Sexy As Hell

CHAPTER 26

AS THEY ENTERED his house, Oz said to Josef, “Have Achille prepare some refreshments for my lady.”

“That’s not necessary,” Isolde quickly interposed. “Really, I’m not staying long.”

“He doesn’t mind. Brandy for me, Josef. And send a message to-” He glanced at Isolde.

“Perceval House, Mayfair. Give Mr. Grover my direction.”

“There now, all is in order,” Oz pleasantly said. Leading her across the hall, he opened the door into a small drawing room. “Please make yourself comfortable.”

She hadn’t seen the little jewel of a room before, but then she’d not been in residence long and the house was very large. “How lovely.” Standing on the threshold, she surveyed the octagonal room, brilliant with sunlight, the window walls framed with gilded moldings, the painted ceiling a pale blue sky filled with colorful birds.

“My mother’s room,” he said. “She painted.”

“This?”

“Some of it.” He eased past her. “Come, sit down. I’ll send the filly up to Oak Knoll tomorrow. Consider it an apology for my various sins.”

“An expensive apology.” She followed him in.

“Only because of my vicious temper,” he said and turning, offered her his practiced smile. “I have no excuse. You’ll enjoy her, though, so maybe the gods were in charge after all.”

“Any special god?” Arch riposte to his facile smile.

Unmoved, Oz said, “Take your pick,” then added in a more agreeable tone that took in account the reason he’d invited her here and the pleasure he felt for the first time in weeks, “Please, sit here.” He indicated a sofa. “You can put up your feet.”

“I don’t need to put up my feet.”

“Ah,” he murmured, cool tempered to her pet. “That’s how little I know about pregnancy. Sit where you wish then.” Dropping onto the sofa, he swung his booted feet up onto the flowered chintz, crossed his ankles, and resting against the upholstered arm, slid into a comfortable sprawl. “I didn’t know you had a house in town.”

“I didn’t know you had an estate in Kent.” At Tattersalls she’d heard him order the first horses he purchased be sent there.

He smiled. “We should talk more.”

Feeling her face flush hotly, she said with equal nonchalance, “If only there had been time.” Taking a chair across the room from him, she smoothed her skirts over her knees in unconscious resistance to the beautiful, faithless man lounging on the pale flowered sofa in his mother’s jewel of a room.

“There never is, it seems. Perhaps we could take a few minutes today to exchange confidences,” he offered, impervious to her sarcasm. “Take off your lovely spring hat and stay awhile. I won’t attack you, I promise.”

“I wasn’t concerned,” she comfortably returned, untying the ribbons and placing her hat, purse, and gloves on a nearby table. Assuredly, Oz had never been obliged to attack a woman. “But I can’t tarry long. Grover and I are driving home this afternoon. You look tired,” she abruptly said when she shouldn’t have, when she should have restrained her impulse. When Oz’s needs were already sufficiently catered to by numerous women.

He didn’t seem to notice or at least didn’t resort to some quelling retort. He only said, “I haven’t been sleeping well.” Or much at all, those close to him would affirm. “Davey is working me hard; some of my business partners have turned difficult lately.” An understatement of vast proportions. “Actually, I may have to go to India if the situation doesn’t improve.”

Her stomach lurched, and like some innocent young maid, she blurted out, “Will you be gone long?”

Ignoring his bride’s outburst, he shrugged. “Who knows. It depends”-he exhaled a noiseless sigh-“on the degree of malfeasance in India. But Davey would stay behind, and if you need anything, he’d be available in my stead.”

Not likely for the role she wished. “I appreciate your thoughtfulness.” She said what was expected this time even as melancholy washed over her. Deep in her psyche the hope had burned that romantic dreams might become reality someday. And now-her cool and assured husband was leaving to go halfway across the world.

The small, lengthening silence spoke of absence along with the elaborate courtesy of not giving utterance to the thought.

Achille suddenly walked in, a footman in his wake.

“Ah, Achille, thank God, my brandy.” Oz thrust out his hand. “That was quick,” he said, grasping the proffered bottle and glass. “Isolde has come for a visit. Isn’t that nice.”

“Indeed. Hello, my lady. I brought you cake and sandwiches, and if you’d like I could make you something more substantial as well.” He didn’t say for the baby, but clearly that was what he meant.

Isolde blushed. “Cake and sandwiches will be fine. Oh, that lovely chocolate ganache, I see,” she murmured as the footman placed the silver tray on a table before her.

