“Now, if you please.” A brisk command, a wiggle of her hips and a green steady gaze.
“And if I don’t take orders?” A lazy drawl in contrast.
“Allow me to change your mind.” In her new unconstrained mood, she sank down his rigid length like a catapult, and resting on his thighs a second later, impaled and content, she smiled up at him. “I almost let you tumble me this morning.”
He laughed.
She felt his laugh in delicious compensatory flutters deep inside her and gently rocked her bottom to savor the flaunting enchantment. “So you see, we are both after the same thing.”
“This?” Flexing his legs, he thrust upward and was gratified at her soft, rapturous moan. Gently grasping her hips, he held her securely. “And this?”
Another blissful groan before her lashes lifted marginally, and holding his gaze, she whispered, “And this as well,” as she began slowly rising to her knees.
The delectable friction of skin on skin, the tingling nerve endings sliding one against the other, the exquisitely tight pressure of his erection stretching her pulsing tissue brought new meaning to the word stimulation, the degree of tactile sensation lurid.
Stopping midway on her leisurely ascent, she said, breathy and astonished, “Do you feel that?”
He smiled. “Everywhere you can possibly feel anything.” He placed his hands lightly on her hips.
“I know. I think I’ll keep you,” she teased.
“I might let you.” Christ, where did that come from? As if to nullify his startling reply, he planted his feet firmly on the floor, tightened his grip on Mrs. St. Vincent’s hips, and exerted a hard, forceful downward pressure with his hands.
He didn’t hear her breathy squeal as he plumbed the depths of her glossy, silken warmth, or if he did, the sound didn’t register with his brain in the grip of a cataclysmic upheaval. Although, shortly after, as he caught his breath, he noticed with the tunnel vision of heated sexual congress that she was shifting her hips, asking for more.
How fucking convenient.
In the following highly impressionable interval, he operated on instinct, lifting her up and forcing her back down until she assumed the rhythm with an impetuous frenzy he was more than willing to accommodate. She climaxed quickly again, whether by nature or due to her recent celibacy, it didn’t really matter. He only waited for her last little sigh to echo in his ears before gently moving inside her again.
“No, don’t-please,” she whispered into his shoulder, collapsed on his chest.
“Just a bit more, darling. There, see”-her vaginal muscles were stirring-“it feels good, doesn’t it?”
How does he know? But suddenly the reason why was irrelevant, for a warm delicious glow began spreading through her senses again and languishing desire revived with an acute, raw intensity. As if each time was better than the last. A glorious thought.
After waiting all day to be engulfed in Mrs. St. Vincent’s hot cunt, Fitz knew each time was better than the last.
He also knew this chair wasn’t going to suit for long.
To that purpose, he concentrated on bringing the voluptuous woman warming his cock to fever pitch again. Not a difficult task; she was highly receptive, her vagina slick with desire, her neediness and sexual appetite charming. And very soon, his talents being what they were, she was once again overwrought and panting.
Now, he decided. Sliding his hands under her bottom, holding her firmly impaled, he surged to his feet. She squealed in a rapturous little sound that suggested his cock had stood with equally bracing force.
“Tell me I won’t die of pleasure,” she whispered, clinging to his neck, her legs wrapped around his waist, her gaze half-lidded and feverish.
“Not yet.” His voice was soft as silk. “Soon.”
The explicit promise in his words streaked through her body like liquid flame, his long-legged gait jostled pleasure receptors up and down her vagina, and she desperately hoped soon was measured in seconds. “Is it always like this with you?”
He didn’t immediately reply as he approached the bed. Then, ignoring the dangers in sincerity, he said, “No, never.”
“Oh good, although I don’t know why it should matter; what are you doing?” she cried as he came to a halt.
“Seeing that you die of pleasure,” he said with a smile, smoothly easing them both down on the small bed without dislodging himself from her silken warmth. “Don’t argue.”
As if she could, Rosalind understood, every nerve in her body poised, taut, quivering for surcease. As if she could do anything at all but wait breathlessly for the fierce convulsive ecstasy brought to her by the good graces, deft skill, and prodigious physical endowments of the Duke of Groveland. Like that… oh, God, oh God, she was completely gorged; she couldn’t take any more. “No, no, I can’t…”
“Just a little more, darling-see… you can do it…”
Whispered force majeure, velvet soft, and so excruciatingly fine she felt herself melt around him as if he held the key to her carnal soul.
“There… see, you can take it all. If you were in my harem you’d have to take this and more, darling. You’d have to conform to my every wish. I could keep you naked by my side day and night. Would you like that?” He began to slowly withdraw.
“No, no… I mean, yes, yes, of course,” she quickly corrected, fearful he would leave her.
“That’s better. I like compliance from my houris.” He held himself arrested, midstroke. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, yes, perfectly. Don’t leave me, please.”
“So you’ll do anything if I stay.”
“Yes, yes, anything.”
Blood surged through his penis at such unconditional surrender, his libido enticed by her carte blanche permission. “I’ll be fucking you all night,” he said. “Is that a problem?”
“No, no… not at all.” She was trembling on the brink; she would have promised him anything.
No novice, he recognized preorgasmic delirium, but inexplicably, he wanted more. “You won’t be allowed to refuse me. Is that clear?”
She hesitated.
He drove into her yielding flesh a fraction more to encourage her answer.
She gasped as the infinitesimal movement jolted every eager, covetous nerve in her body like a hammer blow. “Yes, it’s clear,” she breathed.
It shouldn’t have mattered. Women had been saying yes to him his entire adult life. But Mrs. St. Vincent’s small breathless reply was flagrantly erotic. Neither unctuous nor flattering as was normally the case, but explicitly reluctant, as if he were trespassing into forbidden territory.
And he’d finally been given access.
Slipping his hand under her thigh, he lifted her leg to allow himself deeper penetration and drove into her succulent warmth. It had been a long day and a longer evening of waiting for this; there was a point where even a worldly man was no longer impervious to hot-spur passion.
“Finally,” she whispered, as though reading his mind, and when he laughed, she wrapped her legs tightly around his waist, smiled into his amused gaze and purred, “Welcome my lord, Sultan.”
“I’m very glad I purchased you,” he whispered, adjusting his downstroke to her rising hips. At her immediate, hotly contentious stare, he grinned. “It’s only play, darling-here in the harem.”
“It better be.”
“I’ll let you know when it isn’t,” he softly said, biting back the reply that came to his lips. Allusions to her store were counterproductive at the moment.
“Meaning?”
“Are you really going to fight with me now?” he drawled, flexing his legs to deepen his thrusting downstroke.
She softly moaned, her legs gripped his back more tightly, and she whispered, “Later.”