Susan Johnson (13 page)

He opened them and actually saw her.

“I’m very near orgasm, if you don’t mind,” Annabelle said ever so sweetly, as though in compensation for her recent sharp tone.

“So you’d like a little help.” Duff’s voice was normal—and amused.

“Yes, something less fevered, if you don’t mind.” A honeyed, frictionless intonation.

He almost said,
Is there some diagram you’d like me to follow?
but she’d been obliging to him in his delirium, so he smiled instead and said, “How can I refuse such a sweet-tempered lady?”

“Don’t tease, Duff. I don’t have much time.”

“Your servant, ma’am,” he murmured suavely, immediately shifting into a rhythm of exquisite delicacy and finesse. “And if I hurt you, I profoundly apologize…”

“I’m much too wet to be hurt.”

“Good.” He smiled. “You like me, then.”

“Rather a lot, as you can tell.”

“Perhaps I can make you like me even better.” He grasped her hips, his fingers splayed wide. “Tell me what you think of this?” Driving forward, he held the crest of his erection against her womb with the quintessential degree of pressure—that knowledge acquired from his French governess who had not only taught him French but a great number of ways to please a woman.

In this case, another woman profited by Mademoiselle Belloc’s teachings. Awash in glorious sensation, Annabelle was momentarily speechless, unless one considered a long, low moan a creditable utterance.

Not that Duff was necessarily expecting a reply, although her feverish little moans signaled a degree of success. And when he withdrew marginally before plunging in again, her squeal of dismay caused him to smile. A very brief time later, when the lady had been whimpering as though she were being deprived of something she desperately wanted, Duff casually said, “I’m going to come in you now.”

“Thank you,” she breathed, as though she had been transformed into some covetous wanton without constraint and her body was fueled by lust—not to mention a lurid partiality for a disreputable marquis she should know better than to fancy. “Thank you so very, very much,” she purred, ignoring niceties of judgement for more gratifying pleasures. “How splendid of you…”

He should have taken alarm. Particularly for his own shocking assertion; he never climaxed in women. Not that Annabelle’s blanket submission shouldn’t have been equally unnerving.

But neither were fully cognizant of the rules today.

“Ready?” he facilely inquired, shifting slightly against the warm resiliency of her soft flesh.

“Hmmm…”

It was the most seductive murmur he’d ever had the good fortune to hear. Dipping his head, he dropped a kiss on her luscious pink mouth. “You set the pace, sweet puss.”

Had he not been completely enamored for reasons unknown, he might have taken issue with her virtuoso technical accomplishments. He was accorded the full indulgence of her nimble vaginal muscles, the captivating witchery so intense he could feel the rapturous sensations jolt his brain when she flexed around his cock in a particularly subtle way. And she knew an ingenious method of moving her hips that was stunning. He literally stopped breathing each time she artfully stirred her pelvis in that piquant fashion.

As for the marquis, he apparently had the ability to stay rock-hard indefinitely. If she wasn’t currently the recipient of that tantalizing aptitude, Annabelle might have allowed her jealousy to surface. As it was, she was not so foolish.

But they were both so thoroughly enthralled and irrepressibly in heat that what would have been annoyances became instead the merest bagatelles.

They were both operating—or fucking, as it were—outside the normal perimeters of their lives.

They both understood it.

They were functioning beyond the pale.

When they finally came in a glorious, sublime flush of rapture, Duff found the nirvana that had always eluded him.

Annabelle might have said something thoroughly unacceptable in terms of love before she lost consciousness.

Actually, she did.

W
hen she came awake she was in Duff’s arms.

He was seated, holding her in his lap, and as her eyes fluttered open, he smiled. “You said it’s been a while. Welcome back.”

He was lounging against the headboard, looking cool and insouciant, and for a small, heated moment, she resented his imperturbability. Unable to curb her pique, she said pettishly, “Apparently you suffered no ill effects from your year’s celibacy.”

“As a matter of fact, I’ve never felt better. And by the way,” he said with a grin, “I love you, too.”

