Lessons and Lovers (4 page)

Dear God, what kind of fickle disgusting slut am I?

Almost as if it her libido had absolutely nothing to do with her finer feelings, Hettie felt her pussy quicken and more wetness pool between her legs. But the man
was
remarkable. It wasn’t enough that he’d got a face straight out of a Renaissance fresco, he’d also got a classical body. The blue denim crotch of his jeans was breathtakingly stretched and bulging.

Oh my, it’s indecent being that size in jeans so tight!

Suddenly, Hettie found herself grinning, despite her confusion. Her emotions were all over the map right now, but there was a real joy in feeling alive and horny again. She’d never know what this glorious stranger was like as a lover, but surely there was no real sin in a bit of harmless fantasizing? And wouldn’t Starr himself eventually reap the benefits? When she channeled her reborn needs in his direction?

One excuse is as good as another, the wry voice of honesty told her mockingly.

For a moment, she entertained a vivid fantasy of Starr satisfying her with his hard-thrusting cock while this delicious but unknown man ran his hands over her body. Would they both go for it? She knew that Starr would do whatever she requested of him, and the guy beside her was probably frisky enough to be ready for anything.

She was still smiling, and still inwardly quivering, when the man’s thick eyelashes fluttered open and revealed the deepest chocolate-brown eyes she’d ever seen. Eyes that first clouded and looked perplexed, then widened and lit with a wild bright light of relief.

He recognizes me!
Then it dawned on her.
Omigod, this’s Darryl!

Confused, she sprang to her feet. Just as the beautiful man did the same, then stepped towards her, tall and lithe, and with his amazing face wreathed in an almost ecstatic smile.

“Lady Henrietta! I’m so glad you’re here! I thought I was going to miss you!”

“Darryl?”

“Oh yes… Yes, I’m Darryl.” The voice was soft and light, and the accent as sexy as the face and body that went with it, “I’m sorry. I got my flights mixed up. I’m early.” He held out a long, skinny-fingered hand, and without hesitation, Hettie let her own be grasped.

Confusing heat enveloped her and she shuddered. Quite taken aback, she just stood there, trying to accept that this gorgeous, stylishly dressed demigod was the very same naïve innocent she’d come here to meet.

This
was the archeologist with no memory?

Hettie felt strangely shaky. She’d rarely felt this affected by a man on first meeting him. The exceptions were when she’d met Piers, so suave, mature and sophisticated—and ended up in his bed the very same evening. And almost at the same time, when she’d met her new lover’s enigmatic blond servant, the same man who’d just last night filled her yearning sex with his flesh, and her heart with muddled emotions.

Thinking of Starr now reminded her that he was waiting for them with the car. She felt a rush of guilt at feeling so turned on by Darryl.

“Do you have luggage or anything?” she asked. He still appeared tired, but nevertheless his composure was rock-solid. For an amnesiac who had just been tossed out onto the street by his only remaining relative, his self-possession was remarkable.

“Yes. Here,” he said, gesturing to a neat stack of belongings. One elegant Gucci suitcase, a matching flight bag and a butter-soft black leather jacket draped across the top of the two.

“Okay. Pass me the bag. We can manage these between us. No use hanging about here for porterage when we’ve a car waiting to take us home.”

Without actually refusing her help, Darryl whisked up all his items of luggage, smiled impishly like a hypersexed angel then fell into step beside her as they left the lounge on their way to find Starr and the limousine.

Hettie’s very personal assistant was predictably unfazed by the unexpected glamour of Darryl di Angeli. She watched, vaguely aware that her mouth had fallen open, as the two men stowed the bags away in the boot of the limo and chatted about Darryl’s flight and his sketchy knowledge of England.

Hettie could hardly believe the mad, sexy thoughts that passed through her mind, at the sight of the two of them. Piers’ fond, indulgent laughter echoed in her ears as she stood and stared at possibly the two most desirable men in all of greater London talking easily together as if they’d known each other ages. And as first Starr helped her into the car, then Darryl slid gracefully onto the back seat beside her, she reflected that she couldn’t have found two more diametrically different examples of male pulchritude if she’d gone out and actively looked for them.

