Gorgeous As Sin

Chapter 9

FIVE MINUTES LATER, she was standing nude before him, her dress draped on the back of his chair, her chemise, drawers, and petticoat in a pile on a nearby table. She was clearly restless and impatient, her nipples taut, her skin pinked in arousal, her hips undulating faintly as if she could barely wait until he was undressed and inside her.

To that end, Fitz was swiftly disrobing, dropping his clothes on the floor with male disregard for subtleties. His jacket, waistcoat, shirt, and tie were off, as were his shoes and socks. He was unbuttoning his trousers when she whispered, “Let me do that.”

He looked up, the wistful longing in her voice instantly bringing his erection to full mast. Is this real or play? Then he let his hands drop to his sides and said, “Be my guest,” because it didn’t really matter which it was.

She reminded him of an innocent maid, so tentative were her actions, her hands shaking as she unfastened a button. Or maybe just an impatient widow, he thought, although the style of woman mattered little to his libido. Only with effort did he resist pushing her head down and shoving his cock into her mouth. It took even more constraint not to pick her up, carry her to the bed, and plunge into her lush body.

Rosalind wasn’t similarly motivated by constraint, having dispatched the former practicalities of her life in favor of extravagant, feverish, liberating desire. And if she’d not already decided to thoroughly enjoy Groveland’s legendary talents, the sight of his massive, upthrust penis freed now from his trousers would have been reason enough.

She couldn’t help but stare as he casually stripped away the last of his clothing. He was much larger than she’d expected, his size intimidating, although he was relaxed, familiar with women looking at him unclothed.

“I won’t hurt you,” he said, aware of her tremulous gaze.

“I wasn’t thinking about that.” She looked up, rosy cheeked and breathless. “May I?”

It had been a long day enlivened by too many erotic fantasies in which Mrs. St. Vincent played a starring role. More to the point, his amorous activities rarely involved wooing a lady, the reverse usually the case. And he’d been drinking for hours and any number of other excuses may have motivated his novel impatience. “You may.” Reaching out, he cupped her head in one hand, pressed it downward, guided his erection into place with his other hand, and watched his cock slide into her mouth.

He smiled faintly as the lovely widow instantly took to her task.

No innocent maid at least in terms of enthusiasm.

Although her ineptitude would require some tutoring; her fingernails were cutting into his penis she was gripping it so tightly. Not that her impassioned earnestness wasn’t more than making up for that slight pain. With a mind to mitigating his discomfort and enhancing the pleasure, he loosened her grip with his fingers and whispered, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Instantly contrite, she lifted her gaze, her face pale in the shadowed light and framed by heavy waves of hair, her mouth filled with half his cock, and said in muffled accents, “I’m sorry.”

The sight was enough to bring a monk to climax.

Or a real one at least.

The Monk of London restrained himself with well-practiced skill.

He had his sights on the lady’s cunt.

Until such a time, however, he wasn’t averse to enjoying what the lady was enjoying. Not that she wouldn’t improve with a little training. Not that he wouldn’t like to train her-a curious reflection from a man who abhorred clumsy sex. And if he’d been in a rational frame of mind, he might have noticed the heresy.

What he noticed instead was her little whimpers, the familiar sound evidence of the young widow’s ravenous desire. Her hips were swaying in feverish adjunct to her breathy exhalations, her thighs were pressed tightly together as though to contain the fire within, and he briefly debated where and how he wished to climax.

A very brief debate.

Slipping a finger into her mouth, he eased his erection free, lifted her into his arms, carried her the few steps to the chair, and sitting, disposed her with effortless strength so she was facing him on her knees, his upthrust cock nudging her hot little pussy.

“I can’t wait,” he said, this man who generally made love with careless dispassion.

“Oh, good,” she panted, in artless confession. “I’m vastly impatient to feel you inside me.”

There was something about her innocent candor that touched him beyond the obvious anticipatory pleasure her words evoked. But after a lifetime of eschewing undue emotion, he quickly dismissed the singular feeling. “I almost tumbled you this morning,” he said with a small smile, “so welcome to the world of impatience.”

