“Don’t worry. I’m not exactly uninvolved in terms of pleasure. As for the child”—he lifted his shoulder in the faintest shrug—“the answer is no. I’ve not yet come to terms with the notion, although I’m sure I will with time,” he diplomatically remarked.
Depending on the identity of the father.
“Have you tried the almond tarts?” Picking up the plate, he held it out to her. “They’re excellent.”

“Thank you.” With talk of babies having been politely but summarily curtailed, she took a tart. “Where do you usually sail?” she inquired, as capable as he of casual conversation.

“Anywhere. North to Scotland occasionally, across to Calais at times on my way to Paris, to the Isle of Wight during race week.”

“To India?”

“No.”

His instant withdrawal was palpable. “Maybe you should pick the topic of conversation,” she said quickly.

“Or we could dispense with talk.”

“As you wish, of course.” Her faint smile was sardonic.

“You don’t mean it.”

“I want sexual satisfaction from you, and to that end,” she said frankly, “I mean it. You set the agenda.”

“Even at the risk of offending you?”

She lifted one brow. “Better my temper than yours.”

“That’s true. Are you finished?” He nodded at the plate of sweets.

“I certainly can be.”

His grin this time held a degree of warmth. “Do I detect a renewed interest in sex?”

“I wouldn’t say renewed so much as persistent. I didn’t wish to pressure you while you were relaxing.”

He beat down the resurgent image of a locked room with his wife inside, waiting for him, for sex—her unquenchable passions a libertine’s dream. “Why don’t you put that away,” he suggested with a nod at the food, “and we can get back to business.”

He watched her gather the items on the bed, taking note of the subtle changes in her body. Her sumptuous form was even more curvaceous now, her hips rounder, her waist slightly less slender, her plump breasts ripening and enlarging in anticipation of the future babe. That may or may not be his.

“Do you want me to take your glass?”

Startled from his musing, he saw her point to his glass.

“Penny for your thoughts.”

“I was admiring your beauty,” he urbanely said, handing over his glass.

“Thank you. I, in turn, appreciate your magnanimity.” Setting the glass on the silver tray, she returned and climbed back onto the bed. “You’re much, much better than my dildo.”

“I should hope so,” he negligently said, “or all my practice has gone for naught.”

“Let me assure you it hasn’t. You’re the very best, darling, not that my experience is as wide and varied as yours, but—”

“Pray desist from mentioning your experience,” he brusquely returned.

She mimicked locking her mouth. “I apologize most profusely.”

“Because you need me.”

“Very, very badly as a matter of fact.”

Such unequivocal eagerness required a moment of restraint to curb his first intemperate impulses. Would
anyone
assuage her sexual yearning? He didn’t allow himself to answer that question, although his temper showed in his voice as he tautly commanded, “Up on your hands and knees then.”

She immediately complied, curtness marked in his soft order. When he neither moved nor touched her for some moments, driven by her own intemperate needs, she glanced over her shoulder. “Is there something more?”

“No,” he gruffly replied, struggling to curb his treacherous thoughts. Her need for sex was insatiable, damn her, and talk of dildos aside he suspected that Will might be a frequent visitor at Oak Knoll after all.
Breathe in, breathe out, relax
.
Keep in mind she might be the mother of your child; taking out your temper on her isn’t right, proper, or even legal anymore.

Coming up on his knees, he moved behind her. Running his hands over the soft, silken curves of her bottom, he slid one finger over the slippery wetness of her pouty vulva—what he viewed as her eternal readiness evident in the sleek, hot flesh. As if further testing her receptiveness—unnecessarily, he sullenly thought—he gently stroked her prominent clitoris, and at her shuddering gasp, a covetous jolt pulsed up his cock.

The worst kind of heavy-handed tyranny suddenly overwhelmed his senses, the feelings unnatural for a man who generally played at love. For some ungodly reason, Isolde brought out the brute in him. He should send her home before he hurt her.

Then like a sorceress inducing him to succumb, he heard her soft plea.

“Please, Oz, I need you,” she implored, impelled by her own demons, lust a constant whenever she was within sight of her husband, reason yielding to incomparable need.

He took a deep breath, still marginally in control. “I might hurt you.”

“You won’t. You can’t. Please, Oz,” she whispered. “I’m not in the least fragile.”

“In the event you turn out to be wrong, scream or hit me if I get out of hand,” he cautioned. “I mean it.”

“I’ll hit you if you don’t give me what I want,” she hotly retorted, swiveling around to glare at him, wanton desire an irrepressible pulsing ache inside her. “I don’t need politesse. I need you
now
!”

Could any man refuse? Although the fact that she suddenly reached behind her, grabbed his erection in a fierce hard grip, and swung her hips back to meet the swollen crest of his cock served as added incentive.

And quickly resolved his qualms.

