Sexy As Hell

CHAPTER 6

BEFORE LONG, THE busybodies, scandalmongers, and a great many of Oz’s inamoratas came to call, all morbidly curious to see the clever, artful woman who had managed to lure Lennox into the marriage trap. They smiled and bowed and offered their felicitations; they took tea and made idle conversation-all the while frantic to know the reason for Lennox’s marriage.

“She’s but a child,” the matrons whispered, Isolde’s girlish gown offering up an image of innocence. “And clearly unworldly, wearing a simple gown like that without a speck of jewelry. Where did she come from? Where’s her family?” And then their eyes would narrow, as if the answer to this odd marriage would be revealed with closer scrutiny.

The men discounted innocence, their focus instead, male-like, on sex. “Lennox lusted after that buxom, young maid,” the men murmured, surveying Isolde’s curvaceous body with heated gazes, envying Oz his voluptuous, new bride.

“The bitch. The clever bitch,” Oz’s resentful lovers hissed under their breaths, their veiled glances sullen. How had she brought him to the altar when so many had failed? Although, she’d have competition soon enough they didn’t doubt. Which thought consoled and heartened them.

“Have you known each other long?” the visitors invariably asked, each arrival-thanks to Nell’s on dits-sensible of the startling suddenness of the marriage. It must have been a necessitous marriage, they all thought. Why else would a cheeky young profligate like Lennox marry?

The first time the question of their acquaintance was posed, Isolde turned to her husband. “Oz likes to tell the story,” she said with a smile. “It’s quite romantic.”

“We’ve known each other since we were children,” he blandly lied-repeating the fiction often in the course of the day. “A family connection-distant, of course. Isolde always wrote to me over the years, didn’t you, darling,” he fondly murmured, lifting her hand to his lips at that point for a gentle kiss. “And then suddenly, I found my little Isolde all grown up and I fell head over heels in love.”

She blushed prettily.

The room always went quiet for a second at such blatant affection from a man who’d seduced women far and wide but never loved them.

“She’s shy,” he’d say, smiling fondly at his bride. “An admirable quality in a wife.”

Another moment of shocked silence would ensue.

Oz had always preferred audacious women.

And so the at-home visit went, Isolde smiling through it all, accepting society’s spurious good wishes and pointed glances at her belly with grace, Oz discharging his role of doting husband with careless panache. All the while the servants keeping the cake plates and teacups replenished.

It was a long, albeit productive day.

Until finally, an old roue made the mistake of saying, “If I was twenty years younger, Lennox, I’d vie for the lady’s favors myself.”

“If you were twenty years younger, Wilkins, I’d call you out,” Oz said, his expression uniquely unpleasant. “Consider yourself lucky.” As if suddenly reaching some indefinable breaking point, Oz rose to his feet, surveyed the social herd he despised, and said with cool precision, “My wife is fatigued. I trust you know your way out.”

No one debated staying with the grim set of Lennox’s mouth.

The room emptied in minutes.

“No one else gets in, Josef,” Oz ordered, nodding at his majordomo, who’d held the drawing room door open for the departing guests. “Not God himself.”

“Very good, sir. Would you like a brandy?”

“Another bottle if you please.” He’d moderated his drinking while they had guests, fearful of losing his temper before all the breathless voyeurs. But he’d finally run them off, and dropping onto the settee beside Isolde, he unbuttoned his coat and waistcoat and loosened his cravat.

“Champagne for the mistress?”

Oz glanced at Isolde.

“Cognac, please.”

Oz grinned. “We deserve it.”

“Indeed. You were everything a loving wife could wish for. Thank you.”

“You may thank me later in a more personal way.”

She laughed. “My pleasure.”

He grinned. “I know.”

But when the fresh bottle arrived, she watched him drink with a kind of reckless speed that was disconcerting. Noticing the apprehension in her eyes, he lifted his glass to her and offered her a glittering smile. “After hours of posturing and guile, darling, I need to wash the bad taste from my mouth. Don’t be alarmed. I’m never difficult until my third bottle.”

“Perhaps you should eat something.”

“Very wifely,” he murmured, pouring himself another brandy. “But I’m not hungry.”

A timid knock on the door was shouted away.

Josef was brave enough to open the door and announce, “A Mr. Malmsey, sir.”

“I’ll see him,” Isolde said, jumping to her feet.

Oz lunged and caught her wrist. “Stay. Send him up, Josef. Sorry, did I hurt you?”

