She moved her hips in a faint rotation, measuring the towering grandeur inside her. “Shouldn’t I?” She smiled. “Surely, you of all people shouldn’t be questioning female arousal.”
“I’m not.” A blatant mendacity. Raising his hands, he cupped the plump weight of her resplendent breasts and struggled against a rash need to exert his authority, to mark her somehow as his. Fighting the urge to ruthlessly crush the soft flesh in his hands out of some inexcusable anger over something that shouldn’t matter, he gruffly said, “Show me what else you like. Entertain me.”
It was impossible to overlook the umbrage in his voice. “I’m sure your repertoire is more extensive than mine,” she said, not sure she dared smile, although she found his sulkiness appealing. “But I’d be happy to try entertaining you because I’m very pleased you’re here.” Rising smoothly to her knees, she slid her finger down his slippery cock. “And mostly here,” she added, plunging downward again, shuddering as her bottom met his thighs and their bodies were irresistibly joined.
It only took a moment to erase the unwanted images of other men enjoying her largesse. He was a sensible man. “Yes, definitely there.” But still troubled by his mad, unconscionable passion for this woman, by his outrageous cravings, his voice held a hint of curtness. “Now a little more speed, my pet, or I might decide to leave.”
She knew he wouldn’t. She knew he could no more leave than she could. But he’d given her so much already tonight, given her countless orgasms with exquisite artistry and skill and courtesy she could do no less for him.
He didn’t last very long after that.
And she wondered if he was so expert that he could come at will. Whatever the reason, he said, “Thank you,” through gritted teeth a few moments later, lifted her off him, and climaxed in his shirttails with a kind of efficiency she found strangely annoying. When it shouldn’t matter in the least. When they were both here for casual sex. When neither wanted anything more.
Correction. The Earl of Dalgliesh inexplicably wanted to possess her body and soul, own her completely, not let another man touch her. He wanted her with a blind rage and with an undemanding tenderness, and he could never have her that way or any way.
He was married.
He had responsibilities.
It was impossible.
CHAPTER 8
DALGLIESH HAD ROLLED off the bed so quickly after he’d climaxed Zelda was tempted to teasingly say, Was I that bad? But clearly he wasn’t in a playful mood; he was obviously determined to resist further dalliance. And while she sympathized with his wish to avoid entanglements, selfishly, she preferred he wait a few more hours before he reverted to type. “Don’t leave just yet,” she said, her voice deliberately mild, well mannered. “Please.”
Dalgliesh was stripping off his soiled shirt, and once his head emerged from the garment, he said without looking at her, “I shouldn’t have come.”
“But now that you’re here, why not—”
“No.” Dropping his shirt, he reached for his trousers.
Zelda’s lounging pose altered at the sight of his tautly muscled body on full display. She’d not seen him completely naked before. He was magnificent—like a gladiator from ancient times, she thought, coming up on her elbows to better take in the bonny sight. His tall, broad-shouldered form was honed to the inch, a hard, tensile energy and brute force conspicuous beneath the perfect conditioning.
His dark skin was even darker in the checkered light, his rough-hewn strength enhanced by the gloom, the raw, primal image stark—as if a barbarian had entered her bedchamber, or perhaps the devil in disguise or maybe only an archetypical libertine with an indefatigable cock.
Not that conjecture or cerebral concerns mattered in the least with lust flaring through her senses, ungovernable desire beating at her brain, Dalgliesh’s magnificent erection, splendid in profile, tantalizing her gaze. “Please, I’m without pride,” she whispered. “Don’t go. I need you.”
He turned, his dark brows drawn together in a slash of discontent. “Sorry, I can’t help you.”
“Why not? I only want a few more hours of your time.”
“My time?” Mocking and truculent, he slid one leg into his trousers.
“You know what I mean.” Sitting up, she slipped off the bed and moved toward him because she couldn’t bear to let him go without at least trying to dissuade him.
“Look, this was a mistake.” He thrust his other leg into his trousers and jerked them up at her approach, as if shielding himself from temptation.
