Golden Paradise (28 page)

Placing his palms with infinite slowness under her breasts, he lifted them high, surveying their mounded beauty. His eyes were calculating as a critic; no soft emotion shone from their blackness. When he considered all the other men who might have admired them thusly, his temper flared. He was angry and tormented, twisted with jealousy, and it showed in his stance and moody expression, in his deplorable aggression and in his words.

"What do they usually say? How lovely, Countess?" Each quiet word was hollow with aversion.

"I don't answer to you," Lisaveta whispered, stung by the rudeness of his remark, trying for a moment to twist free until his fingers squeezed sharply and she instantly stood quiescent.

"I think we've gone over this before. The concept," Stefan softly said, "of physical superiority."

"Stefan, this isn't like you." She hesitated for a moment and then added. "I wish you'd reconsider."

He almost laughed. How quaint and bland a statement after he'd traveled across the expanse of Russia to do exactly this. "I'm afraid I won't," he said.

"I'll resist." Her voice was flat.

"Fine."

He didn't seem concerned and the mildness of his reply was more unnerving than his harsh anger. She knew she couldn't prevail against his strength. "Will entreaties help?" She was appealing, her voice softly earnest, trying any measure to deter him. Any second someone could walk out on the terrace, any moment they could be seen.

He released her breasts and for a moment she thought she'd succeeded in deflecting his purpose, but he didn't even glance at her when he answered, absorbed in lifting the gathered folds of skirt out of his way. "No," he said, struggling momentarily with the lawn petticoat beneath the burgundy silk, "nothing will help." The lightweight charmeuse fabric of her gown and the fine tissue of her petticoat was crushed around her hips in swift efficiency, and without pause, single-minded with jealousy and desire, Stefan slipped his fingers between the
opening
in her drawers and slid them inside her.

With shame and consternation Lisaveta felt his fingers glide into her moist interior without resistance, his nearness alone rousing her passion despite all rationale; he had only to touch her and she welcomed him, insensible to her anger or logic, as if her body could anticipate the pleasure he offered and willingly, selfishly, turn liquid with wanting. Fighting the staggering impulse to sigh in satisfaction, she stood motionless under his hands, resisting with all her faculties the building waves of bewitching sensation, determined to appear unmoved.

She'd simply remain impassive, she told herself, her eyes already closing against the pulsing between her thighs; she
wouldn't
respond, she'd ignore the flame racing through her blood and heating her skin, bringing a flush to her face and throat and naked breasts. She'd forcibly detach herself from the languid provocation of Stefan's gently stroking fingers, from their acute, intense penetration. She'd
not
allow him the satisfaction of—she caught her breath as his fingers touched her deep inside and uncurbed pleasure pulsed upward.

He smiled at her response and his success and then glanced for a moment at the terrace wall above them. Had he heard voices?

He moved her back a few steps until they were in the deep shadow, partially concealed, should someone walk down the steps, by a lacy pungent juniper, its deep bluish-green black in the moonlight.

"Stefan, you're mad," Lisaveta whispered, her back against the cool stone, her spine rigid because she, too, had heard the voices now.

"Mad for you, Countess," he
murmured,
intent on unbuttoning his trousers.

Oh, Lord, Lisaveta thought, terrified and aroused and staggered by her own wanton desire. "Wait, Stefan…" She spoke in a hushed undertone. "Wait till they're gone… or we could go… somewhere else. Stefan, please…"

But he was lifting her already as though she hadn't spoken. Holding her with the weight of his arm immobile for a moment and bending his legs, he entered her without preliminaries, his urgency reflective of his driving need. He was unconcerned with her pleasure or displeasure, oblivious to the people above them; he wished only to assuage his turbulent passion and in so doing exorcise his tempestuous fierce craving for her. He held her securely against the granite wall in a rhythm of demand, forcing her entire weight upward with the sheer strength of his compelling hunger, all the jealousy eating away at him, exploding in each forceful stroke, all of his anger at the Countess's favored position as the reigning belle of Saint Petersburg provoking his punishing power. He would, he thought, driving in impatiently, the frustration of their separation and his lengthy journey impelling each upward thrust, rid himself once and for all of his tormenting intoxication.

"Where do you suppose they went?" a woman's voice said, drifting over their heads in the moonlight.

And buried deep inside Lisaveta, Stefan closed his eyes against the drumming ecstasy racing through his senses.

"I'd say they're in his carriage on their way back to his palace. He looked like a man in a hurry." A knowing inflection underlay the masculine voice.

Knowing that, hearing that, feeling the full impact of that haste, Lisaveta wondered how she could be so defenseless against the pleasure Stefan provoked, immune to scandal and the presence of people a scant few feet away.

His mouth closed over hers, teasing, rousing, as if to say, "Ignore them, let me take your mind off them, think only of seductive feeling…like that and that and that," the rhythm of his lower body a powerful adjunct to his enticing tongue.

Wanting only to sustain the pervading rapture, to feel him more intensely, all her resistance forgotten with the throbbing splendor beating through her senses, the couple above them relegated to oblivion, Lisaveta slid her arms around Stefan's shoulders and pulled him closer. Her mouth opened to his sweet demands, her heated body melted around him.

As if she'd spoken, as if she'd said remember, he instantly wanted more. He wanted more
leverage,
he wanted to press deeper, he wanted with feverish impatience to enhance the tantalizing bliss. Lifting her suddenly, he held her with one arm while he wrapped her legs around his waist, then swiftly, as if these were the last few moments in eternity, his hands slid down her back to slip under her bottom. Supporting her entire weight now, secure in his possession, he slowly penetrated, focusing with self-indulgent intemperance on burying himself to the limits of his need.

Lisaveta gasped as extravagant pleasure washed over her.

