No, no, no, she silently cried. She would not respond to his brute behavior. She would not allow her body to turn ravenous at his growled command as if she didn’t have an ounce of restraint! She would remember who he was-a disreputable rake-and who she was and how she had everything to lose and nothing to gain by continuing this purely physical relationship!
But no matter that she tried to ignore his hard-muscled body pressed against hers as he took the stairs at a run, or the scent of his cologne in her nostrils, and his stark classic beauty close enough to kiss, her traitorous libido was undeterred. Or more aptly, adamant and frantic, as if her senses recognized the feel, scent, and sight of their perfect mate. With electrifying speed, a hard, steady pulsing began to throb deep inside her, her nipples went taut, her skin flushed in a Darwinian signal of readiness, and her overwilling sex turned ripely moist.
On this particular occasion, she would have preferred being in ignorance of the new landmark studies in the developing field of sexology: Krafft-Ebing’s Psychopathia Sexualis and Havelock Ellis’s Man and Woman and Studies in the Psychology of Sex. She would have preferred not knowing all the pertinent signals of female receptivity. She might have better girded her loins as it were and repulsed Fitz’s advances.
Not that she could seriously forestall him with his physical superiority. And such reflections on his formidable strength and power served only to further excite her already highly charged libido. Her wanton senses shifted their attention to the central instrument of pleasure-his glorious penis at full stretch, perfectly formed, trained to the inch, capable of giving the most exquisite sexual satisfaction. Really, it was impossible to fight her vaulting urges. And considering the delectable reward, perhaps, in the end, absurd. “You win,” she said grudgingly, but honest at least. “I wish I could resist you, but I can’t.”
“Nor can I you,” he muttered, reaching the top of the stairs.
“Does this happen often?” she asked, clearly bewildered by her feelings that seemed impervious to scruple or prudence or even a scintilla of reason.
“Never.”
“Are you sure?” She was struggling with irrepressible desire when she’d always prided herself on logic.
“Bloody right, I’m sure.” He strode into her parlor.
“Because you’re stud to all of London,” she snapped back, inexplicably jealous of every woman he’d ever know.
“Damn right.”
“Don’t have me make you do something you don’t want to do,” she pettishly asserted.
“Believe me, darling”-the word more curse than endearment-“you’re not making me do anything. Or at least not rationally. I’m pretty much out of control.”
“Don’t blame me.”
“I don’t know who else to blame,” he growled. Then quicksilver, he made a course correction. “Forgive me. You’re quite blameless in all but your prodigious allure. I’m like a moth to the flame,” he added with a smile. “So just bear with me.” He shoved open her bedroom door with his foot.
She sighed. “We’re both operating outside the pale.”
“But it’s an enchanting land nonetheless.”
“Enchanting beyond belief.”
He gazed at her for a moment as he stood at the side of her bed, both avarice and wonder in his eyes. “Enchanting in a thousand ways,” he softly agreed. Setting her down a moment later, he dropped into a sprawl beside her, his head resting on his hand. “I must take care not to hurt you. Or hurt you anymore.” Leaning over, he gently kissed her cheek. “For which I’m vastly sorry.” As if recalling something, he pulled the jar from his suit coat pocket. “Although, there’s this if you wish.”
“I don’t need it. I feel extremely well.” She suddenly frowned. “Although, you’ve no doubt dealt with this problem before.”
He hesitated for a fraction of a second, debating how best to answer. The women he played with weren’t novices. “Actually, no,” he said. “You’re the first”-he smiled-“in a variety of ways. All of them good by the way. I expect your fair skin might be the problem,” he politely added. “As for me, I’m dark as the ace of spades; my skin is impervious to wear and tear.”
“Him, too.” Reaching over, she touched the bulge evident beneath the linen of his trousers.
He grinned. “The Black Corsair if you like.” He ran a fingertip over the skirt fabric covering her mons. “And you have the sweetest little pussy. We’ll have to see if they can play together later.”
“How much later? ”
He laughed. “Greedy puss.”
“I wish I could say no.”
There-the proper Mrs. St. Vincent again. But rather than speak his mind, he politely said, “I’m glad you can’t.”
“Are you?” She shouldn’t have asked; it was gauche to ask a man about his feelings. Particularly a man like Fitz who was known far and wide for his disdain of the tender emotions.
“Yes, very much,” he softly said. “Because I can’t say no either.” He looked away for a second before meeting her gaze again. “I lectured myself against coming to see you, and yet here I am”-he grinned-“and bloody glad to be here.” His voice dropped low. “I was serious about dinner, too. Come dine with me afterward. My wealth and title insulate me from censure and by extension, you as well. You needn’t worry.”
She shook her head. “I’m not sure.”
“About dinner or the dispensations allowed a duke? ”
She grimaced. “About everything.”
“At the risk of offending your virtuous sensibilities-” He paused abruptly as she gave him a skeptical look. “I’m speaking in general terms; you must admit you’re of a conventional bent, other than your flame-hot passions,” he added with a smile. “But back to my point. Life is to be lived, darling. Maybe not as prodigally as I do, but nevertheless lived. How sad it would be to grow old without ever knowing-”
“This bewitchment? ”
He nodded, neither willing nor able to define his feelings. He’d avoided sincere emotion too long. Or perhaps having been raised as he was, he had never learned to recognize it. “Are we done talking? ” he asked, malelike in his avoidance.
She smiled. “If you like.”
He grinned. “You know what I’d like.”
“The same thing as I. We are obsessed, or at least I am.”
“We both are. I was thinking of taking you home with me and keeping you locked away.”
“And I’d go if life allowed. But unfortunately, I have a store to run and a living to make.”
“I could take care of that for you.”
For a brief moment, silence fell.
Fitz cringed. He shouldn’t have even thought it, let alone said it.
Rosalind knew better than to take seriously what was expressed in the heat of passion, although the notion was enchanting. “Thank you, but I prefer my life as it is”-she smiled-“especially when you come calling.”
“Speaking of calling-only if you’re sure you’re well enough-why don’t we put some of this salve on my cock and he’ll come call on your pussy? ”
“It sounds like a lovely experiment. Smell it, too. It’s lavender scented.”
He grinned. “Then I’ll be bringing flowers when I call.”
“At the risk of adding to your conceit, you needn’t bring anything but yourself and I’m content.”
He held out the small jar. “Should I do it or you? ”
“Me, me,” she playfully said, fluttering her fingers.
“God Almighty,” Fitz whispered, “you’re the most endearing little bookstore owner I know.”
“And you’re God’s gift to women,” she replied with a smile. “But handsome men and carnal pleasures aside, Fitz, darling, just for the record, I have no intention of selling my store. I want to be perfectly plain about that. Sex is just sex.”
“Then, just for the record, I, too, intend to keep pressing my suit.” He flickered his brows and grinned. “I’m hoping you’ll finally see the light.” And sex is just sex was his gospel.