Love Storm (5 page)

"What for?" he rudely queried.

"You'd give a wife some beautiful children," Zena softly murmured, as she swept a swift glance over the darkly handsome man lying beside her. "Don't you want children?"

"I have children," he replied. "I mean children of your own." "They
are
my own."

The quiet logic seemed unassailable; Zena did not pursue the topic.

Alex raised himself on one elbow and reproachfully scrutinized the naked beauty at his side. A multitude of conflicting speculations coursed through his inebriated mind. Did she intend to complain, perhaps to his father? It had been known to happen, and his sire could be damnably moral on occasion. (Alex still remembered with acute discomfort a reprimand he had received two months ago when some peasant girl had come to the palace with a baby she claimed Alex had fathered. It wasn't that he deliberately intended to ignore the wench; he simply hadn't known. One would think she'd have come to him first. Perhaps she was more shrewd than she appeared, since his
pere
had been considerably more generous than Alex would have been.) Would this young woman's aunt try to force him into marriage? At least in that regard, Alex sighed gratefully, father and son were of one accord; his father saw no need for Alex to consider marriage when he was only twenty-four years old.

Damn it! Alex swore under his breath. He supposed it was his own fault for not asking any questions. But what respectable girl would have begged a strange man for a ride to Podolsk in the middle of the night, or agreed to go to sleep in an unknown man's bedroom, or been outfitted in a dress two seasons old
and
without corsets? Furthermore, could one expect any young girl with such a lush, opulent body to be some simpering debutante virgin?
Never-
—and he'd seen scores—
never
had he seen a respectable society miss with such ripe, magnificent breasts or such sweetly swelling hips or—damn!—such an intoxicating, easily aroused passion.

As Alex's tawny eyes swept over the flawless womanly form, a warm tremor deep in his stomach signaled a nascent carnal urge. Disregarding any further troublesome speculations and forebodings about an uncertain future, symptomatic of the callous indifference with which he normally viewed all obstacles, he reached out to stroke the round firmness of one prime, delectable breast. There was a faint smile on his remarkable features as he effortlessly reverted to type: a libertine with a passion to do as he pleased.

Zena's uncomfortable, irresolute thoughts sank into the cocoon of sated sensuality that still embraced her. The room was warm, the down mattress and covers as substantial as gossamer, her newly awakened body still throbbing. She was aware of each flutter and subtle nuance of sensation. It felt as though her body positively glowed. All the romances secretly read could never hope to express these vivid, tremulous impressions. Then the nagging thoughts returned. She had been reared to believe that proper young women never enjoyed the mating act, only endured it. She must arise from this decadent luxury, put her clothes back on, and sit up in the drawing room for the rest of the journey. She must try to explain somehow to the prince that an irresistible impulse, a delicious madness, had come over her; it wouldn't happen again. This was all a terrible mistake. She had wanted only an opportunity to escape from her aunt and the disgusting old general. Surely the prince must think her nothing more than a disreputable tart. Oh dear, she
must
get up.

But then she felt the prince's sensuous fingers stroking her breast, and a palpable shock of pleasure gripped her senses. She opened her mouth to protest, but warm, tender lips covered hers and the words died in her throat. Arms that came up in remonstrance to push away the offending muscular chest ineffectually trembled and then, in capitulation, slid up around the powerful neck and clasped the hard male contours tightly.

Alex, by way of apology for hurting Zena last time, set out to please her, kissing and caressing each sensitive area—lips, throat, breasts—and Zena felt the world slip away. Only feeling mattered: the movement of his hands on her flesh, his lips worshiping each part of her body, lingering and tantalizing until her breath came in short gasps and her hips arched, seeking once again union with this man, seeking to fill the burning, pulsing emptiness. The ache in her loins brought each nerve screaming with the need for possession.

Alex reached up and gently unlocked her arms from around his neck, brushing her cheek with his lips. "Don't rusk,
dushka
['little heart']," he whispered. "There's plenty of time."