“Do I frighten you that much?” She gazed up at him from very close range.
“Yes.” He took a step back.
“What can I say to change your mind?”
He surveyed her lush, shapely form—a swift, expressionless glance. “Nothing. You’re too tempting, that’s all.” He finished buttoning his trousers.
“It’s only sex,” she softly said.
“That’s the problem. It isn’t.” He wanted to fuck her until he couldn’t fuck anymore, and then he wanted to fuck her some more.
“It could be only sex.”
“I’m leaving in the morning.” He reached for his coat. “Did I mention that?”
“No.” Her heart began beating wildly. “Why?”
“Violetta. Why else?” he said, sliding his arms into the coat sleeves. “I’m taking Chris with me.”
“If we won’t be seeing each other again, surely you can stay a little longer.” She marveled that she could speak so calmly when she felt as though she were falling off the ends of the earth.
“Jesus, will you stop?” But his erection was throbbing with every beat of his heart, and he saw her glance at the obvious bulge in his trousers.
“Perhaps he wouldn’t mind staying.”
“I’m years past such juvenile impulses,” he growled.
“May I touch him then?”
“No.” He took another step back.
She followed him that time, reached up to lightly run her fingertips down his throat, and when he sucked in his breath, she slid her hand lower, over the crisp, dark hair on his chest, the hard, ridged contours of his stomach, the dip of his navel, stopping for a moment on the trouser button at his waist before beginning to slide it free.
“Don’t.” He brushed her hand away. “I’m not looking for any more problems in my life,” he said, his voice softly caustic. “And you’re a problem.”
“I won’t be I promise. It’s only sex, only that. In the morning you’re free of me. Please stay.”
He still hadn’t moved.
She was encouraged enough to slide her hands inside his open coat, twine her arms around his waist, lean into his tense body, and glancing up past his rigid jaw, offer him a small smile. “I’m without artifice, if that helps. I only want . . . him,” she said, moving her hips faintly to underscore her statement.
For a lengthy interval he didn’t breathe, every muscle and sinew in his body taut with restraint, self-denial contesting gut-wrenching desire. When his lungs were beginning to hurt from the strain, he finally exhaled. Then without legitimate excuse or justification, without so much as a modicum of logic or reason, he said, “You win.” His gaze narrowed. “But I leave at first light.”
“Yes, yes, whatever you say.” Her smile was bright with joy, and pulling his head down, she kissed him in exultation. “You won’t be sorry,” she whispered, releasing him, beginning to slide his coat from his shoulders. “You may order me about at will.”
“Christ, don’t say that.” He lifted his hand in a small wordless gesture of futility. “I’m already out of control.”
“We both are. If you hadn’t come, I would have found you, so don’t talk to me about control. And I never prowl the hallways looking for a bed partner—a particular bed partner,” she amended at his sudden frown. “But I would have tonight, so do me a favor and stop thinking so much.” She held out her hand. “Come, I want to feel you inside me for however long you can stay.”
> A faint smile appeared. “Is that all you want—a five-hour erection? Why didn’t you say so?” But he took her hand and brought it to his lips, his gaze amused. “So then,” he murmured, his breath warm on her fingertips. “It seems I have my work cut out for me. How would you like it, Miss MacKenzie? Standing, sitting, or lying down?”
“All three.”
Sometime later, after being dazzled by Dalgliesh’s intemperate inventory of voluptuary sensation, after a particularly intense orgasm that left her light-headed and faint, Zelda lifted her head from his shoulder, slowly raised her eyelids, and expressed amazement in the high arch of her brows. “That was a professional performance.”
I know. “You’re easy to please,” he said instead. “Can you stand or should I carry you to the bed?”
“I consider myself”—she drew in a ragged breath—“very fortunate to have met you. I can stand.”
Unwrapping her legs from around his waist, he carefully set her on her feet. “We’re both fortunate,” he said, dropping a kiss on the bridge of her nose. “Would you like to rest a moment?”