“Now, if you please.” A brisk command, a wiggle of her hips and a green steady gaze.

“And if I don’t take orders?” A lazy drawl in contrast.

“Allow me to change your mind.” In her new unconstrained mood, she sank down his rigid length like a catapult, and resting on his thighs a second later, impaled and content, she smiled up at him. “I almost let you tumble me this morning.”

He laughed.

She felt his laugh in delicious compensatory flutters deep inside her and gently rocked her bottom to savor the flaunting enchantment. “So you see, we are both after the same thing.”

“This?” Flexing his legs, he thrust upward and was gratified at her soft, rapturous moan. Gently grasping her hips, he held her securely. “And this?”

Another blissful groan before her lashes lifted marginally, and holding his gaze, she whispered, “And this as well,” as she began slowly rising to her knees.

The delectable friction of skin on skin, the tingling nerve endings sliding one against the other, the exquisitely tight pressure of his erection stretching her pulsing tissue brought new meaning to the word stimulation, the degree of tactile sensation lurid.

Stopping midway on her leisurely ascent, she said, breathy and astonished, “Do you feel that?”

He smiled. “Everywhere you can possibly feel anything.” He placed his hands lightly on her hips.

“I know. I think I’ll keep you,” she teased.

“I might let you.” Christ, where did that come from? As if to nullify his startling reply, he planted his feet firmly on the floor, tightened his grip on Mrs. St. Vincent’s hips, and exerted a hard, forceful downward pressure with his hands.

He didn’t hear her breathy squeal as he plumbed the depths of her glossy, silken warmth, or if he did, the sound didn’t register with his brain in the grip of a cataclysmic upheaval. Although, shortly after, as he caught his breath, he noticed with the tunnel vision of heated sexual congress that she was shifting her hips, asking for more.

How fucking convenient.

In the following highly impressionable interval, he operated on instinct, lifting her up and forcing her back down until she assumed the rhythm with an impetuous frenzy he was more than willing to accommodate. She climaxed quickly again, whether by nature or due to her recent celibacy, it didn’t really matter. He only waited for her last little sigh to echo in his ears before gently moving inside her again.

“No, don’t-please,” she whispered into his shoulder, collapsed on his chest.

“Just a bit more, darling. There, see”-her vaginal muscles were stirring-“it feels good, doesn’t it?”

How does he know? But suddenly the reason why was irrelevant, for a warm delicious glow began spreading through her senses again and languishing desire revived with an acute, raw intensity. As if each time was better than the last. A glorious thought.

After waiting all day to be engulfed in Mrs. St. Vincent’s hot cunt, Fitz knew each time was better than the last.

He also knew this chair wasn’t going to suit for long.

To that purpose, he concentrated on bringing the voluptuous woman warming his cock to fever pitch again. Not a difficult task; she was highly receptive, her vagina slick with desire, her neediness and sexual appetite charming. And very soon, his talents being what they were, she was once again overwrought and panting.

Now, he decided. Sliding his hands under her bottom, holding her firmly impaled, he surged to his feet. She squealed in a rapturous little sound that suggested his cock had stood with equally bracing force.

“Tell me I won’t die of pleasure,” she whispered, clinging to his neck, her legs wrapped around his waist, her gaze half-lidded and feverish.

“Not yet.” His voice was soft as silk. “Soon.”

The explicit promise in his words streaked through her body like liquid flame, his long-legged gait jostled pleasure receptors up and down her vagina, and she desperately hoped soon was measured in seconds. “Is it always like this with you?”

He didn’t immediately reply as he approached the bed. Then, ignoring the dangers in sincerity, he said, “No, never.”

“Oh good, although I don’t know why it should matter; what are you doing?” she cried as he came to a halt.

“Seeing that you die of pleasure,” he said with a smile, smoothly easing them both down on the small bed without dislodging himself from her silken warmth. “Don’t argue.”

