Temporary Mistress (14 page)

"One can be grateful," he murmured waggishly.

She squeezed the swollen head, and his amusement was superseded by riveting sensation. He moaned deep in his throat, faintly arched his back, and looking down, he saw her smile and knew she was pleased with her accomplishment. "Molly said I could do that. And this…" she said proudly, grasping his erection with her small hand, her fingers barely closing the circle, but she squeezed again as her hand moved downward.

"That'll be enough," Dermott said on a suffocated breath, easing her fingers open. "I've been waiting for you too long to settle for this."

"I'm so glad we're done waiting—finally!" she exclaimed, falling back on the indigo-blue coverlet and lifting her arms to him. "Come make love to me."

He didn't need an invitation; he needed a large measure of restraint or he'd ruin the first time for this eager young lady. Sitting down beside her, he resisted her tugging hands, taking them in his and placing them at her sides. "I don't want this to hurt."

"It won't," she lavishly disclaimed, reaching for him again.

He didn't know much more than she on the subject, but he understood losing one's virginity could be painful. "One step at a time, darling," he cautioned, pushing her hands away, easing her thighs open. "Let's take this slowly." Slipping a finger between the sleek moist lips of her labia, he gently stroked her pulsing flesh.

She arched her hips against the delicious sensation. "Ummmm…"

So far so good. He felt like he was fourteen again, although Harvey Nicols's mother had hardly been a novice. He eased his fingers in another short distance.

"More… more…"

He obliged, massaging her liquid interior with practiced skill, slowly sliding deeper and deeper, touching, stroking, until he met the barrier he was slated to destroy.

Isabella was no longer capable of recalling any of the lessons she'd been taught. Eyes shut, she was lost in sensation, floating in a blissful, heated paradise centered between her legs. The trembling, delicious ache heightened by slow degrees; a fevered longing filled her brain. All she wanted was more heated bliss, and she moved her hips in a slow undulation, reaching for the ravishing pleasure, lifting up into the exquisite, inciting touch of his fingers.

Experienced at bringing women to a frenzied hysteria, Dermott watched the flush of arousal color her skin, observed the panting gasps as he slowly penetrated and withdrew, took note of the increasingly frantic arching of her hips. She was a hot-blooded little minx, as if he didn't know, and she was almost there.

Leaning over, he kissed her, inhaling her fevered gasps while he gently stroked her pulsing flesh, wanting her with an unbridled violence he knew he couldn't act on. But words were safe, piquant stimulation for her, delicious anticipation for them both. "I'm going to make love to you soon," he murmured against her mouth. "You'll feel me deep inside you, all the way inside… until you're filled so full, you'll squirm to get away. But I won't let you go, I'll—"

As he spoke, the coiling heat inside her burned higher with each salacious word. "I'll make love to you until you can't move, until I can't move, and then we'll rest and start all over again. Because I intend to keep you under me or over me or around me—"

Her climax burst over her, and she screamed at the wild, pulsing beauty, at the unadulterated rapture, the exquisite intoxication lasting and lasting and lasting, until finally she lay replete, eyes shut, a half-smile on her lips.

"Satisfied?" His voice was softly teasing as he sat beside her.

"Ummmm…" Her eyes slowly opened and her smile broadened. "You are
definitely
good."

"We try." His grin was captivating.

"You really
aren't
selfish," she murmured, reaching up to touch his muscled chest.

"Usually not."

"I see why you're so much in demand."

"The concept of mutual pleasure is more—gratifying."

She stretched like a young sultana. "
More
gratifying?" she breathed, one brow raised in delicious query. "We'll definitely have to work on that."

He smiled. "My thoughts exactly."

"I don't know though," she hesitantly murmured. "Can I do that again?"

He nodded. "No problem."

Her eyes glowed. "You're sure?"

"Positive."

She smiled faintly. "I think Molly failed to mention a whole lot."

"I'll show you what you missed."

"Because you're not satisfied yet."

"Partly."

"And I'm the other part?" she playfully noted, arching her back in a theatrical, preening pose.

"Absolutely," he said, enjoying the view.

"Am I allowed to say no?"

"You're allowed anything. But I guarantee, you'll like it."

"And I'll feel that delicious, tingly, end-of-the-world thing all over again?"

He nodded again. "All of it."

"How can you be so sure?"

Years of fucking, he thought, but, circumspect, he said, "I just know."

"Because of all the ladies."

"Because of that," he admitted.

"What number am I?"

Was she resentful or curious? He couldn't tell with her brows drawn together like that. "I don't count."

"I think I might. Keep a diary or list. Like Casanova."

"Casanova didn't have a list. He remembered because he liked all those women."

"Do you like them too? Do you like me?"

Her frankness always surprised him. The ladies he knew were more artful. "I like you very much."

"I
know
I adore you… for what you did just now. I've never felt that wonderful before, not even when Grandpapa and I came upon that map of Galileo's."

"I'm honored." He gracefully bowed his head, amused at the comparison.