“I never said that!”

“
Au contraire
,” he said, looking amused.

“Well, if I did,” she caviled,” I meant sex-love, not love-love.”

“It didn’t sound like it to me,” he murmured in a cheerful singsong.

She was blushing cherry-red at her gaucherie. “Then I certainly apologize. I must have been much enamored with your sexual expertise—and him.” She touched his barely diminished erection that lay between her hip and his stomach.

“Then we both thank you,” Duff replied with a dip of his head. “But I’m not averse to love-love, either.”

“Don’t tease. You are the last person in the world to utter such nonsense and I am the last person in the world to believe it.”

He grinned. “I don’t know about you—although I daresay your swoon may have been an indication of some powerful feelings—but personally, I saw nirvana. So don’t discard love-love out of hand, darling.”

If she weren’t who she was, and if Duff wasn’t who
he
was,
and
if she wasn’t once more in a cooler frame of mind, she might have been inclined to consider the possibility. Under the circumstances, however, any question of love was ludicrous and impossible. “Very well, I shan’t,” she replied, rather than argue about something so ridiculous.

“Does this mean we’re betrothed?” he inquired blithely.

“It means you may give me another orgasm when you feel up to it again.”

“Better yet,” he noted sportively. “Although,” Duff added, running a fingertip lightly down her wet cleft. “We should wipe you up.” Grabbing a handful of sheet, he began swabbing at the fusion of semen and her pearly dew.

She clutched his wrist. “Wait!” Taking a shallow breath, she exhaled before giving him leave to continue with a nod. “Carefully, if you please,” she murmured.

“I
did
hurt you, didn’t I?” he said, looking distressed. “I’m
so
sorry—I was afraid something like that might—”

“I’m fine,” she interrupted. “More than fine,” she added with a smile.

He looked puzzled. “You’re not hurt?”

“On the contrary. I am, shall we say,
hypersensitive
, in a very nice but rather overcharged way.”

His mouth slowly lifted into a smile.

She put up her hand. “We should wait just a moment, if you please.”

“Are you sure?” He bent low so his eyes were at a level with hers. “It’s always better the second time and you needn’t worry, I’ll be ever so careful.”

“If you don’t mind,” she said, when it was clear from her tone that
she
did. “I don’t care to be instructed any more than you do.” Whatever his methodology for second times, she didn’t care to hear about it when she was desperately jealous already—a sensation so outré for her, she couldn’t quite grasp the notion.

“I understand,” he said with excessive tact, responding to the pique in her tone.

“You needn’t be so conciliatory, either,” she replied testily.

He’d obviously said something wrong. “We’ll just wait, then.”

“I don’t suppose you have any wine. I’d like some.” Sulky and peevish, she was not above the pettiness of exerting her authority. As if by casting him in the mold of the biddable men she knew, she would be free of her outrageous jealousy.

“Will this do?” Obliging, he plucked a decanter from the bedside table.

She should have known. Why was she only gullible with Darley? “You planned all this today, didn’t you?” she said, her voice acerbic. “Wine at the ready. Eddie strangely absent. That little doubtful pose downstairs.”

“No, I didn’t.” This time his voice was sulky. “The decanter is always there.”

“Oh,” she said in a very tiny voice.

“Would you like some wine?” Insulted by her accusation when his feelings for her were intemperate, perhaps even extreme, his voice was very close to a growl.

She nodded, unable to conjure up a smooth apology with him scowling at her, when she was obviously in the wrong, when her brain was in tumult. She wanted him, knew she shouldn’t, but wanted him anyway, the unresolved litany obstinately looping through her mind. How could she be so foolish? she chided herself. Everyone knew Duff was notorious for the brevity of his affairs.

Setting the decanter on the bed, Duff picked up a glass from the table, handed it to her, and taking out the stopper from the decanter, commenced to pour the glass full. “I’ll drink some, too,” he muttered to her questioning look.

They shared the glass of wine in silence as though neither was quite capable of reasonableness, and in lieu of saying something objectionable, they chose not to speak.