Starr, so cool and hard, so strong and remorselessly knowing. And now Darryl, with his skinny long-limbed beauty, his huge, dark, lost eyes and his peculiar combination of naïveté and confidence. The only common factor they shared was a solid male bulge in their jeans.

As Starr eased the car smoothly away from the curb, Hettie wondered how on earth to open a conversation with the man beside her. What did one say to someone who’d lost his or her memory? Once again she was struck by the enormity of what she’d agreed to do.

Here was someone who’d lost both the person who’d been closest to him in all the world, and any recollection of what he’d done with his life to date. Not to mention the more intimate memory loss that Renata had not too subtly hinted at. Darryl’s apparent inability to remember whether he’d ever had sex or not.

Panicking, she plunged in with the first thing that came into her head, “That’s a very nice shirt, Darryl. Did you get it in Milan?”

It was banal. Wooden. But her companion turned to her, smiled cheerfully and touched his long brown fingers to the immaculate white fabric.

“Why yes,” he said, his light, deliciously Latin voice playing tunes on her trembling nerves. “I chose it myself. I chose all my new clothes myself. Do you like it?”

“You’ve been
shopping
?” How bizarre! If he’d lived a life of semi-academic seclusion, and just suffered a tragic blow, fashion ought to have been an unknown quantity to him. But it seemed that he’d instinctively chosen things that suited his looks. Italian style was obviously bred into the bone.

“Yes, it was fun,” Darryl answered lightly, “I found some magazines belonging to F—,” he faltered then, his smooth features crumpling for just a second, “to Cousin Renata’s friend. I saw beautiful clothes on every page, so when they arranged a credit card for me, I just wandered around the shops until I saw similar things, then I went in and bought them.”

“You went shopping on your own?” What on earth was wrong with Ren? Leaving someone who’d lost their memory and was fresh out of hospital entirely to their own devices in a big cosmopolitan city.

“I think Cousin Renata would’ve liked to have gone with me, but—” He paused, delicately, and Hettie understood the uncomfortable situation that must’ve prevailed at Palazzo di Angeli. And what a hideous, selfish and unfeeling man Renata had got herself hooked up with.

“Was this Fausto guy hostile towards you?” she asked sharply, studying the perfect, Renaissance face of the man beside her.

“I think…I think he felt threatened by me,” Darryl answered, sounding remarkably perceptive. “I was a challenge to his supremacy. And he was jealous when Renata tried to be nice to me.”

Hettie’s jaw dropped. Lord, he was impressive! She’d expected Darryl to be awkward, geeky and not particularly sure of himself, but he was nothing of the sort! The quiet wisdom of his answer confounded all her preconceptions. If he could so accurately assess the power balance of his cousin’s shaky relationships, he could well be far less naïve—and in a lot more ways!—than Hettie had been led to believe.

Sneaking a glance sideways, she caught him in the midst of a huge but politely smothered yawn.

“
Mi scusi
!” he said softly, rocking Hettie’s defenses with a smile of heartbreaking sweetness, “I haven’t been sleeping too well since… Since…” The smile was replaced by a frown which in its own way was just a sexy. “Since everything.”

Hettie felt a great wave of tenderness rush through her, something vaguely maternal, but in other ways not motherly at all. She imagined hugging him and comforting, but at the same time wondered what it would be like to see him without his clothes, and to caress his body and stroke his eager cock to hardness.

Dear God!

The sensation had been so intense and physical that she gasped, and her eyes flew to the back of Starr’s blond head, wondering if he could sense her shameless imaginings. When her eyes flicked back to Darryl, he was frowning again, his eyes grown dark with remorse.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized again, “I forgot… My condolences on the death of your husband.”

He’d misinterpreted her response, of course. She was fantasizing about sex in a way her late husband would have heartily approved of. But Darryl obviously felt guilty for reminding of her loss by mentioning his own. What a mess!

“Darryl,” she said quietly, turning to face him and trying to ignore a sudden mad urge to kiss him, “Don’t worry about me. I was sad for my husband but I’m coming to terms with his death now.” She couldn’t help but flick her eyes towards Starr’s broad back again, separated from them by the glass partition as he steered the car skillfully into a stream of traffic. “And I’d like to help you.”