“The cherry cake as well, my lady. Enjoy.” He swung to Oz. “Is there anything more?” he delicately inquired.

Oz shook his head, raised his glass to his mouth, and drained it.

Another small silence ensued once the door closed on Achille.

“He’s been hoping you’d come back,” Oz said into the hush. “He complains I don’t eat.”

“You should. You’ve lost weight.”

“Tomorrow.” He smiled and poured himself another drink. “Now tell me how things go at Oak Knoll.”

As she ate, she spoke of her daily activities, the new cattle she’d bought, the visits she made, the small entertainments she’d attended, leaving out any mention of Will, concentrating instead on the farm and livestock.

He listened without reply, quietly drinking and watching her from under his lashes, restraining his impulse to get up, lift her from her chair, and carry her upstairs.

“Am I boring you?” she finally said.

“Not at all. I like the sound of your voice. I like to look at you. I’d like other things as well, but I promised to behave.”

He might have reached out and touched her, her body’s response so hot spur. “Don’t,” she said on a caught breath, setting down her teacup with such force the tea splashed on the cloth.

“Forgive me. I’ve missed you.” He hadn’t known until then just how much.

“You can’t walk away like you did and then expect me to-”

“Make love to me?” he said with impeccable charm.

“I won’t,” she whispered, furious at his cool insolence, her astonishing willingness, at all the women in his life.

“How can it matter if you do?”

“Because I dislike what you are.”

“That doesn’t have to affect the pleasure or play.”

“No, Oz. No!”

She was holding her hands tightly in her lap, as if white-knuckled restraint would serve as a deterrent to desire. As if saying no actually meant no. Setting his glass aside, he slowly came to his feet to play gallant to her desperate passions. Workmanlike and competent, he knew the signs of arousal, could recognize them blind in the dark.

A moment later he was lifting the small table away, and a moment after that, he leaned over, took her clenched hands in his, and drew her to her feet. “Feel my heart race,” he said, placing her closed fists on his chest. “This is like the first time for me.”

“No. I’m the thousandth, not the first.”

He shook his head, the movement small and faint. “You’re wrong. I’ve been waiting for you.”

He shouldn’t have said that, she thought, because she’d been waiting for him, for this, for the feel of his body next to hers, with utter, unequivocal longing since he’d left. The realization was so undeniable, tears welled in her eyes, and she sniffed and hiccupped, struggling to discipline her emotions.

“Don’t cry,” Oz whispered, gently wiping away the wetness trickling down her cheeks. “I’m sorry for whatever I did, for all I did, for what I didn’t do-for everything.”

“It’s not… your fault… you walked into my room… that night.”

“But I stayed.” He smiled. “And then stayed some more.” Abruptly picking her up, he said, “You may chastise me upstairs in more comfort.” Carrying her effortlessly, he strode to the door, shoved it open with his foot, and walked toward the stairway.

How smooth he was, how pliant his conscience, how gracefully he offered pleasure. And if her heart wasn’t involved she might argue, reject, and refuse. But she loved him, she understood now if she’d not known before, if by some spurious logic she’d discounted the truth in the past days and weeks. “I love you,” she whispered, like some foolish, naive, overly sentimental female being carried off by her Prince Charming.

She felt him tense for a moment in his swift passage up the stairs.

“I love you, too,” he said a fraction of a second later, telling himself words were only words, there was no point in being rude. He had what he wanted, and if in some small corner of his soul he acknowledged more than his sham nuptial tie, he was quick to dismiss that incomprehensible thought.

The door to his bedroom had been opened by some invisible hand, she noted when they arrived, although no servants had been evident as they traversed the quiet corridors. And a fresh bottle of brandy shared space on a small table near the bed with a tray of sweets and a carafe of scented tisane.

“They anticipate your every move,” she said with a wave of her hand at the display. “Or are arrangements like this commonplace?” Did Nell like tisane?

He came to rest just inside the room, glanced at the delicate pastries, the mild aperitif. “On the contrary, this little offering is unprecedented. Achille wishes to please you. As do I,” he added softly. “You have but to tell me what you want.”

She knew better than to tell him the truth-that she wanted him beyond the perimeters of their agreement. “Would you think me terribly selfish if I asked for ten orgasms?”

Any other woman offered carte blanche would have been less modest in her demands; in his experience expensive jewelry generally led the roster. “No, of course not,” he agreeably said. “Is that all?”