When the glass was empty, he didn’t ask her if she wished more wine, apparently immune to her venture as autocrat. Setting aside the glass, he glanced back, and said with punctilious restraint, “You’re dripping on my leg. Would you mind if I wiped it away?”

She would have preferred throwing her arms around his neck and telling him how he captivated her beyond reason and prudence and maybe love-love wasn’t out of the question after all. “No, I don’t mind,” she said instead, as dispassionately as he.

He grimaced, blew out a breath, then smiled tightly—or perhaps it was another grimace. “You are an annoying little vixen,” he muttered, speaking with discernable reluctance. “But I still want you beyond all comprehension.”

“You are a hellishly troublesome man,” she answered, her reply equally tentative. “But, regardless, I find you tempting beyond all belief.”

He swore softly.

It was not the sound of high favor or endorsement. “I should go home,” Annabelle murmured.

When presented with that option, Duff’s answer was swift. “No.”

“You can’t say that to me.”

Who could do what to whom was not a reasonable debate, he thought, when she was in his home and his bed and he not only outweighed her, but perhaps had fewer scruples. Well-mannered, however, he said instead, “Please don’t go.”

She sighed. “I don’t like feeling this way.”

Her tone gave him hope, nor had she tried to leave. “Nor do I—yet I am bewitched by you, and am”—he almost said
half in love
, but caught himself in time—“going mad for want of you. So please stay and I will be gallant to a fault.”

She smiled. “And you know exactly how, I expect.”

“Consider me at your disposal, ma’am,” he murmured silkily, further encouraged by her smile.

“In all things?” A seductive whisper of a query.

“Without question,” he replied unequivocally.

“Very well.”

Neither was capable of giving up the pleasure. He understood. And to that purpose, he didn’t question her further, he merely nodded downward, wanting to move past this hindered conversation. “You’re still dripping. May I take care of that now?”

“Yes, I would greatly appreciate it,” she said, overpolite, like she might have been at a royal reception.

He tried to suppress his smile. “Such unctuousness, darling.”

“It’s merely courtesy,” she retorted primly, her feelings still in flux.

“Do let’s not fight again.”

She looked at him from under her lashes. “I am simply agreeing with you and being accommodating.”

There was something too sweetly obliging in her tone, a practiced appeasement that grated on his nerves. “And you know how to accommodate men,” he drawled.

“What do you mean by that?” Her voice remained neutral only with effort.

“Nothing.”

“Don’t say you’re jealous,” she murmured archly.

“Fuck, no.”

Her brows rose. “Then I fail to see what’s at issue.”

“Perhaps what’s at issue,” he said, his resentment flaring despite his attempt to curb it, “is that this hot little cunt”—his hand swept over her cleft—“has been accommodating to far too many men.” And as though pointedly taking possession of that particular part of her anatomy, he precipitously shoved two fingers palm-deep up her vagina.

She tensed against the harsh pressure of his fingers. “You didn’t even know who you were with a few moments ago,” she said on a suffocated breath. “Don’t berate me about exclusivity. You could have been in bed with anyone. It wouldn’t have mattered one whit to you.”

“But it wasn’t anyone, was it? It was the beautiful Miss Foster who has every man in London panting after her. What the fuck is this?” Jerking out his fingers, he held up a piece of sponge.

“You’re no novice. What does it look like?”

“So you were planning for this little rendezvous,” he growled, tossing away the sponge.

“No, I was simply protecting myself against your advances, which, as you see, occurred,” she said, haughty and righteous, lifting her chin contentiously. “I was correct in not trusting you.”

“I didn’t hear you saying no,” he returned brutally, blind with jealousy, begrudging her every suitor she’d ever had.

“I doubt you were listening—like all men.”

“For God’s sake, don’t put me in the same category as fucking Walingame.”

“I wish you good day,” she said coolly, beginning to slide off his lap. She wasn’t about to argue the inarguable or debate the age-old question of double standards apropos male and female sexual amusements.

“Not yet,” he retorted sourly, his fingers leaving marks on her arms.