Rubbing her wrist, Isolde shook her head.

He gave her credit for courage; he’d have to be more careful. “Why don’t you order us some food,” he suggested in atonement. “I probably should eat. Anything,” he added to the query in her gaze. “You decide.”

He consciously set out to be civil, greeting Malmsey with good cheer, thanking him for his quick service, signing each document without looking at it, his bold scrawl dwarfing Isolde’s fine copperplate script. “Would you like a drink?” he asked when the last paper was back in Malmsey’s leather portfolio.

He caught Isolde shaking her head behind his back and grinned. “My wife is alarmed at my drinking, so I won’t insist you join me. Is there anything else?”

It was dismissal no matter the softness of his voice.

But Malmsey glanced at Isolde, wondering if she required his help.

“I’m perfectly fine, Malmsey,” Isolde said. “My Lord Lennox assures me he’s not difficult until his third bottle.”

Oz lifted the brandy bottle from the table. “Two, Malmsey. Your client is quite safe.”

But he didn’t eat when the food arrived, and when he broached his third bottle, Isolde said, “I think I’ll see about finding a book to read in your library.”

As she made to rise, he put out his arm, forcing her back. “Talk to me instead. Tell me the world is good”-he smiled tightly-“discounting the fashionable world, of course. Parasites all,” he muttered.

“You’ve been too long in the ton. Country society is not so brittle.”

“But is it good? Convince me of that with your betrothed-what was his name?-leaving you at the altar.”

“He didn’t precisely leave me at the altar.”

Oz looked at her and snorted.

“Well, I suppose he did in a way.”

“His name is?”

“I’m not grossly wounded, Oz. His name is Will, Baron Fowler, and you needn’t snarl.”

“I wasn’t snarling. I was grumbling. Achille brought you cake I see. Was it to your liking?”

“Everything he makes is to my liking.”

“Good, because he’s coming with us.”

“When?” The papers were signed.

“Tomorrow morning. The roads at night can be treacherous. Traveling by day is safer for you.”

“You’re not coming?”

He smiled at the hint of wistfulness in her voice. “Of course I’m coming. Would I miss meeting Will?”

“Don’t be difficult now. I’m quite reconciled to the situation.”

“I’m never difficult.”

“You’re always difficult.”

“How soon a wife turns shrewish,” he drawled. “I might have to teach you some manners.”

“You’d have to first know what manners are.”

He laughed. “Then I’ll have to teach you something else.”

“There at least you have competence.”

He dipped his head. “So I’ve been told.”

“By all your lovers who glared at me over tea. How did you manage to service them all?” She’d counted at least a score in the course of the day.

“A robust constitution and a fondness for women.”

“For sex, you mean.”

“Yes, for that.”

“Will they come calling again?”

“Josef won’t let them in.”

“But they’ll try.”

He shrugged. “It won’t do them any good.” He flashed a wicked grin. “I’m a happily married man.”

She couldn’t help but smile back. “You were wonderful this afternoon. I mean it.” She kissed her fingertips. “It was a beautiful sight.”

“I’ll surpass what you saw today when Will comes to call.”

“I shouldn’t be so shallow, but-”

“You are,” he sardonically finished. “As would anyone be, darling, in the same situation. I know what country society is like-incestuous, exclusive, everyone knowing everything. Did you go to the wedding?”

She shook her head. “I couldn’t.”

“There’s your mistake. Never show your feelings. That’s when the claws come out. You must have been bloodied.”

“I have good friends. In some ways, incestuous as country society may be, it’s not so vicious as the ton.”

“Yes, it is. You must be well liked.”

“I like to think I am.”

“I’m curious. Did this Will marry an heiress richer than you?”

“Yes, but that’s not why he married her.”

“If you say so.”

“Don’t look at me like that. He didn’t marry her for her money.”

“Does Will have money?”

“Some.”

“Ah.”

“Don’t look so smug. He has sufficient wealth.”

She was becoming distrait. “I need a nap,” Oz said, coming to his feet and holding out his hand to Isolde. “Come keep me company. We didn’t sleep much last night.”

“You shouldn’t have said that about Will,” she murmured.

“I’m sorry. Truly.” Reaching down, he grasped her hand and pulled her to her feet. “I’ll make it up to you. Tell me what you want.”

“Because you’re so rich you can give me whatever I want.”

He grinned. “As long as we understand each other.”

She punched him.

He dragged her close, wrapped his arms around her, and held her tightly. “We’re two lost souls, darling. Let me entertain you. At least for now.”