Her expression brightened. “Perhaps more then if you don’t mind.”

He smiled. “How much time do I have?”

“I’ll let you know.”

He liked that her timetable was vague; he liked more that she was in one of her insatiable moods.

Carrying her across the broad bedchamber, he reached the high four-poster bed and seated her facing him on the stark white coverlet embroidered with colorful tropical birds.

“This is different,” she murmured, running her fingertip over a bit of scarlet silk embroidery replicating exotic plumage. The last time she’d been here, the coverlet had been pale blue.

“My mother’s large collection of embroidered linens. The house is relatively unchanged.” He shrugged. “I’m not home much.”

He was too polite to say he didn’t often sleep at home, she thought. “Your mother’s decorative sense is lovely.”

“Lovely like you,” he said, abstractly exercising his charm, his focus on consummation. “You look very stylish today.” He reached for the gold filigree button at the collar of her bodice.

“I found a new dressmaker.”

Aware of his comment about her previous modiste, he ignored her pointed remark. “She’s very good,” he mildly said, his gaze flicking downward to her breasts before returning to her face. “It takes superb tailoring to contain such voluptuousness. You turned heads at Tattersalls. In fact,” he added with a fleeting smile, “I expect every man there would like to be doing what I’m doing right now.”

“Speaking of Tattersalls and sex, how did you dispatch Nell?” A blunt question perhaps, but she knew he wasn’t about to throw her out in his current state of arousal-his erection impressive as usual.

His smile faded and he paused, his fingers motionless on the third ornate button. “She responds to money,” he mildly replied, resuming his unbuttoning. “Unlike you.”

“I have enough money.”

He glanced up. “Apparently.” He didn’t say, I know because you tried to buy my child.

“I’m jealous of her when I shouldn’t be, when your life is your own.” Isolde envied his cool restraint, her own feelings in tumult.

“She means nothing to me, nor I to her.”

How was it that he could cooly dismiss a woman linked with him by gossip and she didn’t see him as heartless. She only saw the man she loved. Although, she’d be sensible to remember that this occasion was about sex, not love, and to that purpose, she said, “I shouldn’t have mentioned Nell. It was tactless of me.”

“Say anything you like.” His smile was indulgent, his voice untouched by umbrage. “I’m just happy you’re here.” The buttons freed, he slipped the violet silk jacket over her shoulders, down her arms, and over her hands. Tossing the garment aside, he stood for a moment surveying her, a forceful sense of droit du seigneur suborning his better judgment. “Your breasts are-”

“Larger.”

My property by law. “Stunning,” he said instead, her splendid breasts straining the delicate silk of her chemise, his libido in a decidedly proprietary frame of mind. Locked rooms suddenly inviting his interest.

“Pamela tells me it’s the first visible sign of pregnancy.”

He took a small breath to steady his brutish impulses. “You’re sure then, about the pregnancy.”

She smiled. “Very sure.”

An unmistakable concern entered his gaze. “Is it all right-that is… would there be any reason to-”

“Sex is permitted if that’s what you’re wondering.”

He exhaled. “Good. Thank you,” he simply said. “I’m very much a novice when it comes to this.”

“We both are.”

“Indeed,” he softly agreed, the full impact of Isolde’s pregnancy suddenly undeniable. His gaze examined her with naked interest. “If I should touch you in any way you find uncomfortable,” he said, precise and delicate, “please let-”

“Oz, stop,” she said with exasperation. “I’m just the same. Other than perhaps being slightly more demanding sexually,” she added with a lift of her brows.

The term sexually demanding gave him pause when in the past he would have greeted it with delight. “Perhaps we should think about this. How can you be sure it’s safe?”

“Good God! Don’t tell me you’ve brought me this far to begin to equivocate! I won’t allow it! Do you hear?”

He looked at her for a considering moment. “So I must perform no matter what,” he said with a sliver of a smile.

“Surely it’s no hardship.”

“And if I don’t?” he lightly inquired.

“Then perhaps I’ll go somewhere else and-”

“Don’t say it,” Oz said in sudden anger, Will, too convenient, too available, as unmarried as he.

“I was joking. Unlike you,” she said, her blue gaze direct and open, “I’ve not been entertaining at night.”

He felt a fleeting surprise, followed by an elation he chose not to decipher. “I apologize. I spoke out of turn. Allow me,” he blandly replied, “to render whatever services you require.”