As if she could, Rosalind understood, every nerve in her body poised, taut, quivering for surcease. As if she could do anything at all but wait breathlessly for the fierce convulsive ecstasy brought to her by the good graces, deft skill, and prodigious physical endowments of the Duke of Groveland. Like that… oh, God, oh God, she was completely gorged; she couldn’t take any more. “No, no, I can’t…”

“Just a little more, darling-see… you can do it…”

Whispered force majeure, velvet soft, and so excruciatingly fine she felt herself melt around him as if he held the key to her carnal soul.

“There… see, you can take it all. If you were in my harem you’d have to take this and more, darling. You’d have to conform to my every wish. I could keep you naked by my side day and night. Would you like that?” He began to slowly withdraw.

“No, no… I mean, yes, yes, of course,” she quickly corrected, fearful he would leave her.

“That’s better. I like compliance from my houris.” He held himself arrested, midstroke. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, yes, perfectly. Don’t leave me, please.”

“So you’ll do anything if I stay.”

“Yes, yes, anything.”

Blood surged through his penis at such unconditional surrender, his libido enticed by her carte blanche permission. “I’ll be fucking you all night,” he said. “Is that a problem?”

“No, no… not at all.” She was trembling on the brink; she would have promised him anything.

No novice, he recognized preorgasmic delirium, but inexplicably, he wanted more. “You won’t be allowed to refuse me. Is that clear?”

She hesitated.

He drove into her yielding flesh a fraction more to encourage her answer.

She gasped as the infinitesimal movement jolted every eager, covetous nerve in her body like a hammer blow. “Yes, it’s clear,” she breathed.

It shouldn’t have mattered. Women had been saying yes to him his entire adult life. But Mrs. St. Vincent’s small breathless reply was flagrantly erotic. Neither unctuous nor flattering as was normally the case, but explicitly reluctant, as if he were trespassing into forbidden territory.

And he’d finally been given access.

Slipping his hand under her thigh, he lifted her leg to allow himself deeper penetration and drove into her succulent warmth. It had been a long day and a longer evening of waiting for this; there was a point where even a worldly man was no longer impervious to hot-spur passion.

“Finally,” she whispered, as though reading his mind, and when he laughed, she wrapped her legs tightly around his waist, smiled into his amused gaze and purred, “Welcome my lord, Sultan.”

“I’m very glad I purchased you,” he whispered, adjusting his downstroke to her rising hips. At her immediate, hotly contentious stare, he grinned. “It’s only play, darling-here in the harem.”

“It better be.”

“I’ll let you know when it isn’t,” he softly said, biting back the reply that came to his lips. Allusions to her store were counterproductive at the moment.

“Meaning?”

“Are you really going to fight with me now?” he drawled, flexing his legs to deepen his thrusting downstroke.

She softly moaned, her legs gripped his back more tightly, and she whispered, “Later.”

Equally headstrong and in a better position to exert his autocratic impulses, he made her wait that time, taking her to the edge over and over again, always withdrawing just short of her climax. Making it clear at least in this instance, that the advantage was his.

Until she abruptly grabbed his hair, tugged hard, and with her hot gaze only inches away from his, hissed, “I’m climaxing this time with or without you.”

“Fine. You do that.” She exasperated him more than any woman he’d ever met.

“I will!” Shoving him away-or rather, he allowed her that drama-she rolled over, jerked open the drawer on the bedside table, and pulled out a slender glass bottle, empty of its contents.

He shouldn’t have cared what she did. With anyone else he would have watched, calmly waiting his turn, or gotten up and left. Instead, he snatched the bottle from her fingers, tossed it aside, pushed her onto her back, spread her legs with a quick, rough brush of his hands, dropped between her thighs, and hot-tempered, rammed his cock into her so hard he felt the impact clear up his spine.

She should beat him away, scream her dissent, do anything other than die of pleasure, Rosalind seethed, wondering how it was possible to feel this ravenous craving while bristling with rage. But rational thought failed to function with the haze of passion beginning to vaporize her consciousness, and as her body yielded to his onslaught with wanton acquiescence, she knew she could no more refuse him than she could curtail the hysteria beginning to overwhelm her senses.

Raising her arms, she twined them around his neck, lifted her hips into his downstroke, held on tightly, and surrendered to desire.