Resting her chin on his chest, she gazed up at him, debating whether to take issue with his characterization. Not in the mood for argument, however, she softly sighed. “You are entertaining…”

“Damn right I am.” He’d honed his skills to a fine art in recent years, dissipation his remedy for painful memory. “And I have what-a fortnight at least to play congenial husband. Maybe more if Compton proves obtuse. You must tell me what you like best in the way of amusement.”

“Surely you know better than I if all the lustful ladies who came to call today are any indication of your competence.”

In his experience, discussing other women with a lover was never beneficial. While disclosing other females’ sexual preferences was not only ill-bred but suicidal. “As I recall, you like to come a few times before you settle into a rhythm,” he offered.

She grinned. “Are you avoiding my question?”

“I certainly am.”

“What if I want specifics? Say about Lady Livingston who never stopped staring at you. Or the Honorable Miss Childers who looked near tears.”

“Why don’t I show you what they like,” he said in order to put an end to her catechism.

“With names attached?”

“I don’t know why, but if it appeals to you, certainly.”

“You’re lying.”

He had a discerning little wife. “And you’re much too persistent. Should I ask you to tell me how you and Will made love? Ah, it’s not quite so amusing now.”

She had the grace to look nonplussed.

“I apologize,” she said. “Although you must admit,” she said with the tenacity he’d found common to women on this subject, “that many distressed lovers begs the question.”

“Look, darling, every one of the ladies who came to tea today is bored. I alleviate the boredom, that’s all.” He allowed himself more honesty with her. But then, having done her the notable service of marrying her, he expected her to be more accommodating to him.

She understood all the ladies wanted Oz for more than that, but she also knew when to call it quits. “So you’d be willing to exert your imagination and finesse for me as well,” she lightly said.

“With pleasure.” Although, there had been a time in his life when making love had been about love and not about lust. “Now, would you like me to bring your cake upstairs?” He appreciated his wife’s good sense. Some women lacked such self-restraint. “I’m taking that,” he said, nodding at the brandy bottle.

“Then, yes. I’ll indulge my gluttonous desires in addition to relieving my boredom.”

“We both will,” he said with a roguish wink.

After showing her into his bedroom, he set down their provisions and waved her toward a chair. “Would you like the services of a maid?”

“Not unless you’re leaving,” she drolly replied.

He turned, the brandy bottle in his hand. “Not likely.”

As he went back to pouring his drink, she surveyed Oz’s bedroom. It was more austere than the room she’d bathed in that morning, the draperies and carpet cool tones of blue, the walls adorned with muted, bucolic murals reminiscent of Claude Lorrain. The furniture was large in scale, the chairs sized to a man, the four-poster bed a Chippendale piece from the previous century.

“Crиme anglaise on your cake?” Oz asked without turning around.

“Yes please.” He might have been her husband of many years so casual his query and tone-like his easy manner at breakfast, or more to the point, like his suave affability with all his fawning lovers who’d come to call today. He was comfortable with women.

He swung around, his drink and her cake in hand. “I suggest we dine in bed. If your sensibilities aren’t averse to such casualness.”

“As you may recall, my sensibilities are rather unencumbered.”

He smiled. “Maybe that’s why I proposed. I found your, shall we say, eagerness charming.”

“While I found your, shall we say, stamina charming,” she returned in teasing mimicry.

“Allow me to put that to good purpose once again.” He nodded toward the bed. “After you eat your cake-or before. Or during,” he said over his shoulder.

She watched him walk away with a degree more infatuation than was advisable considering the practical nature of their marriage. But he was sinfully handsome and devilishly good in bed-the answer to any woman’s dream, which was reason enough if indeed reason even entered the equation in their bizarre arrangement.

And if the sheer beauty of his person wasn’t enough of a lure, she mused, his tailor further enhanced his many charms, the width of his shoulders displayed to advantage beneath his hand-woven tweed jacket, his long, muscular legs impeccably showcased in slim-fitting trousers, his linen dazzling white in contrast to his bronzed skin. In deference to Isolde’s limited wardrobe, he’d not changed from morning dress to meet their guests. He was a considerate husband-particularly while making love.

She found herself suddenly comparing Oz to Will-to the former’s detriment-and immediately chastised herself for fickleness. How could a single night of lovemaking nullify what she’d previously perceived as an enduring attachment. How could she be so shallow?

