Susan Johnson (17 page)

And she wasn’t sleeping any longer, he could tell; the rhythm of her breathing had changed.

The gossamer lace was exquisitely sensual on her skin, the lightest of sensations, like feathery wing tips or a summer breeze, lushly heated, warming. The surface of her skin glowed with stimulation, the heat spiraling inward, racing through her blood. Teo wondered if the wearer of this gown might drown in sensation.

“Why don’t you sit up?” Duras suggested, sliding his hands under her arms.

“Do I have a choice?” she murmured, her lashes half shielding the deep green of her eyes, a sensual undertone to her words.

“You always have a choice,
chou-chou
.” His voice was whisper soft, his dark gaze shone with flagrant excess. “Come, sit up for me.”

He lifted her effortlessly, his carnal urges overriding the momentary twinge in his wrist as the stitches pulled. And when he’d placed her with punctilious attention against the red-painted headboard, adjusting pillows on either side of her to rest her arms, he said, “You do the dress justice,
ma chère
.”

“It feels … delicious.”

“Here, too?” He slipped his hand between her legs, smoothed the lace over her mount of Venus, his fingers drifting lower, massaging the fabric with compelling pressure over her swollen labia.

She moaned at the provocative friction, her senses quickening under his touch.

“How do you feel?”

“Restless,” she replied, squirming, “wanton …”

“Would you like to climax again?”

She shifted away slightly, her flesh still tender from lovemaking. “I can’t.”

His fingers were damp through the sheer silk, her body roused, dripping wet. “Maybe you can,” he murmured. “Maybe you can come a dozen more times.”

Her eyes shut against the licentious surge rippling through her vagina. “I’ll die …”

Leaning forward, he placed his lips gently on hers, eased his hand under the black lace of the skirt and slid his fingers inside her. “No, you won’t,” he breathed, stroking the sleek, hot tissue. “I won’t let you.” His words vibrated
against her mouth, soothing, absolving, his fingers buried deep inside her intoxicating, and she shivered in longing.

“Open wider for me,” he said and her legs fell apart as though she were his to command. “Wider,” he softly ordered a moment later, spreading her thighs himself, arranging her legs comfortably, her knees slightly bent, her ankles crossed so her lower body was delectably nude, on display. Sitting back to admire her salacious pose, he adjusted her skirt to more fully expose her sex. “Would you like some cock in here?” he gently inquired, touching her pulsing cleft.

She moved against his hand with a suffocated cry.

“I can’t hear you,” he murmured, his fingers moving up and down. “Would you like my cock?”

Eyes closed, she nodded.

“I’m not quite sure you’re ready.”

Her eyes opened wide.

“Ah, there. I like to see that rapacious need.”

“I can’t wait … please.”

“Just a few more minutes … I thought I’d kiss your nipples first.”

“No … please.”

Her breathing was rough, her skin a glowing blush, her vulva pulsing visibly. She was so damned arousing Duras wondered how long he himself could wait. But he was more accomplished at the game, his talents more inventive, and he understood delay only enhanced the pleasure.

“This won’t take long.” He untied the red ribbon holding the gown’s décolletage in place, easing the fabric aside, exposing her breasts. “Is that too cold?” he unnecessarily asked, stroking her heated flesh.

“Damn you,” she breathed, ravenous, desperate.

“You’re too impetuous,” he gently chided, sliding the superfluous lace bodice under and around her breasts, retying the red bow beneath the plump, ripe mounds so they
were suspended and framed by black lace, levered tautly into jutting, delectable globes.

Leaning forward, he gently licked a path around one nipple, and Teo’s soft moan trembled in the stillness. His hands came up to firmly hold one lush, ripe breast, to restrain her before his mouth closed over the hardened peak. She was quivering in his hands, shuddering with need, and when he began sucking with a hard, exquisite pressure, she cried out and came with a wild, gasping sob. Releasing her nipple when the last flurry had subsided in her body, he took her face between his warm palms and whispered, “It’s better when I’m inside you.”

“Anytime,” she breathed, green flame in the depths of her eyes.

He chuckled. “Patience, darling. It only gets better.”

“Guaranteed?” she insolently murmured, moody, glowering.

“Guaranteed,” he serenely replied.

“Damn your shameless assurance.”

His brows quirked. “You should appreciate my assurance.”

“It offends me on occasion.”

“Even now?” His glance flicked downward to his towering erection.

She smiled. “Maybe later.”

“Very sensible, darling. Now lie back and I’ll see what I can do to put myself in a more favorable light.”

“Something expeditious, pray.”

“I shall endeavor to please you,” he impudently said. “Now shut your eyes and dream sweet dreams.”

She felt the feather bed shift as he reached down and she watched from beneath her lashes as he lifted the bowl of whipped cream from the floor. Dipping his finger into the remains of the cream, he carried a dollop to her mouth. “Your eyes are supposed to be closed.”

“I take orders so poorly.”

His mouth twitched into a half smile, and undeterred, he said, “Open your mouth.”

She didn’t of course, nor had he expected her to. But when he dropped the dab of whipped cream on one of her nipples, her mouth opened of its own accord at the cool thrill, at the heat racing downward from her ornamented nipple. And with smooth dispatch, he deposited a fingerful of whipped cream in her mouth.

“Gotcha,” he whispered, grinning.

She had to swallow before she could answer and by that time her other nipple was decorated with a small pale mound of cream. “I’m not sure I like this.”

“Really,” he smoothly retorted, delicately touching one peaked crest through the cream.

“You needn’t look so smug.” A
jeunesse
pout.

“Jewel hard, darling, what can I say?” He touched her other nipple and she drew in a sharp breath. He smiled faintly, surveying the rosy flush spreading over her mounded breasts and very softly said, “I think I’ll paint your sex with cream too. How would that be?”