He kissed her then, smiling against her mouth, his anger, too, overwhelmed by sensation so magical he was inclined to consider the lady of Pre-Raphaelite splendor as a gift from the gods. She was turning out to be insatiable in her appetites-a charming attribute he’d half suspected but was nevertheless grateful to confirm. There had been something about her that morning, beyond her voluptuous beauty-perhaps her hot-tempered resistance or the brief glimpse of passion he’d seen in her eyes. And now he was here reaping the benefits of his earlier presumption and her highly charged libido.

As though in response, he felt her first little preorgasmic ripples slide up his cock, and recognizing her soft, suffocated groan, benevolent once again, he buried himself deep inside her in readiness for the approaching onslaught.

Half a heartbeat later, her climax detonated with full-scale violence and her high-pitched cry exploded like a shrapnel burst into the shadowed room.

Her voice resonated in her ears as though from a distance.

Less overwrought, Fitz heard it clearly and from very close range.

Her screams persisted, a fierce, seething climax convulsing her senses, spilling into every palpitating crevice in her body, dispersing flame-hot, soul-stirring ecstasy in rapturous profusion for seemingly endless moments.

At the last, as her grip relaxed on his shoulders and her cries died to whimpers, Fitz unwrapped her legs from his waist, withdrew, and came on her stomach in one of the more prolonged, tempestuous ejaculations of his life.

Afterward, she didn’t open her eyes for so long he began to worry; she hadn’t even moved when he wiped his semen from her stomach.

When she finally lifted her lashes, she looked up to find him propped on his elbow beside her, watching her with concern.

“What?”

“Nothing. How are you feeling?”

“Deeply satisfied,” she murmured, sleepy eyed and blissfully content.

Relieved, he grinned. “Friends? ”

“Oh yes, very much so. How do you do it, Your Grace?” Her voice was playful. “My toes are still curled, and my toes never curl.”

Years of practice. “You’re easy to please,” he said instead.

She smiled. “I suspect it has more to do with you than me. I must say, I feel deliciously and sumptuously ravished. Like all those languishing Danaes male artists love to paint.” At his lifted brows, she translated, “You know a woman in the grip of an orgasm is a male favorite.”

He grinned. “And there’s something wrong with that?”

She laughed. “Touchй. I’m definitely not in the mood to complain.”

“So, if I were to keep you orgasmic, you’d be disinclined to complain?”

“You say the nicest things,” she murmured, lazily stretching, arching her back, reveling in the sweet afterglow.

“It’s pure selfishness, darling.”

Her green gaze was sportive. “Am I your darling?”

“Without a doubt.” They were by chance or happenstance or the aimlessness of fate physically matched-as in a perfect fit. And he should know.

“I rather like the idea,” she whispered, reaching out and sliding her finger up his only marginally diminished erection. “And him, of course, and his very credible talents.”

There was something electrifying about the lush Mrs. St. Vincent, he decided, drawing in a small breath, sumptuous pleasure still pulsing through his penis and gonads-albeit in lesser measure. “We thank you for your inspiration,” he murmured, leaning forward slightly to kiss her, a politesse learned at his French governess’s knee. Literally.

“How nice you are. Thank you, too.” Rosalind smiled at the conventional courtesies. “Did we just finish a waltz?”

“In a manner of speaking.” He grinned. “You’re a very good dancer.”

“And you’ve done this once or twice before.”

“Yes, once or twice,” he said, not sure where she was going with her remark.

“I should be grateful, I suppose.”

What had she expected? That he was some saint? “I certainly am grateful for your participation.” His voice was urbane, his smile charming. “You’re quite amazing.” Women were prone to talk about their feelings after sex. Why should Mrs. St. Vincent be the exception?

“So your reputation remains intact, does it not?”

“Are you complaining?” For a woman who’d just climaxed three times, he rather thought he’d done her a favor.

She had the good grace to blush. “No.”

“Good,” he softly said, slipping a finger under her chin and holding her gaze. “Because we’re not anywhere near finished.”

As if on cue, she saw his erection begin to swell, and quite removed from reason or intellect, an answering ripple of arousal shimmered through her vagina.

“This is sheer madness,” she said much too softly.