“If you’re going to daydream, darling, come do so in bed.” Oz had set down the brandy and cake plate and was shrugging out of his jacket. “We can interpret your dreams according to that fellow Freud-society’s newest conceit.”

“Or we could interpret yours,” she lightly returned, reminding herself this was nothing more than amorous sport for her husband.

“Uh-uh. My dreams aren’t for the faint of heart.”

“Pshaw-you don’t frighten me.”

“Nor do I intend to,” he suavely remarked. “I promised to entertain you, I believe.”

“As if I’ve forgotten. I’m afraid I’m no different than all the ladies lusting after you over tea,” she said, untying the ribbon in her hair as she approached him. “Just add me to your list.”

“You forget, I’m a happily married man without a list,” he sportively noted, holding out his hand.

“Your many lovers wouldn’t agree. I believe they’re ever hopeful.” She dropped the twirl of pink ribbon into his open palm and shook out her pale tresses.

“Let them be. I don’t care. I like your hair loose,” he said, deliberately changing the subject. “You remind me of a fresh-faced country lass. My country lass,” he murmured, dropping the ribbon on a table. Reaching out, he slid his fingers through the soft silk of her hair and held her gently captive.

She smiled up at him. “And you’re my irrepressible temptation.”

“A mutual dependency in that regard,” he said a trifle gruffly, surprised at the urgency of his desire. He let his hands drop.

“You don’t like the feeling.”

“No. On the other hand,” he more sensibly acknowledged, turning her and beginning to unhook her gown, “my libido has a narrow focus when it comes to feelings.”

She glanced over her shoulder. “And those feelings are-” “Likely to keep you up all night.”

“How nice. I never have to wait with you.”

“I can pretty much guarantee that.”

But he undressed her without haste, unhooking, unbuttoning, untying with a smooth, deft competence, taking his time. He wasn’t a novice, nor in the mood for slam-bang sex; as for his languid pace-it was a matter of self-discipline.

Less seasoned in the lists of love, Isolde was acutely aware of his touch-the casual drift of his fingers over her skin, the warmth of his palm sliding her dress sleeve down her arm, the occasional brushing contact with his erection as he moved behind her. Each time his hard, solid length grazed her bottom or hip, little anticipatory tremors quivered deep inside her, warming her blood, stirring her skittish senses, making her fully conscious of the heady phrase insatiable longing.

Prior to their meeting at Blackwood’s, she’d always considered sex a pleasure and delight, but never a craving. And now Oz had but to mildly bestir himself and she was instantly in rut. If it didn’t feel so gloriously divine, she might consider being mortified by her shameless response. Maybe later, she decided, wallowing in a voluptuary warmth.

“I should make you wait,” Oz said, well versed in female arousal. Dropping her chemise on the carpet, he turned her around and calmly surveyed her lush nudity. “You’ll thank me for it when you climax.”

She flushed. “So cool and collected. Am I boring you?” He flicked a glance downward. “Does it look like I’m bored?” he said, laughter stirring in his eyes.

His cool equanimity was infuriating but provocative as well, and whether prompted by lust or vexation, determined to ruffle Oz’s unruffled calm, she threw herself at him.

He grunted softly at the sudden impact but otherwise appeared unmoved, save for his libido, which reacted predictably to a nude female in close proximity.

“Umm, he noticed me…” Wrapping her arms around Oz’s neck, Isolde melted into his hard, lean body and rising on tiptoe, kissed him with wild, wanton spontaneity.

“There,” she whispered long moments later, dropping back on her heels and leaning back against his light embrace. “Even you’re not completely impervious.”

“Hardly. For your information, I’m not in the habit of asking women to marry me.”

She smiled faintly. “So you’re a little enamored of me.”

“Of course,” he said as if he meant it, knowing what was expected in amorous play. “Now, do I gather we’re in race mode again?” Her eagerness was charming. “No foreplay, no waiting, no cake or brandy?”

“If you don’t think me too rude.” Isolde fluttered her lashes in sham demure.

Oz chuckled. “You’re going to wear me out.”

“He seems in fine form.” She slipped her hand downward and ran her fingers up the length of his erection, patently obvious under the soft wool of his trousers.

“It’s the last thing to go,” he said with a grin.

“If you’re tired, I could just use him. You needn’t do anything.”

He spread his arms wide. “Who could refuse?”

“So I’m in charge?” she airily remarked, taking a step back.

“You’re in charge.” The truth was always flexible in situations like this.

“Didn’t you say that to Lady Mortimer at the Dorchester hunt?”