At which point, he obliged her or she obliged him; it wasn’t absolutely clear who ultimately did what to whom. But he rammed into her luscious cunt as he’d promised himself he wouldn’t, and she welcomed the hard, lusty pounding with an equally gluttonous fervor.

Neither had ever felt such desperation, nor equated sex with violence, or felt the smallest impulse to engage in wild, brute fornication with others. But then neither had ever felt the faintest jealousy with anyone else or cared so much as to be desperate—not that such outré emotions were acknowledged in the course of the fiery, tempestuous mania that resembled a combat zone more than what passed for dalliance in the fashionable world.

When Oz eventually climaxed, his ejaculation left him momentarily lightheaded and gasping for air.

Isolde hadn’t thought her orgasms could get any better, but this one did, shocking her senses with a hot, intense blaze of glory and a flying-too-close-to-the-sun ferocity that left her prostrate.

“I should move,” Oz murmured, semicollapsed on her back, his weight lightly supported above her.

“Don’t,” she breathed, shifting slightly to better feel his hard cock. “You feel wonderful.”

“Speaking of wonderful.” Flexing his thighs, he forced his erection deeper, gently testing the limits of her vagina. “You keep me in constant rut.”

“And that’s a good thing.”

“How good.” He drove deeper.

“Better than anything.”

“Damn right,” he whispered, his voice husky. “I’ve been thinking of locking you in a room and keeping you here for sex.”

“I might let you.”

“You might not have a choice.”

“Better yet.” She felt his laugh on her back and inside her, and if it were possible to measure pleasure and happiness, hers would run off the charts.

“My bewitching little wife. How the hell do you do it?”

“I could ask the same of you. Perhaps it’s karma.”

She wondered afterward what in those few words had irrevocably altered the mood. She never did know, but he suddenly withdrew, shoved a towel between her legs, and left the bed to pour himself another drink.

He didn’t throw her out; he wasn’t so discourteous. He just reverted to the charming, practiced rogue who enjoyed sex, who gave pleasure in full measure, who amused with cool versatility and politesse.

Whether he actually counted her orgasms or not, there came a time when she saw him glance at the clock twice in a short span of time.

“Grover’s going to be wondering what happened to me,” she tactfully noted, kissing him lightly on the cheek as he lay beside her, resting from their most recent climax. “I can’t thank you enough for your hospitality this afternoon.”

His dark lashes lifted, and turning his head, he smiled at her. “Come again. You’re always welcome.”

A dismissal, however gracious.

In the course of their dressing, he spoke of trivialities with an urbanity that bespoke of other times like this when leave-takings had turned awkward.

He helped her with her toilette, laying out a brush and comb, shaking the wrinkles out of her skirt with a practiced hand, offering to have his servants iron her gown if she wished.

“No, that’s not necessary,” she said, thinking he always knew the right tone to take. “The long drive home will only add more wrinkles anyway.” And she accepted the comb he held out to her with a smile.

CHAPTER 27

A SHORT TIME later, standing utterly still in the vast entrance hall devoid of servants, Oz said, “I’d be happy to accompany you back to Perceval House.” He was barefoot, dressed only in a shirt and trousers, his hands loose at his sides, his gaze completely shuttered.

Like his heart
, Isolde thought. “Please don’t,” she said, conscious of the dearth of servants, wondering if he’d been expecting a scene. “It would only make things worse.”

There was no reply that wouldn’t offend. But he murmured “Thank you for coming” very softly and meant it—that small corner of his soul momentarily exposed.

“You’re entirely welcome.” Her reply was neutral, as if they’d completed some business transaction of no consequence. Then she glanced at the door, Oz quickly moved to open it, and looking out, she saw Sam waiting at the curb.

A moment later, as the carriage pulled away, Oz closed the door and turning on his heel, swiftly made for the bathroom off the entrance hall where he was violently sick.

When it was over, he was white and shaking, gasping for breath. Pushing himself off his knees, he slowly rose to his feet and walked to the green travertine sink. The man in the mirror was wan and gaunt with dilated eyes, his skin moist with sweat. He looked away, turned the faucets on full, rinsed out his mouth, then shoved his head under the stream of hot water until he stopped shaking. Straightening, he smoothed his wet hair back with his palms, wiped his face with a towel, and walking out into the hall, said to Josef, “Don’t let anyone in you don’t know.”

“A problem, sir? Do you need help?” Oz was sweating profusely.

“Not just yet.” And he made for the kitchen, sheer will keeping him upright.

Once there, he waved for Achille to follow him into his apartment and told him to shut the door. As Achille gazed at him with alarm, Oz sat down heavily, spread his arms on the kitchen table as if for support, and lifting his black gaze, said, “I just retched up a deal of blood along with my breakfast. My guts are raw and mutilated. I’m wondering who poisoned me.”