It took considerable restraint to suppress his selfish impulses as his erection swelled higher. But Isolde’s appreciation for his largesse was so lavishly profuse after each of her several precipitous orgasms that he honestly replied, “It’s my pleasure, darling.”
“You’re outrageously benevolent,” she breathed, brushing his cheek with her fingers. “I must be making up for lost time; I don’t how to thank you enough.”
As he lay propped on one elbow beside her, he almost said, You’re having my child. That’s thanks enough. But relatively sober, he wasn’t lost to all reason. “You can thank me later.”
“Just tell me what you want me to do. Really-anything.”
“You probably shouldn’t say that to me right now,” he said, his voice a low rasp.
“You don’t frighten me. You’re not at all like your reputation.”
“You encourage my better impulses.”
“In contrast to those-”
“Who don’t.” At which thought, all the untidy perversions in his life came to mind. “I need a drink. Would you like a tisane?”
He was already off the bed and halfway to the brandy bottle. “Was it something I said?” she teased.
She seriously complicated his life, his future, and his peace of mind. Fortunately, there was a time limit to her visit, he decided, pouring himself a drink. Drinking it down, he grimaced at the odd taste in his mouth, and poured another to wash away the sour, acidic tang. Then, carrying the plate of sweets, he set it on the bed, went back to bring the carafe, a cup, and his brandy. Sprawling on the bed beside her a few moments later, he said, “Try the strawberry ones. They’re the best.”
“I will. I’m hungry all the time now. Would you like one?” She held up a small tart.
He leaned forward and she put it in his mouth.
As they ate, a small, increasingly uncomfortable silence fell.
“If you have something else to do,” she said in the awkward hush.
“No.” Curt and abrupt. “No, nothing at all,” he added in a more conciliatory tone. “I seem to be having trouble with my temper today. It’s not your fault. Please stay. You bring me pleasure.”
“The pleasure you give me is oceans wide, darling. I’d love to stay.”
“Do you sail?” He chose a subject less fraught with sentiment.
Recognizing she’d overstepped the bounds of amorous play, she gracefully said, “I’m a farmer, darling. Sailing’s outside my normal venues.”
He grinned. “And a very lovely farmer at that. I’ll take you sailing sometime if you like. I have a yacht at Dover.”
She couldn’t say I’d sail to the ends of the earth with you without causing him alarm. “When the weather becomes warmer perhaps.” She congratulated herself on her measured reply. Her acting skills were improving.
“Anytime. Just let me know. I’ll send a carriage for you.”
If he could affect the role of bland acquaintance, she could as well. In terms of their future child, it would be useful to cultivate a cordial relationship. “Do you ever think of our child?” she impulsively asked. “Sorry,” she quickly said at his startled look. “You needn’t answer. I have no wish to provoke you with my pleasure at stake.”
“Don’t worry. I’m not exactly uninvolved in terms of pleasure. As for the child”-he lifted his shoulder in the faintest shrug-“the answer is no. I’ve not yet come to terms with the notion, although I’m sure I will with time,” he diplomatically remarked. Depending on the identity of the father. “Have you tried the almond tarts?” Picking up the plate, he held it out to her. “They’re excellent.”
“Thank you.” With talk of babies having been politely but summarily curtailed, she took a tart. “Where do you usually sail?” she inquired, as capable as he of casual conversation.
“Anywhere. North to Scotland occasionally, across to Calais at times on my way to Paris, to the Isle of Wight during race week.”
“To India?”
“No.”
His instant withdrawal was palpable. “Maybe you should pick the topic of conversation,” she said quickly.
“Or we could dispense with talk.”
“As you wish, of course.” Her faint smile was sardonic.
“You don’t mean it.”
“I want sexual satisfaction from you, and to that end,” she said frankly, “I mean it. You set the agenda.”
“Even at the risk of offending you?”
She lifted one brow. “Better my temper than yours.”
“That’s true. Are you finished?” He nodded at the plate of sweets.
“I certainly can be.”
His grin this time held a degree of warmth. “Do I detect a renewed interest in sex?”
“I wouldn’t say renewed so much as persistent. I didn’t wish to pressure you while you were relaxing.”
He beat down the resurgent image of a locked room with his wife inside, waiting for him, for sex-her unquenchable passions a libertine’s dream. “Why don’t you put that away,” he suggested with a nod at the food, “and we can get back to business.”
He watched her gather the items on the bed, taking note of the subtle changes in her body. Her sumptuous form was even more curvaceous now, her hips rounder, her waist slightly less slender, her plump breasts ripening and enlarging in anticipation of the future babe. That may or may not be his.
“Do you want me to take your glass?”
Startled from his musing, he saw her point to his glass.
“Penny for your thoughts.”
“I was admiring your beauty,” he urbanely said, handing over his glass.
“Thank you. I, in turn, appreciate your magnanimity.” Setting the glass on the silver tray, she returned and climbed back onto the bed. “You’re much, much better than my dildo.”
“I should hope so,” he negligently said, “or all my practice has gone for naught.”
“Let me assure you it hasn’t. You’re the very best, darling, not that my experience is as wide and varied as yours, but-”
“Pray desist from mentioning your experience,” he brusquely returned.
She mimicked locking her mouth. “I apologize most profusely.”
“Because you need me.”
“Very, very badly as a matter of fact.”
Such unequivocal eagerness required a moment of restraint to curb his first intemperate impulses. Would anyone assuage her sexual yearning? He didn’t allow himself to answer that question, although his temper showed in his voice as he tautly commanded, “Up on your hands and knees then.”
She immediately complied, curtness marked in his soft order. When he neither moved nor touched her for some moments, driven by her own intemperate needs, she glanced over her shoulder. “Is there something more?”
“No,” he gruffly replied, struggling to curb his treacherous thoughts. Her need for sex was insatiable, damn her, and talk of dildos aside he suspected that Will might be a frequent visitor at Oak Knoll after all. Breathe in, breathe out, relax. Keep in mind she might be the mother of your child; taking out your temper on her isn’t right, proper, or even legal anymore.
Coming up on his knees, he moved behind her. Running his hands over the soft, silken curves of her bottom, he slid one finger over the slippery wetness of her pouty vulva-what he viewed as her eternal readiness evident in the sleek, hot flesh. As if further testing her receptiveness-unnecessarily, he sullenly thought-he gently stroked her prominent clitoris, and at her shuddering gasp, a covetous jolt pulsed up his cock.
The worst kind of heavy-handed tyranny suddenly overwhelmed his senses, the feelings unnatural for a man who generally played at love. For some ungodly reason, Isolde brought out the brute in him. He should send her home before he hurt her.