"All of a sudden I'm ever so hungry," she abruptly confessed. "Are you hungry?"

His hunger had nothing to do with food. "I am if you are," he politely replied.

"Would you mind if we ate first?"

It took a great deal of restraint to say "No, of course I don't mind. I'll ring for Pomeroy."

"You're an absolute darling," she murmured, lightly touching his arm.

Yes, he was. Because he wanted to fuck the delectable Miss Leslie until he fucked himself to death. Nothing he couldn't put off until after supper.

DERMOTT HAD NO MORE than rung for Pomeroy than he was knocking at the dressing room door.

"Was he listening at the door?" Isabella's eyes went wide.

"No," Dermott said, stepping into his breeches, although the thought had crossed his mind; it was at least five minutes from the kitchen. He tossed Isabella a dressing gown from a nearby chair. "Put this on and I'll let him in."

Scrambling from the bed, she slid the robe on, tied it around her waist, then rolled the sleeves up half a dozen times and still looked drowned in the large garment. Lifting the fabric that dragged on the carpet, she searched for a suitable spot to receive a stranger. "Should I sit there?" She pointed to a chair near the fireplace. "Or should I stand? Or better yet, I'll hide in the armoire." She wasn't completely teasing.

Dermott swung around, his hands on the buttons to his breeches. "You could be standing naked in the center of the room and Pomeroy wouldn't bat an eyelash—nor should he." He gave her a reassuring smile. "So do what you like—so long as you stay within reach," he added with a roguish lift of his eyebrows.

"With you as incentive to stay," Isabella lightly replied, her gaze slowly surveying his splendid form, "I shall overlook any momentary embarrassment."

He winked. "Smart girl." And with a small deferential bow to her, he turned to the door and called out, "Come in."

Pomeroy looked neither right nor left when he entered the room, his gaze scrupulously on his employer. Isabella could have been absent for all the notice he took of her. "You rang, sir?"

"Miss Leslie is ready to sup."

"Very good, sir. Here, sir?" The butler's demeanor gave away nothing of the chaos below stairs, where the chef had thrown a tantrum and stalked off when the food that had been ordered hadn't been sent for immediately. He hoped the lady wasn't particular about her menu, because several of the dishes were now cold and ruined and the sous-chefs were frantically trying to deal with the crisis.

"Yes, here." Dermott began clearing the books and papers off a table.

"Immediately, sir?" It seemed a pertinent question considering the irregular scheduling of events.

"Yes, yes, of course, immediately." Dermott looked at him as though he were dense.

"Very good, sir." With a bow, he left.

"Is he always so grand?" Isabella asked, comparing him to her servants, who were more apt to tell her what to do than to take orders, since they'd raised her from a child.

Dermott looked up from his cleaning. "I suppose so. I hadn't noticed."

"Has he been with you long?"

"Always. My mother had him first."

"Does your mother live in London?" Obviously, she didn't live
here
or he wouldn't have had her over, she speculated.

"She lives at Alworth." At her blank look, he added, "My country home."

"She doesn't like the City?"

He shook his head. "Come, sit down. I've cleared off enough space, I think. Do you have any favorite foods?"

Obviously, he didn't care to speak of his mother, although she supposed it was highly irregular to discuss your mother with a paramour. "Right now," she politely said, responding to his bland question, "I'm ready to eat just about anything, I'm so hungry."

He half turned from his stacking of books.

"What?" The conjecture in his gaze baffled her.

A small smile curved his mouth. "I misunderstood. Please, sit down. I'm almost finished."

"You're not afraid of domestic duties. How delightful in a man of your notorious repute." She sat on a heavily carved chair with a cane seat and back, of Indian manufacture she suspected.

"When one campaigns in the hinterlands, servants are at a premium."

"Did you enjoy India? Molly said you'd spent some years there."

"I enjoyed some of it." His voice had changed, and setting the remaining books down, he walked to the liquor table. "Would you like a glass of wine or some brandy? It's my personal favorite to blur the harsh edges."

"I said something wrong again." His expression had altered, as it had in the library. "Molly will be quite frustrated with me," she went on, feeling a need to fill the silence. "I was supposed to speak in the most bland way. Please, forgive me."

He smiled, but the easy charm was absent. "It's not your fault. Brandy or wine?"

She understood the Earl of Bathurst had his share of demons; Molly had said as much. "Brandy, please." She was as capable as he of politesse. In future, she would raise no personal subjects.

He drank down one glass before refilling his and bringing hers to the table. "Tell me why you didn't consider a lawyer to curtail your relatives' greed," he said, sitting down opposite her.

Apparently,
he
was allowed personal questions, she reflected, but enamored of his company, infatuated with the sight and scent and taste of him—a not uncommon response to the earl—she obligingly replied. "My relatives would have never given up their pursuit of my fortune. Since that required marriage to me, I didn't feel any lawyer could physically protect me from them. Not twenty-four hours a day."