But toward dawn, even two wild, insatiable lovers needed some rest, and lying side by side, they momentarily paused in their exploration of prodigal sensation.
Zelda may have dozed briefly. But he must have sensed her coming awake, even though it was dark, even though she hadn’t moved. She’d only opened her eyes.
“Please,” he said into the silence. “I dislike pillow talk.”
“As do I. I was about to frighten you instead.” She felt him stiffen and wondered how many women there had been to so prejudice his response. But a woman who’d braved the jungles of Brazil wasn’t easily intimidated. “I just wanted to tell you I think I’m in love. You needn’t reply. You’re only indirectly involved. Did you sleep?” she asked, as if she’d not uttered the word love.
Crisis averted, he softly exhaled. “No, I didn’t sleep.”
“Do you lie awake often?”
“No, never.”
She giggled. “Dare I hope that—”
“No, you may not. And I don’t want to talk about that either.”
“What if I want to?” She’d never been in love before; the sense of wonder was difficult to ignore.
“Later,” he said, and rolling over her, he stopped her from talking in the way he knew best.
But it was different in the end, like it always was with her, the sunny landscape beyond the threshold of that open door luring him on, offering him not only sensual delight but a mystifying happiness. He wouldn’t call it love; he was less impetuous or perhaps more cynical. But whatever it was, the concept of a future suddenly held promise when the word had been obliterated from his vocabulary in the last few years, when he’d been living day to day, minute to minute. Without hope.
Head over heels, heedless of logic, Zelda was blissfully steeped in love, the impossibilities muzzled, the world brushed aside, only the presence of the captivating man who dispensed pleasure so effortlessly of any significance. “Tell me we’re completely alone in this enchanted universe,” she whispered.
He smiled. “Of course. The universe is ours alone.”
“Do you believe in fate?”
“I do.” Another lie, but the truth wouldn’t serve.
She softly laughed. “How glib you are.”
“With you, I’m not sure what I am,” he said, scrupulously honest in that, at least. Not that nuances of truth mattered with dawn fast approaching. Taking note of the faint light beginning to extinguish the shadows in the room, he said with a novel feeling of regret, “We still have a little time, darling. Kiss me.”
CHAPTER 9
HE SHOULD HAVE left long ago. He actually did once—or nearly did, but Zelda pulled him back. Not that he needed any persuasion with her warm, welcoming body the ultimate Nirvana and his libido operating within the very narrow range of sex, sex, and more sex. When the meaning of Keats’s phrase, “O for a life of sensations rather than of thoughts!” had been gloriously revealed in all its sensual manifestations, and he’d not quite had his fill.
“Stay, stay, stay,” she’d whisper when he’d contemplate leaving.
“Give me reason to stay,” he’d softly say.
She always did.
She had a fertile imagination.
To which he’d add a refinement or two, his entire nervous system slave to sensation.
But even hot-blooded lust was ultimately susceptible to besieging reason, and the increasing sounds of activity in the hallway gave warning that the household was stirring. Servants would be knocking on the door shortly, wanting to light fires and draw baths. Soon the entire house party would be awake.
While Dalgliesh was indifferent to respectability, he knew Zelda was vulnerable to scandal. “I really have to go,” he finally said, coming up on his elbows, resting his weight on his forearms. “Unless you relish being the titillating topic of conversation at breakfast,” he dryly added.
“I’m not sure I care, but yes, yes, go.” Zelda reached up to lightly brush the dark stubble on Alec’s jaw. “And thank you again, my dear Dalgliesh, for your many and spectacular”—she smiled—“kindnesses.”
“My pleasure.” But her smile gave rise to an odd rush of unwanted affection and, swiftly withdrawing from her body, he rolled off the bed, putting distance between himself and temptation. Although the sight of Zelda all rosy and pink from lovemaking lying within reach was damned enticing. He drew in a hard breath and spoke with the civility the occasion demanded. “In terms of kindness, darling, you were perfection. I’ve never enjoyed myself more.”