“I don’t recall.” Damn Lizabeth. He hadn’t thought Isolde had heard her whispered comments at tea.

“You were probably too occupied at the time to notice-what with Lady Mortimer’s very devoted attentions and the possibility of discovery imminent. What was that stable boy’s name?”

Silently cursing Lizabeth’s brazen impertinence, he said, “She was trying to embarrass me. Ignore her.”

“I must say, the image she provoked was intriguing. Do you do things like that often?”

“Christ, can we not talk about Lizabeth?”

“Lizabeth? Is that her name?”

His gaze narrowed. “Where are we going with this?”

Dropping to her knees, Isolde glanced up at Oz. “I thought we might go to an imaginary stable where no stable boy’s likely to walk in and interrupt us.”

“Need I brace myself?” A guarded note echoed in his voice.

“Heavens no. Why would I harm the instrument of all my pleasure?” Isolde brightly said, beginning to untie one of Oz’s shoes. “Our relationship is completely laissez-faire anyway, so what you did with Lady Mortimer is strictly your business. Lift your foot.”

For an inexplicable moment he wasn’t sure he liked the sound of the phrase completely laissez-faire when it came to his wife. But as quickly as the thought surfaced, he dispelled so outrй a notion. Isolde was perfectly right about their personal freedoms, and what was even more perfect-she was about to perform fellatio on him. How very wifely.

What was also perfect-as in beautiful to behold-was his wife’s provocative pose. She was kneeling at his feet, all lush, pink flesh and shapely charms, her pale, frothy hair loose and tumbled, the nape of her neck exposed-in a primal vision of submission.

An utterly captivating image.

Deferential and compliant.

He was hard-pressed not to rip open his trousers, tumble her back onto the carpet, and mount her like some randy animal.

Sucking in a breath, he restrained himself. He could wait.

Or maybe he could wait. Having disposed of his shoes and socks, Isolde had suddenly risen to her knees and her upturned face was inches from his crotch.

“You don’t mind being used, do you?” She smiled. “Not that it matters whether you do or not since I’m in charge.” She gently squeezed the bulge in his trousers. “Umm… do you think he’s getting bigger?”

A rhetorical question, he supposed as his erection surged higher and he wondered where she’d acquired her coquettish flair-the combination of breathy innocence and voluptuous splendor highly erotic.

“You’re not asleep, are you?” she playfully asked when he didn’t reply.

He smiled and shook his head.

“Then let me know,” she said, intent on disturbing her husband’s damnable composure, “if I’m too rough.” Having witnessed the full extent of Oz’s impressive harem over tea, she was feeling a stab of jealousy-useless but real. “Although if I interpreted Lady Mortimer’s comment correctly you don’t mind a little roughness.” She began opening the buttons on his trouser fly. “Or did she say roughhouse,” she sardonically queried, “which is something else altogether?”

“You don’t seriously think I’m going to fight with you?”

“I was just wondering how common this is for you.”

“With a wife? You tell me.”

“And you tell me if I’m doing this right,” she said with equal impudence, sliding the last button free. “Oh hell.”

“I’ll do it,” he offered, interpreting her expletive, swiftly releasing the small pearl closures on his underwear, experiencing the fierce untrammeled lust specific to the provocative Miss Perceval so recently become his wife. And oh hell to that, too-in spades.

He clenched his hands at his sides as she struggled to draw his engorged penis from the confines of his clothing, her untutored efforts stirring previously unstirred emotions, her naivete captivating to a worldly man. She elicited a tender regard quite different from what passed for feeling in the beau monde.

Then his erection sprang free, Isolde gasped, wide-eyed, and Oz took solace in the fact that he wasn’t alone in his singular fixation.

Her grip tightened, and he tensed against the prodigious shock to his senses. There was no reasonable explanation for his fierce response, even less to the near-orgasmic jolt that streaked up his spine when she forced his engorged cock away from his belly, slid her fingers up the long, rigid length, whispered, “He’s huge!” and opening her mouth, availed herself of Lady Mortimer’s favorite plaything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She choked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I do. I wasn’t finished with you.”

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

“Are you trying to start a fight again?”

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

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

“Of course not.”

“How do I know?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck me anyway.”

“I should refuse.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Maybe I won’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Was that poetry?”

He nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Speaking of nuance-once more before morning?”

“I’m going to die of pleasure.”

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

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

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

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

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

He smiled. Or all of the above.

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

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

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