She screamed much louder that time, he thought, but then she’d waited longer than usual.
As her breathing returned to normal, he gently soothed her, running his hands slowly down her arms, over her breasts, delicately brushing her eyebrows, skimming her flushed cheeks with his fingertips, tracing the smooth curve of her belly with his warm palm. And after a time, moving his hand lower.
She jerked awake as he exerted pressure on the peach. “No, no… no more.”
He gazed up at her from between her legs. “Hush, darling, you always want more. Trust me.”
She had no way of knowing he was right until afterward. She never did. But having stood stud to a good many women in London, he did. And after her third climax, he ate the peach in situ, not spilling so much as a drop of juice, bringing the lady to a shrieking orgasm once again. He wondered if Mrs. St. Vincent and Sally would enjoy each other’s company, similarly inclined as they were to delight in peaches.
Moments later, as Rosalind lay in a deeply sated torpor, Fitz came up on his knees and entered her very, very gently, barely moving until she opened her eyes, smiled up at him, and whispered, “Don’t ever go.”
“Not likely,” he said with an answering smile, in full agreement about the merits of carnal sensation. “How are you feeling?”
“Sexy,” she purred. “Very, very sexy.”
“Then there’s no need for me to say, ‘Ignore me, this won’t take long,’ ” he observed with a grin.
“Since I seem to be addicted, no. Take all the time you want.”
He did, and they both entered a new realm of sensation, one where sentiment intruded into sensual pleasure and tenderness pervaded even the most self-indulgent, prurient play.
Very late that night as they lay postcoital, panting side by side, he turned his head and said with a smile, “I’d be more than willing to shower you with gold… my darling Danae of Bruton Street. Just say the word. I’m totally bewitched.”
“Speaking of bewitchment,” she murmured, wallowing in bliss, “I’m going to need… just a little more of him.” Reaching over in a lazy drift of her arm, she ran her fingertip down his rampant erection. “You have the most phenomenal cock. He’s indefatigable and most charitable. Thank you, Your Grace,” she teasingly purred.
Since she’d been effusive in her thanks, he already knew she was appreciative. The question was whether he could keep up with her. So far so good. But he was well aware that tonight would be a record of sorts for him; that from a man who already held all the confirmed records in the world of amour. “Give me a minute,” he said, good-humored and obliging. “I’ll be right with you.”
On the other hand, the thought of fucking himself to death with the hot-blooded Mrs. St. Vincent was not without its novel appeal.
Chapter 10
IT WAS SHORTLY after nine, the air already heavy with heat, the muslin curtains hanging limp at the open windows of Rosalind’s bedroom. Fitz was almost finished dressing. He was debating wearing a coat when he was already sweating. But his shirt looked like it had been walked on… more than once. Which may have been the case. Not that his coat and trousers weren’t the worse for wear as well. Oh, what the hell; he slipped on his swallow-tail. It wasn’t as though this was the first time he’d come home in rumpled evening rig.
Nor was it likely the last.
As for the lovely Rosalind-all sweet tenderness this morning-he was definitely inclined to call on her again.
They’d previously exchanged all the courtesies, each thanking the other in turn, he with suave practiced grace, she more impetuous in her sentiments. But then she’d been pleasured beyond her wildest dreams. It was only natural.
He bent to pick up his watch that had been discarded on the floor the previous night. Sliding the leather band around his wrist, he clasped the gold buckle as Rosalind offered up another appreciative compliment on his kindness-a curious word, he thought. But as he smiled and answered her in kind, he found himself thinking this might be an opportune moment to bring up buying her store. She appeared to view him with considerable affection.
So he did. Ask.
Lounging in bed, Rosalind looked at him with mild surprise. “Was last night just a way of negotiating with me?”
“No, and yet I can’t say I wouldn’t like you to reconsider,” he pleasantly replied.
“Sorry, darling. But thank you nonetheless for a night of unbelievable pleasure.” She smiled. “Although I expect you hear that often.”
He didn’t like her blasй tone; he particularly didn’t like to think of her lying nude in bed like that speaking to some other man with such casualness. Not that it was any of his business, he quickly reminded himself. Reaching into the pocket of his evening coat, he pulled out the jewelry from Grey’s and set it on the bedside table.
“What are you doing?” A decided umbrage rang through her query.
“Leaving a few small gifts.” In the light of day, habitual custom held sway, the heated passions of the previous night appeased.
“Are you paying me for sex?” Frost in every syllable.
“God no. It’s nothing of the kind.”
“Then take them back!” Rolling over on her side, she reached out, grabbed the glittering pile, and gimlet-eyed and wrathful, held the jewels out to him. “Here, take them!”
“I don’t want them. They’re engraved with your name in any event, so they won’t do me much good.” He was moving toward the bedroom door as he spoke, feeling equally sulky and resentful. Why the hell was she indignant? Any other woman would have offered profuse, heartfelt thanks! But then she was the same obstinate woman who was standing in the way of Monckton Row!
Half turning as he reached the doorway, he cooly measured her with his gaze, as though calibrating her entertainment value. “Thank you for your hospitality and”-he paused in his drawling delivery just long enough to let the insult drop into the silence-“gratifying enthusiasm.” Then he turned and walked out, pulling the door shut behind him.
He heard the jewelry hit the door.
Bitch, he thought.
A damnably sexy bitch, he had to admit-one who’d kept his prick primed and ready for action all night long. Unfortunately, she was also a major thorn in his side. And that defiance trumped even world-class sex.
As soon as he’d paid his compliments to his mother, he’d call on Hutchinson. Perhaps his barrister’s agents had discovered some unfavorable information about the St. Vincents since yesterday. Hopefully, something he could use to destroy the irritating cunt who stood in the way of his development project.
Or if not precisely destroy-perhaps that was too malevolent a verb after Mrs. St. Vincent’s excessive receptivity last night-at least convince her to sell.
LYING IN BED, Rosalind silently fumed as she listened to the swift echo of Groveland’s footsteps descend the stairs. Only when the back door slammed and silence reigned did she finally give vent to her feelings. Swearing like a trooper, yelling at the top of her lungs, she conjured up every derogatory expletive she’d ever heard and pithily and comprehensively bestowed them on Groveland’s reprehensible person. And with an older brother to ape, she’d acquired a large and colorful repertoire.
When both her breath and invective had run its course, she lay panting. In that small lull, she found herself peevishly contemplating her blackened and besmirched reputation. And allocating blame where blame was due.
To the dissolute Groveland, naturally.