Temporary Mistress (17 page)

He drank to distract himself, although he questioned the suitability of further numbing his already tenuous self-control. She bathed with a serene disregard for his presence, as though they'd done this countless times before, and he wondered if she realized how uneasily he was balancing base impulse and good judgment.

"You're quiet," she murmured, tracing her palm over the surface of the water, causing light ripples to wash over the mounds of her half-submerged breasts.

His grip on his brandy glass tightened. "I'm practicing self-restraint; it takes all my concentration."

"How sweet, but you could join me if you wish."

"I'm trying not to."

"What if I were to specifically invite you?"

"I still wouldn't."

"Because?"

"I might hurt you."

"This heated water is making me feel very sexy." She slid up higher so her large breasts floated on the surface of the water. "I think I'm going to be
needing
you very soon."

"You're making this damned difficult."

"I feel perfectly fine—without a twinge of discomfort." Lifting one leg from the water, she balanced her calf on the side of the copper tub and smiled at him.

"It's not going to take very much to change my mind," he growled softly.

"Would something like this help?" Raising her other leg, she rested it on the tub rim, her provocative pose bringing his erection to full alert.

He set his glass down and reached for the tie on his dressing gown.

"Oh, good… I have your attention."

"And something more in about a second," he murmured, stripping his robe off as he rose from the chair.

"My God, Bathurst, you're a beautiful sight," she whispered, a rush of desire flaring through her senses. He was tall, bronzed, broad-shouldered, honed to the finest pitch of physical fitness, and blessed with the most magnificent erection. "Do come closer," she breathed, knowing what untold bliss he could offer.

A moment later, he stood at the foot of the tub, no less overcome by desire. "Wet or dry?"

"In the interests of enlightenment," she purred, lifting her arms to him.

He'd stepped into the water before she was finished speaking, and sinking to his knees between her outstretched legs, he slid his hands under her bottom. "I've been in a ravaging mood since I first saw you." He lifted her gently until her pulsing cleft met the hard length of his penis. "Like some plundering barbarian. I can't guarantee finesse."

"I'm not interested in finesse."

"It wouldn't matter if you were," he said on a suffocated breath, forcing his rigid erection downward, easing it into the sleek entrance to her vagina, moving forward by slow degrees so she could feel what he was feeling, so he could forget about good judgment and chivalry. So he could take what he so desperately wanted.

She gasped as he filled her, stretched her, lifting her mouth to his, wanting to feel him everywhere, wanting to completely absorb him and experience the unearthly delights he so skillfully dispensed.

The heat of their bodies, their desire, rose by vaulting degrees, as though they had to no more than touch and a feverish passion stung them to the quick.

"Don't stop," she breathed, his penetration inflaming her senses.

He knew better, but he whispered, "Never…" and glided in a fraction more, sensitive to the limits of sensation, less reckless than she.

"I want to die of pleasure…"

"A thousand times," he murmured, wanting her as much, submerged almost to the deepest extremity.

"Oh, God…"

He held himself motionless against the very mouth of her womb while the world dissolved, heated ecstasy overwhelming mind and body, every trembling nerve incited to rapture pitch.

"You can't leave me."

He heard her through a thundering lust so unrestrained and lecherous, he could honestly answer "I won't" even as he began to withdraw.

"No, no, no!" She clutched at his back, trying to maintain the ravishing pleasure.

"Hush," he commanded, breaking her hold. "I'm coming back." And when he'd reached the limits of his withdrawal stroke, he plunged in once again and felt her soft sigh of gratification as he buried himself to the hilt.

Riveting sensation jolted their bodies, thrilled through their senses, burned away all but rapacious need, and they moved in the heated water in an agitated flux and flow that sent waves of water onto the carpet. Unmindful, driven by a frenzy of torrid desire, they wildly took and gave, greedy, impatient, consumed by a carnal hunger that burned away all but feeling, and when their orgasmic culmination exploded over them, they were both left breathless.

"My undying… thanks," she whispered, lying prostrate, her head thrown back.

"The pleasure… was… mine" he gasped, his forehead resting on the rim of the tub.

"I'm… going… to be… wanting more…"

He turned his head and met her voluptuous gaze. "Wet or dry?" he softly drawled.

"Whatever you want."

What he wanted might alarm her, he thought, the possibility of fucking himself to death mildly alarming to himself as well. "I'll make a list," he whispered, a faint smile playing across his mouth.

"And I'll accommodate you."

"Sight unseen?"

She moved her hips in the smallest of undulations. "As long as I have this inside me, I'll accommodate you any way you wish."

"An inspiring offer."

"I can feel your inspiration already." He'd grown rigid again, and the exquisite sensation brought a smile to her lips. "How lucky I am."