“Yes, now,” she said, heated and low, trying to shake him off. “You’ve taken out my sponge and I have no intention of getting pregnant.”

“For your information, I never climax in a woman.”

“Except me,” she retorted with testy sarcasm. “How fortunate I am.” Her gaze suddenly narrowed and she looked at him askance. “What do you mean, you never climax in a woman?”

“I just never do. I’m disinclined to have children of mine scattered about the world.”

“But you came in me.” Her voice had gone quiet, and even she wasn’t sure why she was asking the question.

He shrugged. “I have no explanation.”

“How typically nonchalant,” she said with withering contempt. “I could have been left pregnant because of your casual disregard.”

“Don’t say this has never happened to you before,” he said, clipped and cool.

“I set the rules, Duff.”

“Don’t tell me about your rules.” His voice was sharp.

“I have had no rules for a very long time, until,” she added caustically, “you came along and disrupted my life.”

His smile was instant; it was as if the sun had come out after a storm. “And you succumbed to my charms.”

“Maybe I just wanted sex, like you,” she said, thin-skinned and touchy.

“I’ll settle for that. I’ll settle for anything, so long as you stay. I don’t care what your reasons are—just don’t go.” He spoke without hesitation or doubt, unlike the man who had left London for the Peninsula—the man who had perfected suave flattery to a fine art.

Annabelle hesitated, or tried to, while a little voice inside her head screamed,
Yes, yes, yes, yes, stay!
Attempting to ignore the strident, wholly impractical voice
and
her own heady longings, she managed to withstand their inducements for perhaps ten seconds at most. “You cannot come in me,” she said then, as though that simple dictate would absolve her of responsibility. “I mean it absolutely or I’ll leave this instant.”

“You could
try
and leave, you mean.” The marquis was not beset by the weighty issues of responsibility. His cheerful grin indicated as much.

“Duff, don’t make jest of this. I will not become pregnant on someone’s whim.”

“There must be some sponges in the kitchen. Is that better?” He shifted her slightly in his arms, so he could meet her serious gaze squarely. “I will be your remedy in all things. Don’t worry.” He patted her arm in assurance. “And at the risk of possibly angering you again, I shall also mention that I intend to pay my forfeit on our wager. No, don’t protest. I was the one who asked. There was no question. And if you don’t want the money, give it to Molly and Tom.” As she opened her mouth to speak, he put up his hand. “One more thing. If I ever go crazy, like I recently did”—he folded her fingers into a fist—“just hit me hard.” He brought her hand to his mouth and rapped it. “Like that.”

She felt tears brimming in her eyes. He was so serious. “I don’t want to hit you when you’re already miserable.” She touched the sabre scar on his shoulder and the one on his chest and the terrible wound on his hip where Eddie had done rough field surgery and dug out the musket ball.

Duff moved her hand from his hip and clasped it gently. “I’m getting better. Wait and see.” He smiled. “Because of you. Because of us. Because of this.” Leaning over, he kissed her, sweetly and then not so sweetly. And when his mouth finally lifted from hers, he said, “I’d better go and find some sponges.”

He came up after a time with sponges and a picnic basket. “I’ll feed you afterward,” he said with a grin, tossing two large sponges on the bed.

Annabelle glanced at the sponges and smiled. “You must have outrageous expectations.”

He looked back from setting the basket on a table. “Why run out?”

“That won’t be possible in the time we have,” she countered drolly, the two sponges enough for countless sexual engagements. “And I hope you have scissors.”

“In the desk.” Two strides later, he’d pulled them from the drawer. “There now,” he said, bringing them over to her. “I am at your command, Miss Foster.”

And he was, but no more than she was for him.

It turned out to be a day of such inexpressible pleasure that both of them knew such joyous rapture could not be duplicated beyond the vulnerable purlieu of their warm embrace. Deeply touched as they were by both the desperation of their desire and the boundless delight in yielding to it, they were not so lost to reason that either expected this fever pitch of rapture and sweet surfeit to last.