Her equivocation in word and tone was a flashing semaphore to an experienced cocksman like Fitz. “Probably,” he said as softly. “Because I’m thinking about taking you into the country for a month.”

Her eyes flared wide. “You wouldn’t!” But even as she protested, the pulsing between her legs accelerated, her nipples stiffened, and a wild lustful flame burned through her body.

“I would,” he said, pointed and deliberate.

“You can’t.”

“I can do anything I want.”

He was a duke and rich. She understood rules didn’t apply to him. “You have no compunction about coercing a woman?”

“Until now I would have said yes.” He suddenly smiled. “You affect me differently.”

Gratified to see his teasing smile, she said, “It’s only lust. You’ll get over it.”

“I hope so. Now then, you were looking for adventure. What did I do with my tie?” Rolling off the bed, he walked toward the pile of his discarded clothing. “Maybe we’ll play harem after all.”

He didn’t ask her permission; there was something provocative in his assumption of authority. Was he her eunuch come to life? Or was he the master of the harem, or simply Groveland in the flesh? Or didn’t it matter who he was after he’d said What did I do with my tie? because her body had instantly responded to the lascivious suggestion in those words?

“Here we go.” Holding the strip of white silk aloft, he returned to the bed. “I’ve only heard about slave markets, so we’ll have to improvise.” Leaning over, he lifted her to her feet, drew her hands together before her, and bound them with a loose slipknot. “What is it that appeals to you about harems? Stand there.” He indicated a point near the bed with his finger.

“The exotic atmosphere, I suppose,” she said, moving the few steps. “Where women are-”

“Sexual objects, receptacles for a man’s pleasure?” His brows rose. “How does that appeal to a woman of your independence?”

She shrugged. “The departure from the norm or the blatant sexual content or-”

“Being tamed and mastered and forced to have sex?”

She took a small breath to contain the prurient rush of lust flaring through her senses, felt a need as well to meet the challenge in his soft query. “I’m not sure,” she said, holding his gaze. “Does it matter?”

He smiled. “Not to me. You’re the one on the auction block. I’m just here to make a purchase. Should I find you pleasing.”

“Then I must do my best to please you.”

This time it was he who required a small inhalation to suppress the ruttish surge bringing his penis fully erect, Mrs. St. Vincent’s whispered reply shocking in its impact. He didn’t particularly like the feeling, the lack of control she provoked. Perhaps taming her wouldn’t be exclusively a game. “Where do you come from?” His voice was crisp. “Circassia with your auburn hair?”

“Tripoli,” she said, smiling faintly, liking that she’d rattled his cool nonchalance. “And I can cook, my lord.”

“I have a cook.”

“I can also sew.”

His mouth slowly curved into a smile; the lady had an imagination. “If only I was looking for a seamstress.”

“Perhaps you need someone to warm your bed.”

“I have a large harem.”

She bit back the comment that came to her lips, his statement much too true. “I could give you fine sons, my lord.”

“What if I have enough sons?”

She held his gaze. “You don’t have mine.”

Nor did he intend to. “Open your mouth,” he brusquely said, changing the subject. When she did, he ran his finger over her teeth as if checking a horse for its age. “Adequate,” he murmured. “Turn around.”

Astonished at the fierce passion aroused by his soft commands, she hastened to comply.

He swept his hands over her shoulders, down her back and legs with a brisk efficiency. “You must not have been in the harem long; you still have muscle tone. Face me again.”

She swivelled around so quickly, her breasts quivered with the motion.

Ignoring the provocative tremor, he cupped her large breasts in his hands and cooly said, “These are serviceable. You haven’t suckled a babe, I gather.”

“No, my lord.”

“You could be barren then.”

“My late master was old and impotent.”

“And his sons didn’t want you?”

“They did, but the chief wife didn’t. She sent me away to be sold.”

“So you’re relatively untried.” He lifted her breasts slightly, weighing them in his hands. “Were you beaten?”

She wasn’t sure how to answer; a certain ambiguity echoed in his voice. “Very little, my lord.”

“For what infractions?”

“Speaking out of turn.”