Zena whimpered piteously as Alex moved away, and reached imploringly for him, seeking the elusive release. But he brushed away the imploring arms and languorously resumed the subtle stroking, running his hands over her belly, twining his fingers in the silken hair below, gradually forcing her thighs apart and caressing a delicate pattern along their inner contours. Soon again sensuous fever was provoked; Zena was dewy moist, running wet as convulsive waves of sweet passion built and built. Alex slipped down the bed between her thighs and rested his head on her belly. His face felt softly prickly to her tender skin. Moving downward, he kissed the downy hair, and his warm breath stirred her deliciously. Moving still lower, his lips nudged at the soft folds of her pulsing, turgid, fleshy gates of paradise.

What was he doing? Zena's eyes widened in alarm. He surely mustn't kiss her
there.
She reached down and frantically attempted to push the encroaching head away. Indifferent to her ineffectual efforts to dislodge him, Alex explored the outer lips, licking, kissing, softly biting until the horror of paralyzed shock in Zena's mind was overcome by a driving fever that pulsed in time to her frenzied heartbeat. Then Alex parted those lips with his long, cool fingers, and his tenacious tongue probed her innermost dew until he found the tiny lodestar of desire; and when he touched her there, Zena thought she would die. She was flooded with explosive waves of tumultuous passion as Alex tenderly sucked and tongued her rosy pearl. Her body writhed and twisted with the agony of her senses; her fingers curled into the black thickness of his hair and clung as shudders quaked her body.

When she thought she would explode from the building sensual hysteria, Alex moved the full weight of his body onto her, slid his muscled legs intimately between hers, forcing her soft thighs apart, raised himself, plunged his throbbing hardness into her with a low groan, and drove in hungrily. Zena's thighs closed savagely around him, fusing their bodies in primeval embrace. She felt the hard, flat muscles of his stomach pressing against her, the power of his arms, the broad muscles of his back flexing as each fierce thrust tore into her; the power and energy, the gentleness and sensuous touch of this man filled her senses.

Alex's hands reached down to grasp her hips, driving home with all the frenzied power of his lower body; his mouth closed over hers, and she moaned against the compulsive lips as she was impaled on his exploding shaft of love. Zena keened a wild cry of raw, primitive fulfillment as her climax burst and rapture flooded every fiber of her being.

They lay quiet for a long time. The prince felt heavy on her, but she liked the feel of him. His breathing was still harsh, his pulse racing wildly as he brushed her cheek with his lips. Perspiration beaded his body, and Zena quivered pleasurably as she remembered his hard, lean back arched in ecstasy beneath her fingers as he'd released his passion. Many moments later, he stirred against he as if to draw away, and Zena realized with embarrassment that she was still clutching him tightly. Her arms fell away, and the prince immediately rolled off her and onto his back, expelling a long, low whistle of appreciative reverence. Twisting back on his side, he planted a hasty kiss on Zena's cheek.

"Never, sweet dove, never in my life have I encountered such a hot-blooded virgin," he whispered. "What luck I found you,
ma petite.
Our holiday from the boredom of Petersburg will be
magnifique."
He chuckled deep in his throat, contemplating the rich delight in tutoring such untried passion.

Zena's heart plummeted in shame at the prince's smoldering look of satisfaction, at the lewd insinuation. He wouldn't suggest such a thing to her unless he thought her thoroughly sunk beneath contempt.

Since Zena had never participated in the conviviality of St. Petersburg's aristocratic society, having only lately come of age, she was not aware that liaisons and holidays of passion were not the sole province of streetwalkers and fallen women. If the arrangements could be cloaked with an acceptable discretion (and in some cases even that commodity was expendable), the upper classes were quite willing, if not daringly innovative, participants in the game of musical beds.
³

"I couldn't go on holiday with you, my lord," she murmured uncomfortably. "I'm so ashamed of myself."