Exquisitely indulged, the sweet, lush afterglow still pulsing through her body, Zelda smiled. “Such a tame word—enjoy . . .”
“Ring the word in diamonds and pearls and trumpet it in the square for all to hear,” he said with a grin. “Is that better?”
She laughed. “I didn’t know you had a poet’s soul.”
“And I didn’t know you were Circe’s sister. You kept me here much too long.”
“In that case, this must be where I politely say—if you’re ever in the Highlands . . .”
“I’ll stop by and visit,” he smoothly replied, and bending, he kissed her lightly as he would any woman who’d entertained him for the night. But rather than feel the need to escape as was his wont, he found himself reluctant to leave. A circumstance both terrifying and—tantalizing. Although it was pure lunacy to want her still after so many hours of fucking—a total breach of custom and realistically unacceptable . Which thought firmly coerced his insubordinate feelings into compliance. “Perhaps I’ll come up for salmon fishing next summer,” he pleasantly said.
“You’ll have excellent fishing.” She didn’t believe him for a minute.
“I’ll bring Chris.” Another lie.
“I’d like that.” They should have been on stage.
“You should try and get some sleep.”
“I couldn’t possibly sleep. I’m still blissfully aglow, thanks to you.” Zelda languidly stretched, feeling infinitely content, sated, replete. Check off another satisfied conquest for the talented Earl of Dalgliesh, she reflected without malice, relaxing against the pillows as he began gathering his clothes. He was truly talented, with a subtle finesse unusual in a man his size. No wonder he was in demand. “So how did I do?” she playfully queried.
He looked up, his waistcoat dangling from his fingers. “Do?”
She grinned. “Did I meet your expectations?”
His smile was charming and boyish and quite genuine. “You far exceeded my expectations in every way.”
He didn’t ask her whether he’d met her expectations, she noticed. But then he no doubt knew from considerable experience that he had. “Will you stay at your hunting lodge long?” His smile vanished so swiftly, she was tempted to say something outlandish. “I was only making conversation,” she remarked, deciding to behave. “You needn’t take alarm.”
“Then, no, I won’t be staying long.
” But his voice held a palpable reserve, as if he’d learned to be wary of women asking questions.
“I’m off to France next week for more hunting.” That should calm his fears.
“Where?” His clothes gathered, he was swiftly dressing.
“Fontainebleau.”
“Excellent coursing ground. You should have some good riding.” At which point, adept at morning-after small talk, Dalgliesh turned the conversation to safe topics like horses and hunting.
Zelda understood the protocol; she carried her part with equal politesse. But she couldn’t deny the fact that Dalgliesh intrigued her. A shame he was unavailable.
Although, he had sought her out last night, when, by his own admission, he would have preferred remaining aloof. He’d also stayed much longer than he’d wished. Was it possible she’d engaged his interest beyond the ordinary?
Might she enjoy his incredible talents again?
Alas—his reputation suggested otherwise.
“Lost in thought?”
She looked up to find the earl standing at the bedside, dressed, or more aptly, semidressed, with his shirt unusable, his waistcoat stuffed in his pants’ pocket, his shoes in hand, and a polite smile on his handsome face. She grinned. “Yes, and you don’t want to know.”
Her reply set off warning bells. “Then I’ll thank you again for a lovely evening and take my leave.”
“It was rather splendid, wasn’t it? My compliments, Dalgliesh, on your competence.”
He grinned. “Pleased to be of service.” With a dip of his head, he turned and strode away.
Damn, damn, damn. An overwhelming sense of loss washed over her. She felt bereft, as if some sweet magic had eluded her, when plainly no magic was involved, only the Earl of Dalgliesh’s glorious cock, unrivaled skill, and stamina. For heaven’s sake, get a grip, she charged her errant emotions. It’s only sex.
But her heart leaped as he paused at the door.
He’d already turned the knob, releasing the bolt from the strike plate—a slight tug was all that was required. Do it! the voice inside his head commanded. A second passed. Don’t be a fool! Open the door! But he didn’t and another second elapsed, a third . . .