He laughed, let his hands drop away from her breasts, and said, “I’m not surprised. Perhaps I could teach you obedience.”

“Perhaps you could.”

“Are you being impertinent?”

“No, my lord. On the contrary I’d find obedience to you most interesting.”

“Why don’t we find out. Turn around, bend over. Brace your hands on the bed. Let’s see if you’re worth buying.” His instructions were gently put, a mildness in his voice as if he were ordering a cup of tea.

But an underlying command echoed beneath his words, and her senses instantly responded to that unspoken presumption, as if knowing how delectable the compensation. Quickly moving into position, she suddenly understood the true meaning of unslaked lust, the concept directly related to Groveland-or rather, his highly rewarding cock, she decided with a frenzied little shiver.

Walking up behind her, he surveyed the pale expanse of opulent female flesh with rich satisfaction. That Mrs. St. Vincent offered him the ultimate submission was gratifying after her parting words this morning. That he was pleasantly anticipating having sex with her an even better feeling after experiencing a surfeit of ennui of late. “Are you ready to show me your usefulness?” he mildly inquired, even as his penis swelled larger at the prospect.

“Yes, yes.” Flushed and feverish, ravenous for him when she’d only written of the feeling before but never felt it, she breathlessly added with a quick look over her shoulder, “If it please my lord.”

“That depends. Show me what you can do.” He didn’t touch her, not so much as a steadying hand on her hips before he entered her in a swift, hard thrust and buried his erection deep inside her.

With his huge cock straining every frenzied sexual receptor in her pulsing vagina, motivated by inexorable orgasmic pressures, she quickly obeyed, swinging her hips in a swift, rocking rhythm, back and forth, side to side, undulating her bottom with hot-spur urgency. Shuddering at each thrilling, exquisitely tight downstroke, drawing in a sustaining breath at each slow withdrawal, subject to a pleasure beyond her wildest dreams, Rosalind had crossed the impressionable boundary into the untrammeled world of Lady Blessington.

By ordering Mrs. St. Vincent to service him, Fitz sought to gain control over his unnerving cravings, restore normalcy to this sexual encounter, persuade himself that her submission acquitted him of involvement.

But his involvement couldn’t be long denied, no more than Rosalind could pretend that it was someone else and not Groveland who aroused her every pleasure center and made her greedy for what he offered.

“Faster,” he murmured, thinking selfishness would absolve him of entanglement.

Shameless in her need, she complied, her lower body pumping like a piston, every swinging back stroke eliciting a little ecstatic gasp from her parted lips.

“Roll, spin… that’s it, that’s better-just like that,” he directed, gently guiding her plump bottom with his fingertips. “Good. Perfect. You follow instructions well.”

It was clearly Groveland’s voice she heard-no fantasy lord or sultan.

If his resplendent cock wasn’t sliding in and out of her, ramming and cramming her full, if she wasn’t so near to orgasm she could see nirvana through a rosy haze, she might have disputed his gross absolutism. Or ignored the flame-hot spasms of lust spiking through her body.

“Don’t you dare climax,” he growled. But leaning forward as he spoke, he freed her hands with a tug on the slipknot, slid his palm over her belly, and delicately caressed her clit.

Whether it was his rough threat or his tender touch, she felt as though he’d pressed some orgasmic button, and with a skittish, suffocated cry, she came.

Just as he knew she would.

With scarcely less restraint, he waited only until her first orgasmic frenzy had swept over her before he jerked out and climaxed in a violent, unruly trajectory. “Sorry about… that,” he murmured, breathing hard. Christ. What a mess. Although better than coming inside her. “Where are… your towels?”

She’d collapsed facedown on the bed so her reply was muffled.

Finding his underwear on the floor, he wiped himself off, used a portion of the sheet to do what he could to clean up his semen, and went in search of a bathroom and towels.

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.”

Sitting back, he admired his handiwork, the vision lushly erotic, the voluptuous reclining female, thighs spread wide, was offering up her fruit-filled cunt for his pleasure. And he thanked whatever random act of fate had brought him here tonight, Mrs. St. Vincent one of the more delectable morsels he’d seen in a very long time. She was flushed in arousal, her eyes shut, her mouth slightly open, her fevered moans softly audible.