"Ashamed?" Alex questioned, mildly shocked at such a curious revelation. "It's not
your
fault I mistook you for a woman of the streets."

"Ashamed of succumbing to your advances, my lord. It isn't right," she sadly replied.

"Your flesh just responded to its natural desires; it was bound to happen eventually. Look, my sweet," he said soothingly, reaching out with a fingertip to turn Zena's face toward him, "let me reassure you, from vast experience in the boudoirs of Petersburg, virginity in the brittle, impious society in which I move is as rare and elusive as the unicorn of fable."

In order to salve the poor girl's conscience, Alex might have been stretching the truth somewhat, but not a great deal, he mused. There was a certain amount of virginity, of course, but generally it was closely allied to squinty eyes, grossly ugly features, or avoirdupois that even flowing silk and tightly laced corsets couldn't conceal. The only reason a lush beauty like the
mademoiselles
hadn't been ravished yet was apparently that she had been in seclusion— although, from the sound of it, the old general had been doing his damnedest to remedy that circumstance even before the engagement.

Could he pride himself on having introduced her more subtly, with considerably more expertise and gentleness, to the congress between a man and a woman than ever the aged general would have been able to? Could he assuage his brief twinge of guilt over taking her virginity by assuming that his tutoring in the art of love would be infinitely more enjoyable than that of a fat, corrupt, and practically senile lecher? The answer to both questions was yes, if rationalization was required, but it wasn't, since Alexander Nikolaevich had always done more or less as he liked, taking a page from the behavior of a long line of wealthy, arrogant, charming Kuzan rogues who'd never seriously curtailed any of their desires.

Alex acknowledged the basic inequity in the matter of female conquest, but he acknowledged it impartially— that is to say, he recognized the necessity in life of female submission to male domination. With a true aristocratic disdain for the prescribed conventions of society, he felt no compunction to resist ruining a virgin. All women were fair game, regardless of age, rank, or condition. The prince would deflower a virgin as casually as he would mount the bawdiest wench. It was simply a need, sometimes a scintillating pleasure, sometimes a vivacious game, sometimes no more than a compelling physical desire that required quenching. It was as natural as breathing and eating, and only his mood determined the direction of his libertine eye. He would never consider forcing a virgin—or any other woman, for that matter. His sexual appetite did not require the erotic stimulation that resistance offered, and his sexual proficiency precluded the necessity. His females were always exceedingly compliant.

"Don't cry, my dear," Alex comforted as he brushed away the tears tracing a path down Zena's glowing cheeks. "Sleep," he soothed, drawing her into his warm embrace. He stroked her hair gently as he clasped the frail shoulders. "Don't worry—there's nothing to be ashamed of. You'll feel much better in the morning."

Zena allowed the consoling words to erase her dreadful fears and guilts and uncertainties, for she was very young and very tired and no one had comforted her in three long years. She had almost alone had to care for her brother, ease her father's despair, and, unaided, bear the brunt of her aunt's constant carping hostility. She would worry tomorrow; at least the repulsive general was far behind, she reflected with relief. Within seconds, Zena was fast asleep in the prince's arms.

It seemed like minutes later, but several hours had passed, when a loud rapping woke Alex.

"Yes, what is it?" he inquired groggily, his head still beclouded from the bowl of punch.

"The young child is sick, Your Excellency," a worried woman's voice answered through the door.

"We'll be right there," Alex answered promptly, fully awake now. He gently shook Zena's shoulder, for she was still sleeping soundly. "Wake up,
ma petite"
he murmured in her ear.

Zena's eyes opened languorously at the touch of his breath. Drowsy yet, she lazily wrapped her arms around his neck, seeking the delicious warmth of his body.

For a virgin, his mind noted rapidly, she had an instinct that was decidedly pleasing. He carefully released her arms from around his neck and said softly, "My dear, I'm afraid your brother is ill."