“I should reject such a cooly dispassionate offer. And if I wasn’t so famished for sex,” she said, leaning back on her hands and shrugging faintly, “I might. But you’re here and I’m here and-”

“You’re famished,” he finished with a practiced smile. “I remember your charming impatience.” Her uncorseted breasts were raised high in her languid pose, the taut nipples and plump contours conspicuous through the sheer white silk of her chemise. “And I’m not in the least indifferent to you. In fact, I’m deeply moved by your presence in my home and bed.”

“While I look forward to being deeply moved by your presence in me,” Isolde sweetly replied, amusement in her clear-eyed gaze.

“We always did agree on that,” he drily said. “Even when all else was at odds.”

He was standing quite still, his gaze unreadable. “I feel as though I’m negotiating something of grave consequence instead of an afternoon of sex,” she said just a trifle shortly. “Is my pregnancy prompting your reluctance?”

“No-yes… no,” he gruffly concluded. “I beg your pardon again.” He smiled faintly. “I’d be very much obliged it you’d make love to me.”

“Finally,” she said. “I thought I might have to attack you.” He grinned. “An irresistible concept. If only I didn’t prefer my own rules of war.”

“War? Should I have come armed?”

“You already are, darling, in every way known to man.” And reaching out, he grasped her bare shoulders, dipped his head, and kissed her with a fierce, pent-up desire he’d held in reserve the weeks past-apparently for her alone. His erection stood waist high, horniness and lust a hard, pulsing ache so intense he could feel the rush of blood coursing through his veins, his nerves oversexed and skittish. He attributed his unique response to Isolde’s long absence, although the uncharacteristic involvement of his entire nervous system was staggering. Not that he gave a damn, though, when he was moments away from burying his cock in the hot little cunt that had haunted his dreams for weeks.

While she kissed him back with frenzied yearning, he smoothly untied the ribbon at the neckline of her chemise, unfastened the small buttons running down its front, and unwrapped her arms from around his neck long enough to slide off her chemise. “Your skirt,” he said against her mouth as she clung to him once again. “Let go a minute.”

She was feverishly panting as he freed himself from her fierce grip, the small irresistible sound ringing every randy bell in his libidinous memory as he quickly disposed of her skirt and petticoats.

Smiling up at him, her gaze heavy lidded and heated, she whispered, “No one else makes me feel this way-desperate and ravenous, weak with longing.”

“Lucky me.” He took pleasure in her admission when even the hint of exclusivity had been anathema to him in recent years. Untying her drawers, he slid them off along with her silk stockings; his weeks of deprivation were nearly at an end. Inhaling deeply, he cautioned himself to restraint-her condition and the battering ram of his libido a ruinous mix. “Are you sure ten orgasms might not be excessive?” Had he ever in his life opted for sexual moderation?

Her rampant desires running high, Isolde took a moment to fully comprehend his question and a moment more to breathlessly say, “Excessive?”

“Considering your, er, condition.”

“Is ten too much for you?” Explicit demand in every acid syllable.

He smiled. “My darling little bitch.” He flicked a finger downward. “You tell me.”

The stretched fabric of his trousers sent an anticipatory shiver up her spine. “I thought London amusements may have sapped your vigor.”

Whether she was goading him out of spite or toying with him mattered little now that the rules were clear. Ten and carte blanche. Kicking off his shoes, he pulled off his socks and shrugged out of his jacket.

“Hurry.”

Ah, his imperious, randy wife of fond memory. “I am, darling.” Swiftly unbuttoning his waistcoat and shirt, he pulled them off and dropped them to the floor.

“Oz, have pity,” Isolde pleaded, her eyes half-shut, her hips undulating faintly, flame-hot need in her ragged whisper.

Wrenching open the last button of his trouser placket, he saw her clench her thighs together in an effort to repress the peaking turbulence. Experienced, he moved quickly, shoving her upward into the center of the bed, spreading her legs with an agile brush of his hands, and in seconds he was fully engulfed in her warm, honeyed sweetness.

Her blissful sigh echoed his soft grunt of pleasure.

“Please,” she begged, leaving nail marks on his back, urging him on with little importuning whimpers. “Please, oh God, please…”

Where would you like me to go? But never one to contradict an impassioned female, he cautiously eased forward.

She gasped and he recoiled, his heart drumming in his chest.

“Don’t you dare stop!” she hissed, bloodying his back in her impatience.