Would she come if he touched her?

Or how soon would she come if he touched her?

He proceeded to find out.

With extreme delicacy, he ran his finger over the strained membrane of her labia, pressing gently against the soft fruit imbedded in her cunt, bending low to draw one nipple into his mouth as he caressed her ripe sex.

Whimpering, tormented by the sweet ache throbbing between her legs, her body gorged, her sense of self disappearing in the torrid heat of an all-consuming sexual hysteria, she wondered if he was right after all. That she wanted taming at some primal level, wished to be an object of lust. Like this-like now, offering her breasts to be suckled, lavishly filled to overflowing, bursting at the seams, receptive and submissive, enslaved to the passion he evoked.

Attuned to female arousal, recognizing the rising pitch of her whimpers, his fingers sliding more easily over her drenched slit, the peach inside, slick with pearly fluid, he lifted his mouth from her nipple. “The sultan will be watching now, so be on your best behavior.”

She only half heard him, overwrought, so near to orgasm his voice came from a great distance. But instinctively, selfishly, nearly wild with longing, she breathed, “I’ll be good,” because she knew that’s what he wanted to hear.

There was no reason to feel such gloating satisfaction at her blanket submission; he immediately chided himself for such vanity. And then because he was adored for his kindness in the boudoir and not his physical splendor alone, he set about furnishing the lady with a richly deserved climax. Uncrossing her ankles, he made room for himself between her legs, drew her engorged clit into his mouth and licked and sucked with exquisite restraint, with unstinting competence, with a crucial sense of place. With a flare for timing.

She screamed much louder that time, he thought, but then she’d waited longer than usual.

As her breathing returned to normal, he gently soothed her, running his hands slowly down her arms, over her breasts, delicately brushing her eyebrows, skimming her flushed cheeks with his fingertips, tracing the smooth curve of her belly with his warm palm. And after a time, moving his hand lower.

She jerked awake as he exerted pressure on the peach. “No, no… no more.”

He gazed up at her from between her legs. “Hush, darling, you always want more. Trust me.”

She had no way of knowing he was right until afterward. She never did. But having stood stud to a good many women in London, he did. And after her third climax, he ate the peach in situ, not spilling so much as a drop of juice, bringing the lady to a shrieking orgasm once again. He wondered if Mrs. St. Vincent and Sally would enjoy each other’s company, similarly inclined as they were to delight in peaches.

Moments later, as Rosalind lay in a deeply sated torpor, Fitz came up on his knees and entered her very, very gently, barely moving until she opened her eyes, smiled up at him, and whispered, “Don’t ever go.”

“Not likely,” he said with an answering smile, in full agreement about the merits of carnal sensation. “How are you feeling?”

“Sexy,” she purred. “Very, very sexy.”

“Then there’s no need for me to say, ‘Ignore me, this won’t take long,’ ” he observed with a grin.

“Since I seem to be addicted, no. Take all the time you want.”

He did, and they both entered a new realm of sensation, one where sentiment intruded into sensual pleasure and tenderness pervaded even the most self-indulgent, prurient play.

Very late that night as they lay postcoital, panting side by side, he turned his head and said with a smile, “I’d be more than willing to shower you with gold… my darling Danae of Bruton Street. Just say the word. I’m totally bewitched.”

“Speaking of bewitchment,” she murmured, wallowing in bliss, “I’m going to need… just a little more of him.” Reaching over in a lazy drift of her arm, she ran her fingertip down his rampant erection. “You have the most phenomenal cock. He’s indefatigable and most charitable. Thank you, Your Grace,” she teasingly purred.

Since she’d been effusive in her thanks, he already knew she was appreciative. The question was whether he could keep up with her. So far so good. But he was well aware that tonight would be a record of sorts for him; that from a man who already held all the confirmed records in the world of amour. “Give me a minute,” he said, good-humored and obliging. “I’ll be right with you.”

On the other hand, the thought of fucking himself to death with the hot-blooded Mrs. St. Vincent was not without its novel appeal.