A consummate gambler, he understood the laws of chance and he knew full well the ultimate degree of luck involved in their meeting. "We both are," he softly said.

HE CARRIED HER from the bath sometime later, wrapped her in one of his robes, slipped on a dressing gown as well, and led her through the imposing crimson-bedecked bedchamber to another dressing room so large, she stood in the doorway, rapt.

"Is this your Roman bath?" The walls and floor were of green-veined marble, the high-domed ceiling a colorful mosaic depiction of fauna and flora, the light from numerous wall sconces reflected in dozens of gilt-framed mirrors lining the walls.

He shook his head. "That's on the ground floor. My great-grandfather apparently saw this room in a villa in Naples and brought back twenty Italian craftsmen to replicate it for him. I thought you might like to use the facilities."

"Thank you." Her blush deepened the pink on her cheeks.

"I could leave if you wish."

"If you would… although I suppose at this point—" A flaring bit of scarlet rouged her cheeks. "I mean, after what transpired…"

"I'll wait outside," he gently said. "The water closet is through those doors." Pointing at a trompe l'oeil woodland scene, he added, "Just push on the clump of primrose."

She stood for a moment after the door closed on him, in awe of the magnificence. Nothing in her past compared with the degree of luxury evident in Bathurst House. Although Dermott seemed not to notice—his small dressing apartment was almost ordinary in its plainness. A clock suddenly struck, and glancing around, she saw a tall case clock set between a freestanding marble tub and a silk-covered chaise. A large family could live comfortably in this chamber, she thought, smiling faintly, the warmth from the fireplace adding to the creature comforts of the room. Vases of flowers perfumed the air as well, and she wondered if one ever became blase about such splendor.

Not that she would have the opportunity to find out, she decided with the practicality she'd learned at her grandfather's knee. And on that pragmatic note, she moved toward the hidden doors and gently touched the primroses.

The doors swung open soundlessly on well-oiled hinges and another chamber decorated in marble met her gaze. Pink marble this time, with a water closet in the guise of a throne and a sink with faucets that implied Bathurst House was supplied with running water. She wished she had someone to describe these luxuries to, and incongruously, considering her reasons for being there, she wished her grandfather were available to listen.

Dermott was seated near the large boulle desk when she reentered the bedchamber, refreshed as well after using the simpler accommodations in his dressing room. Lounging in an outsized chair, he held a brandy glass in his hand. "Did you manage to make all the faucets work?"

"Yes, thank you. How beautiful, and ingenious as well. Grandpapa would have enjoyed seeing your plumbing."
⁵

He smiled. "And I would have liked to see your grandfather again. He raised a very unusual woman." He rose as she approached and offered her a chair beside him.

"Do you think I'm unusual?" Sitting, she thought how gracious he was to charm after as well as before.

"Without doubt. Champagne? I had some more brought up." Which required waking the servants he'd dismissed.

"Yes, thank you." She took the proffered glass. "Unusual because of this—arrangement, you mean?"

He momentarily pursed his lips. "A consideration perhaps, but no—I think your lack of affectation most appeals."

"My lack of social graces, you mean," she noted with a smile.

"Hardly. You could grace Almack's with the best of them. I suppose I dislike coy women, and you are not that. What you are, darling, is the fascinating focus of my desires—in a most disturbing way. And there, I've said enough. I despise conversations about feelings."

"As do all men, in my experience."

"
Your
experience?" He cocked one dark brow.

"In my grandfather's business. If one ever broached a subject that even veered in the direction of how one felt—say about a shipwreck, for instance, or a spoiled cargo, or the plight of laborers on the plantations that supplied much of the cargo—they would invariably say 'And so life goes,' as though it were possible to avoid an emotional reaction. Even Grandpapa, darling that he was, rarely mentioned his love for me other than to say, 'You're my sun and moon, Izzy'—he called me that from childhood—'now tell me what you want and you may have it.' "

Dermott grinned. "A spoiled young lady—which accounts for your sexual demands. Not that I'm complaining."

"Nor I, Lord Bathurst. You've lived up to your reputation splendidly."

"We're not done yet."

"I should hope not."

His lazy smile was overtly sensual. "Wanton minx."

"Indeed." She winked at him over the rim of her glass. "And I never had the least idea."

"I should be grateful to your disreputable relatives."

"In a way I am. Because of you, of course."

His gaze went shuttered, wary of female flattery after years of avoiding entrapment.

Her trill of laughter drifted to the bacchantes overhead. "Do they all want to leg-shackle you?"

"Enough to make one cautious."

"I know better. No need for alarm. But I'm glad you were the first," she softly added.

And perhaps the last
, a rash, impulsive voice inside his head avowed. Which voice was instantly quashed by those brute impulses that had sustained him in recent years. "Thank you." He didn't know what else to say. He had no intention of becoming involved.