Stefan held his breath for a moment, absorbing the riveting luxury of unrestrained sensation.

"Nikki's going to be looking for the Countess soon. Someone went to fetch him from the card room." The female voice held that cozy chatty ambience of casual gossip.

It was madness to cling to him, Lisaveta thought, hearing those ominous words, sheer unadulterated lunacy to let
herself
thrill to such voluptuous feelings. But she was inundated by a feverish desire so torrid it was melting away every sensibility in her body save her own carnal urges.

She'd been celibate too long—it had been three weeks since the mountains. Was that
excuse
enough for this madness? She chose to ignore the fact that no man of her numerous suitors in that interval had so much as piqued her interest, sexual or otherwise. And under the circumstances, crude as they were at this moment, with lust dominant and love unmentioned, it was wise of her psyche to suppress that thought.

"I'd be interested in Nadejda's reaction. Should we go inside and watch the fireworks?" The man's voice was infused with a keen curiosity. "Her scenes are always memorable, and Bariatinsky and the Countess seem to have left."

At that moment, Lisaveta cried out, overcome with a peaking intensity of rapture.

"Did you hear that?" It was the woman's voice.

Stefan's mouth swiftly covered the remnant of Lisaveta's cry, responding automatically, his reaction to danger instinctive, while his body continued uninterrupted
its
tantalizing and measured rhythm.

"It was the orchestra. See, there it is again." The couple's voices receded as they returned to the ballroom.

Stefan's head came up then and he grinned, his dark glance regarding Lisaveta with amusement. "You'll have to be
more quiet
,
dushka,"
he murmured, "or we'll draw a crowd."

"If not for
your
self-indulgence," she whispered, "the problem wouldn't exist."

"If not for
your
popularity, Countess," Stefan sardonically replied arresting all movement for a moment, "there wouldn't be a problem."

"I
don't have a problem." Her indignant whisper hung for a moment in the darkness.

"Neither do I," Stefan lazily drawled, and just as she was beginning to think she could defy her pulsing needs and gain control over her feelings once again, Stefan moved inside her, setting every intemperate nerve in her body to tingling.

No!
she
silently disavowed, feeling the first tremulous flutters begin, Stefan's eyes too observant, too knowing. She shouldn't, she mustn't climax,
she
must resist behaving like a lascivious trollop under that amused insolent stare.

"No-o-o-o," she whimpered against the injustice of her emotions and her peaking ecstasy.

Lisaveta's gratification triggered Stefan's own release. Their passion matched as it had so often in the past, and he fought against responding so exactly to her unbridled sensuality. She was flamboyantly sexual, resplendent in her voluptuousness, and every man reacted to her as he did.

He tried then to restrain himself, to set himself apart from her legions of lovers. He intended to use her for his own purposes, pragmatic purposes; he wouldn't be tempered by her response, and he controlled his prodigal impulses for a moment more. But Lisaveta reached up then to kiss his mouth in unthinking desire as she peaked, her lips soft and sweet tasting as he remembered, and he groaned into their lush resiliency, felt his shuddering climax begin and knew he couldn't stop himself.

"No…" he softly disclaimed as his white-hot lust poured into her.

"No," they whispered in unison as their bodies met in perfect harmony and the universe stood for a suspended moment in starlit brilliance around them.

Short minutes later, tugging the lace ruffles up over her breasts, he patted them lightly in place, shook out the lace flounce on her shoulders and then slid her petticoat and the burgundy silk of her skirt down over her legs. Without expression, he buttoned his trousers and tucked in his shirt while Lisaveta stood in shock and anger, furious at him… and at herself for responding so intensely. Still without speaking, he straightened the cuffs of his shirt, adjusting them to his jacket sleeves as though it mattered with no one in sight, and then with a quiet, "Thank you, Countess," he walked away.

She watched him stroll down to the shoreline and then disappear into the birches bordering the lawn, wanting to strike out at him in outrage, wanting to follow him with a screaming tirade of wrathful indignation, wanting also, unfortunately— disobedient thought—to cling to his arm and say, "Take me with you."

Her feelings were in untidy anarchy, a complicated muddle of wishful fantasy, lovesick yearning and indiscriminate rage. He was too beautiful and self-assured, too sought after and resistant to love. And it was bitter fate that she should want him anyway.

Still warm, with cheeks flushed and pulse pounding, Lisaveta welcomed the sea breeze. Shutting her eyes briefly, she leaned back against the cool granite, letting the sensations of sated passion subside. She shouldn't have been so physically receptive, she thought uneasily; she should have been less susceptible, shown more control and resisted him. Why couldn't she coolly deal with Stefan, save herself the humiliation of matching his need with her own, instead of crying out in delight, clinging to him, wanting him desperately? His motives, though, were never in question, even if hers were disordered and bewildering; his were purely
carnal
. And while he denied being drunk tonight, she wondered if perhaps he was. How else did one explain his shocking behavior?

But perhaps Stefan lived constantly on the brink of scandal; maybe if she were to ask, Nikki and Alisa would confirm that seizing women in ballrooms and making love to them where
all the
world might observe was ordinary procedure for Prince Bariatinsky. He did, after all, number Catherine the Great and Prince Orlov among his ancestors, and both had been monumental egos in an era that subscribed to monumentality as a credo. And from all Militza had told her of Stefan's father and mother, they had shown every sign of regarding impulse as a virtue.

And while she might decry the vice of capricious impulse, she in fact had reacted just as spontaneously. Her initial refusal had stemmed from anger. She had wanted him, too, and he must have been aware of her body's response even as she protested.

It was impossible any longer to deny her need of him. She'd proved it, demonstrably, tempestuously, and she might as well confront the truth.

She belonged to the legion of women—ex-lovers, current lovers and future lovers—who found Stefan irresistible.