A knock on the door broke into the amorous banter and undeterred by his nudity, Oz called out, “Enter.” Pointing to a table, he waited while the footman deposited his burden, thanked him, then immediately set about pouring himself a drink. As the door closed, Oz drained his glass, refilled it, and smiled at Nell. “Your audience of one is ready to be beguiled.” Moving to the bed, he disposed himself in a comfortable sprawl, the glass balanced on his chest, and gave her a nod. “The stage lights are up, sweetheart.”
After executing a dramatic bow, Nell struck an elegant pose that showed her stunning form to advantage. “For your pleasure and divertissement, my Lord Lennox, I took dancing lessons in Cairo.”
He grinned. “Why did I know that?”
A frown marred the porcelain perfection of her forehead. “Don’t say this is the twentieth time you’ve seen such a performance,” she pettishly retorted.
“No.” A courtesy lie. “I just knew what would interest you in Cairo.”
“Sex-if you’d been there,” she playfully replied, her good humor restored.
“And since I wasn’t there?”
“I found something else to amuse me.”
“Something or someone?”
“Really, dear, need you ask?”
“I only wish to point out that we are both faithless”-his brows lifted-“and not likely to change.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” she said with a little sigh. “I shouldn’t be pettish.”
“Nor will I,” he said with pallid amusement. “Show me what you learned.”
After she unclasped the few hooks at her back, her gown slid to her waist and her large, flamboyant breasts were on full display.
“Did your teacher take a fancy to your lovely breasts?” he murmured, wondering if her minimum clothing tonight was planned for him or anyone.
“She did as a matter of fact,” Nell said, perjuring herself without a qualm. “And I took the lessons for you.”
If so, news of his abandoned marriage had traveled fast. “I’ll have to do something for you in return.”
“All night long and often,” she said in a sultry contralto.
He smiled. “Whatever you say.”
Sliding her glittering gown down her hips, clad only in white silk stockings and gold slippers, she posed for him, arms raised, her smile dazzling, knowing she was unabashedly desirable.
“Breathtaking as usual.” She was a sumptuous, showy female with pale skin and auburn hair, flaunting breasts and ripe, rounded hips-a perfect companion in his current frame of mind. A vixen to titillate his senses without stirring his emotions.
“I expect you’ll also be impressed with my new skills,” she murmured with a little swish of her hips.
“I’m impressed already,” he said. “As you can see.”
“And I’m getting wet just looking at your huge erection,” she said softly, her gaze trained on the object of her lust-the holy grail for her long journey home.
“How wet?” he quietly asked.
Slipping her hand between her legs, she drew in a skittish breath as she slid her finger palm-deep into her vagina.
“I can do better than that for you,” Oz silkily remarked.
Lost to feverish sensation, it took a moment before Oz’s voice registered and a moment more before she held up her index finger for his perusal. It was pearled with moisture.
“I suggest you start dancing or your recital will have to wait,” Oz drawled. “We’re both primed.”
“No, no… don’t you dare. I want to show off my new skills.”
“By all means then, do so.”
“Because you can always wait,” she grumbled.
He shrugged. “If I have to.”
A femme fatale by nature, she objected to Oz’s self-control in the face of what was to most men her irresistible allure. “I suppose we can’t all be raised in India,” she sulkily muttered.
He smiled. “I can’t help but think you’d have been a willing pupil of Vatsyayana. But please, entertain me-and then I’ll entertain you.”
“It’s up to me to say when, though.” A sop to her inner femme fatale.
“Naturally.” Or not. He wasn’t a eunuch.
Having mastered the intricate manipulation of stomach muscles so necessary to the dance-thanks to a very charming young male instructor-Nell swiveled and rolled her curvaceous hips in a splendidly appropriate rhythm perfectly in sync with the sinuous undulations of her upper body. Her large, full breasts quivered and bobbed in provocative counterpoint to her gyrating hips, and when she twirled, her heavy breasts swung out in a spherical eddy that raised Oz’s cock an appreciable distance more.
She’d learned her lessons well; the dance was meant to arouse, titillate, and excite. And it did.
The moment she came close enough, he intended to assuage his lust. After weeks of celibacy, self-control was a relative term, and Nell was the perfect antidote to his collective frustration. She offered him what he realized he needed: worldly sexual pleasure and nothing more. He was grateful.
Suddenly, putting his glass aside, he set about curtailing her performance. “If you don’t come here, I’ll come there. Literally.”
She giggled. “You who can always wait?”
“It must be your new dancing skills,” he smoothly replied. It wasn’t; an image of Isolde lying in his arms had abruptly pervaded his brain and he needed to extinguish it. Quickly.
Having thought of little else for days, pleased at Oz’s rare impatience, Nell was more than willing to oblige. And Oz was so thankful for the instant obliteration of his unwanted memories that he obliged her with three quick orgasms before he found release.
“You’re absolutely… worth my… dreadfully… long journey,” she breathed, lying beside him, softly panting. “God, Oz… you’re so much better than I remembered.”
“I find it equally pleasing that you came back to London.” He meant it; she was the distraction he needed from haunting memory. Arching his back, he lazily stretched, his demons put to flight. “When you’ve caught your breath,” he gently said, “you can do something for me.”
Turning her head on the pillow, she held his gaze. “I’d love to.”
He knew she would; that’s why he proposed what he did. After two more drinks and champagne for the lady, Nell was reclining against the pillows, her feet comfortably clasped behind her head, her acrobatic flexibility beautifully show-casing her pouty vulva.
Kneeling before her, Oz contemplated the sleek, pink, pulsing flesh, the piquant offering enchanting. There was something about a creamy cunt in all its full-blown glory, ripely expectant and primed, that racheted up the pleasure scale of lust. Inhaling softly, he leaned forward, guided the swollen head of his penis to Nell’s delectable slit and penetrated her marginally. Then, once joined, he eased his hands under her bottom, lifted her slightly to allow him better ingress, and slid in another small distance.
Embedded midway in her pulsing flesh, the fullness of his cock pressed against the highly sensitive erectile tissue on the top wall of her vagina, that vividly impressionable area having been described in detail since medieval times in various Urdu texts. Since his youth, Oz had understood the subtleties of female arousal apropos that tiny spot. And he also knew what Nell liked. Remaining fixed in place and utterly still, he served as willing instrument to her pleasure as she panted and twitched in escalating delirium, absorbed the increasingly fierce, seething rapture, and eventually climaxed. Over and over and over again.
She was infinitely easy to please. But then they were well matched when it came to selfish carnality.
Their reunion turned out to be an exercise in politesse and hedonism. Careful to stay within the prescribed perimeters of urbane friendship, the night passed in a mellow exploration of ravishment and ecstasy. And when morning came, Nell decisively said, “I’m going to preempt your leisure time. Don’t argue. It’s not as though you have anything more pressing to do.”