Impulsively she reached for his hand, then almost flinched at the sensual heat of his skin. “I’m here for you, Darryl, however you need me.” This was insanely rash, but she still said it, “You only have to ask… But there’s no pressure. You don’t have to do anything but relax. Take it easy.” What was she saying? Maybe she should back off a bit? “In fact, if you feel tired now, you could have a nap in the car. It’s quite a drive back into town in this traffic.”

The look in Darryl’s eyes was enigmatic. There in those brown depths was an unexpected quality of knowingness that was one of the sexiest things Hettie had ever seen, yet his verbal answer was strangely mild and noncommittal.

“Thank you. You’re very kind. I do feel tired. But I’ll try not to fall asleep. It’d be a bit rude, wouldn’t it? When we’ve only just met.”

Words seemed superfluous, and although they did chat for a few minutes about their destination and other neutral topics, a companionable silence soon descended over them.

Companionable, but for Hettie, not exactly comfortable. As Darryl’s sooty eyelashes drifted down again, and he did indeed fall asleep, she realized he was still holding her hand. She felt every sense in her body come to sudden demanding life. The warm fingers that curved around hers seemed to burn her trembling skin.

Unthinkable as it was, after barely an hour of knowing him, she found herself desiring this beautiful man. A wave of guilt tore through her, but she couldn’t seem to prevent her mind and her imagination from running wild!

It was easy to imagine Darryl nude. His body would be the same sleek toffee tan as his face and the long, sensual hand that still rested in hers. He’d be lean, obviously, and she pictured his chest silky and hairless and his groin heavily furred with deepest black. His sex—oh boy!—would be generous, jutting imperiously from his loins. She saw him now, in her mind’s eye, superbly erect, his stiff shaft rearing up in tribute to her beauty, the tip red and hugely distended, the slit open and weeping a stream of clear juice.

Trying to breathe slowly and lightly, so as not to disturb him, she settled back into the seat, closed her own eyes and tried to find some inner calm. Some control over the images that clamored in her mind.

This is insane! I’m not sex maniac! Not everything has to be erotic!

But the images were impossible to quell, and she felt again that strange sensation of her sex drive cutting loose from her emotions.

With a soundless sigh, she let the fantasy pour right over her. Shifting her legs, she surreptitiously adjusted her bottom so that the hard-stitched seam of her jeans went deep into the cleft of her sex. When she edged an inch or two closer to the edge of the seat, the slack was taken up and the stiff unyielding ridge pressed hard against the swollen bud of her clitoris. All she needed to do now was wriggle, and she could masturbate without even using her fingers. Squirming discreetly, she tried to summon Darryl’s naked but imaginary body to the center stage of her mind.

But he was gone.

She blinked her eyes open, and knew the cause. It was directly in front of her. In the form of a strongly shaped male skull and dizzyingly blond hair, shaven short.

Her fantasy reassembled itself, and even though the beautiful Darryl stood on the sidelines, naked and touching himself, it was Starr lying on her bed. Starr, bare, erect and inviting.

Hettie stood beside him, her thin lace slip accentuating her body and its aroused state rather than concealing it. Her dark, swollen nipples were clearly visible, and likewise the tantalizing shadow of her lush pubic curls. As she got onto the bed, kneeling beside him, his electric blue eyes flared with lust, and that mighty cock she knew so well trembled in tribute. Acknowledging his salute, she took his strong, capable hand in hers and guided his fingers beneath the skimpy slip and straight into the wet fevered heat of her pussy.

“Stroke me, Starr,” she whispered, commanding softly, “Touch me. Make me come.” Her body spoke too, reinforcing her words as she rocked her aching clit on him, making a firm pleasure-giving fulcrum out of the side of his outstretched hand. Using her mind-pictures shamelessly, she worked her loins to and fro, her fantasy self jiggling the tiny nub of her clitoris and laughing in exultation as her moisture welled from within her and trickled out over the whole of Starr’s hand and wrist.

Adjusting herself forward she pressed her bare thigh against the slick shaft of his cock, then reached up to flip down the spaghetti straps of her slip and make her swollen breasts bare. Taking them one in each hand she began to squeeze and knead in time to the rhythm of her jerking hips. She was putting on a show for him. Just for him. Darryl had vanished. Her lewd performance was purely for the beautiful man on the bed. To pleasure him. To honor him. To breach the stern defenses he’d built around a generous, loving heart.