Ultrasensitive to the yielding resiliency of her vaginal tissue, scrupulously unselfish even in extremis, he moved forward warily-fucking pregnant women outside his area of expertise.

Not that there weren’t decided advantages to the situation.

Coitus interruptus was no longer required.

Sex au naturel in all its glory. A first.

Less intellectually engaged, Isolde was in the grip of a hot, roiling passion inundating her senses in overwrought waves of pleasure, warming her heart and soul, offering her unprecedented rapture. Filled to overflowing, utterly gorged, Oz’s virility and power gratifying every trembling nerve and cell, beguiling every impressionable sexual receptor, she was being transported toward orgasmic bliss with an expertise that anticipated her every wish.

Like now.

Sliding his hands under her bottom, he lifted her slightly, drove forward minutely, and reading her shuddering response, whispered, “Now darling, now.”

His voice alone was enough to incite her palpitating genital nerves into an orgasmic spasm that hurtled through her vagina, up her spine, and spiked through her fevered senses in a wild, violent, long overdue climax.

She wondered after that first fast and furious orgasm whether the raw, breathtaking ecstasy was due to Oz’s long absence, her pregnancy, some flawless synthesis of hot lust and sweet love, or a combination thereof.

Then his grip tightened on her bottom, he dragged her closer, and shocked by the sudden prodigal sensation, her thoughts yielding to tempestuous feeling, she gave herself up once again to flame-hot avarice. Breathlessly clinging to him, her vagina silken with liquid desire, she melted around his hard, rigid length as he plunged deeper and deeper still, his rhythm practiced, facile, delicately expert.

In the ensuing velvety flux and flow, with her warm, soft body offering him all-bliss and ravishment, passion and raging fervor-the game of dalliance took on a capricious and volatile new scope. An unquenchable longing pricked his previous sangfroid; wistful sentiment overrode the sophisticated worldliness of carnal lust, and moments later, when he joined her second orgasm and poured his hot seed into her, the fury of his climax matched the ferocity of her screams.

Perhaps it was her wild cries that provoked his novel emotions, he decided afterward with postcoital pragmatism.

Or perhaps her voracious appetites gratified his vanity.

Or maybe she was nothing more than a rollicking change from Nell, he thought as his breathing slowed, reason returned, and he lifted his forehead from the mattress.

Isolde’s lashes fluttered upward, her gaze heavy with languor and only inches away. “I may not survive many more of those,” she whispered.

“I guarantee you will,” he murmured, a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth, amorous play replacing quixotic emotion. “As I recall, your record is more than ten.”

“Never like these. I feel as though I’ve been drugged.”

“A good drug apparently,” he drawled.

She shifted her hips the merest distance and smiled up at him. “You’re still gloriously hard.”

Oz smiled. “He likes you.”

“I can tell.” Oz’s erection was undiminished. “Take off the rest of your clothes. I want to feel your skin on mine-not just him”-she wiggled her hips-“but everywhere.”

“At your service, ma’am.” With a quick kiss, he withdrew, slid from the bed, and swiftly stripped off his trousers.

“Only at my service,” she playfully charged. “Humor me, darling,” she said to his suddenly cool gaze. “A half truth will do.”

He bowed. “Consider me exclusively at your service, darling. I shall be a monk outside your company,” he promised.

Her darling Oz-ever the graceful hunter. “How terribly sweet of you,” she said with equal urbanity. Surveying his hard, muscled body nude save for his white linen underwear, she lazily arched her back and considered her next orgasm with explicit delight. “Wasn’t it opportune that we both went to Deveral’s dispersal sale. Otherwise we wouldn’t be here enjoying-oh dear,” she murmured, “I’m dripping on your bed. I need a towel and then you, my splendid stud. Or just you if you don’t mind stickiness.”

In his current mood, he’d willingly fuck her anywhere, anyway, but he also knew where to find towels, and moments later, naked now, his arousal freshly washed, the blood wiped from his back, he returned from the adjacent bathroom with an armful of white towels. He tossed them on the bed. “Stickiness makes no difference to me. You decide.”

“How charmingly amenable.”

Slipping off his rings, he grinned. “I intend to charm the hell out of you, darling, until you cry stop or I die trying.”

Placing his rings on the bedside table, he joined her in bed, picked up a towel, glanced at her with raised eyebrows, and at her nod, wiped his semen from between her legs. “Ready?” he said, throwing the towel on the floor.

“I’m not only ready, I’m shamelessly besotted, ravenously lustful, and indifferent to everything but having your cock inside me.”

He laughed. “Tell me how you really feel.”

“Why shouldn’t I when I see you so seldom. The point, it seems to me, is to take full advantage of your splendid capacity for fornication.” Reaching up, she patted his cheek. “Now be a dear and do what you do so well.”

For a brief moment he took issue with her flippancy but quickly decided there was no point in splitting hairs. He was what he was, and realistically, sexual pleasure always took precedence over minor affront. “Speaking of seldom seeing you, allow me to scrutinize this newly maternal body of yours. I’m intrigued.”

She smiled. “You’re a neophyte, as am I. But be my guest, although I warn you, I’m much more easily aroused in my fecund state. I masturbate more.” Her brows flickered sportively. “You should come home. I could use you.”

A more tempting invitation had never been offered him. And he said so.

“But,” she murmured.

“I have my business in town,” he answered with well-mannered courtesy. “Otherwise I’d be more than willing to take over the duties of stud for you.”

She sighed with a touch of drama. “Alas, then, I must take full advantage of these hours.” She threw her arms wide, spread her thighs, and grinned. “Touch me at your risk and my pleasure.”

He laughed, her candor delightful, along with her unquenchable craving for sex. Not to mention her comment about masturbation suggested Will wasn’t a constant in her bed-pleasant thought. Lightly brushing his palms over her flat belly, he said, “Nothing shows here yet.”

“It’s too early, Pamela tells me.”

“But these are sumptuous and flourishing.” He covered her breasts with his hands, fingers splayed, and experienced a warm content as her eyes went shut and she softly moaned.

How compatible they were when it came to sex.

His cock was always at full mast when his darling wife was near.

It almost made one contemplate marriage with fondness.

“Your nipples are bigger,” he said, gently stroking the taut pink crests. “Do they feel different?”

She smiled up at him. “Everything feels different. More sensitive and tender, oversensitive at times,” she answered, arching her back against the tingling tremors sliding downward from Oz’s gentle stroking to her pulsing sex. “You’re a man of finesse, are you?”

“I try to be. Would you prefer roughness?” he asked, his gaze speculative.

“Heavens no. Whatever you’re doing is sublime. Do. Not. Stop.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he happily said.

“And you needn’t look so smug.”

“No, ma’am.”

“Arrogant bastard,” she grumbled.

“Uh-uh. Grateful as hell, darling, to have you in my bed.”

She smiled. “You can be such an absolute sweetheart.”

He didn’t feel it useful to contradict her; he was very much not a sweetheart, as any of his acquaintances would testify. “Thank you. We try,” he said instead. “See if this is sweet enough for you.” Bending his head, he drew her left nipple into his mouth, slid his hand between her legs, found the nub of her clitoris with his forefinger, and began to softly suck on her jewel-hard nipple.

She was right about the changes pregnancy had wrought on her sensitivity levels. It was almost too easy to make her climax; very little of his virtuoso skills were required to send her over the edge. She literally climaxed in seconds.

He glanced at the clock on the bedside table from under his lashes as he switched his ministrations from her left nipple to the right, as he redirected his attentions to her swollen clitoris once again. The image of a fertility goddess in all her voluptuary ostentation entered his consciousness, reminded him of erotic temple sculpture back home, reminded him even more vividly of his youthful pilgrimages to shrines and sanctuaries that extolled the glories of sexual enlightenment.

It took considerable restraint to suppress his selfish impulses as his erection swelled higher. But Isolde’s appreciation for his largesse was so lavishly profuse after each of her several precipitous orgasms that he honestly replied, “It’s my pleasure, darling.”

“You’re outrageously benevolent,” she breathed, brushing his cheek with her fingers. “I must be making up for lost time; I don’t how to thank you enough.”

As he lay propped on one elbow beside her, he almost said, You’re having my child. That’s thanks enough. But relatively sober, he wasn’t lost to all reason. “You can thank me later.”

“Just tell me what you want me to do. Really-anything.”

“You probably shouldn’t say that to me right now,” he said, his voice a low rasp.

“You don’t frighten me. You’re not at all like your reputation.”

“You encourage my better impulses.”

“In contrast to those-”

“Who don’t.” At which thought, all the untidy perversions in his life came to mind. “I need a drink. Would you like a tisane?”

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 outrй 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.