There was no need for her to answer; he could see the tremor shake her body. “That’s what I thought,” he said. “And then if you don’t mind waiting,” he silkily went on, trailing his middle finger down her cleft, “I’ll lick it all off.”

She writhed, melted, an impossible craving swelling inside her.

“You can’t move,” he said in her ear, putting a hand on her stomach to hold her still. “There, like that,” he murmured, spreading a fingerful of whipped cream in a lustrous drift over her labia. “How does that feel?”

She couldn’t speak, unbridled sensation dissolving her bones, the throbbing between her legs overwhelming.

Well-grounded in female response, he didn’t require an answer but continued smoothing the glossy cream over her flesh, covering all the external surfaces first until they were
slickly glazed in white, forcing little dabs of the sweet confection into every sensitive fold and crevasse. The remaining whipped cream conveniently filled her vagina, first one dollop and then another until she was stuffed to overflowing with frothy cream. “You have to look,” he gently directed, drawing her slightly forward so she could glance down between her legs. “It looks as though you’re filled with enough come for a regiment. You must be very accommodating.”

His voice was like velvet and the sight between her legs so lascivious she was convulsed with shame—and wildly aroused. “Are you accommodating?” he inquired in a rough voice that made her quiver inside.

“I don’t know,” she murmured, powerless against her lust, dying for him.

“You look like you’re accommodating in this revealing gown,” he whispered. “Your breasts are exposed for anyone to see. What will people think,” he went on in a rusty, thick tone, “with your nipples all smeared with come … with your sex dripping with come.”

He knew, she thought, that he could have her anywhere, any way, and she felt as though she were submerged in a sea of sexual desire, endless, boundless, terrifying, beautiful. “I just want you,” she breathed, beginning to tremble, overwhelmed by naked desire. “Please, Andre … please, don’t do this to me.”

His hands came up to grip her shoulders, steadying her, and he dipped his head so their eyes were level. “I’ll stop,” he said, wiping the cream from her nipples with the sheet. “You don’t have to wait anymore.” He gently eased her down on the bed. “Should I wipe the rest away or—”

She shook her head.

“Or lick it away,” he finished, smiling faintly.

“That,” she whispered, the word barely audible, her meaning crystal clear.

“Your servant, my lady,” he smoothly replied, moving down between her legs. He gazed up at her a moment later,
his chin resting lightly on her mons, his eyes angelic as a choirboy’s. “If there’s anything you don’t like,” he murmured, his mouth quirked in a grin, “let me know.”

“Insolent man,” she breathed.

“But competent.”

“We’ll see.”

Bending his head, he licked a path to her clitoris that elicited an immediate and flagrantly impassioned response. It took some time before she had recovered sufficiently to open her eyes.

“How was that?” he inquired, cheeky and brazen, his dark gaze raised slightly above her mount of Venus.

“Mmmm.” She languorously sighed.

“Competent enough?” An impertinent flicker of his brows.

“I should beat you.”

“But perhaps not right now,” he perceptively declared, placing a finger on either side of her vulva and gently spreading the pink flesh. He glanced upward at her soft groan. “Is that a yes?” he murmured, his smile knowing. “I have to tell you, madame,” he went on as though they were discussing a business matter, “there’s a whole lot of cream in here.” He gently stroked her clitoris, delicately spreading the cream over and around the distended nub while she uncontrollably shivered beneath his hand. “This could take a while.”

She seemed not to hear him, too absorbed in the dizzying sensations, the pulsing, unfulfilled ache in the pit of her belly. Lifting her pelvis, she moved against his hand, reaching for surcease.

“Soon,” he quietly said, placing a restraining hand on her hip, holding her stationary before he lowered his head and slid his tongue slowly up her cleft. Her panting cries rippled through the small room as he licked away the cream on the outer verges of her labia, tidying up her pink flesh
until it was immaculate, his attentions indulgent, gratifying, giving her what she desperately wanted, so that her first orgasm died away with his tongue deep inside her.

There was much yet to do, he told her when she was quiet again, and she didn’t refuse his offer or his talents. He took great care in the continuing process to give regular attention to her clitoris before and after he began the critical task of removing the whipped cream from her vagina. It required finesse of hands and mouth and tongue, a simple achievement for a man who’d learned oral sex from a governess who wouldn’t allow him to penetrate her for three months.

His governess had eventually succumbed to his persistence and her carnal urges but he’d become supremely proficient by then. No, more than that—a virtuoso after ninety heated nights. He’d learned to a flawless nicety how to provoke maximum sensation in a lady.

Teo was shaking when he finished, when she’d climaxed an endless number of times, when he decided she’d had enough or he hadn’t. He climbed on top of her then and plunged inside her and kissed her and caressed her and felt as though the magic between them were attuned to the rhythm of the universe or to some erotic sorcery beyond understanding—something reckless, powerful, mindless. His orgasm was explosive, shattering, ravaging his brain and body, and he collapsed afterward, rolling away so he wouldn’t crush her. Lying sprawled on his back he couldn’t remember for a moment where he was. “Jesus,” he muttered, his voice rough, breathless. He inhaled deeply, trying to quell the shocking impact.

“No more,” Teo weakly breathed.

He reached a hand out to touch her. “I’m sorry,” he apologized, his voice still faint. “Sleep,” he murmured, brushing her fingers with his, forcing himself up on one elbow a moment later to draw a blanket over her.

She was sleeping already and so beautiful he smiled
looking down at her. He wanted her as he’d never wanted a woman. It was terrifying, but there was nothing he could do about it—he wanted what he wanted. She called it love; he didn’t know exactly what that meant. But she was his, that he knew, whether she wished it or not.

Anton Mingen melded well into any environment, his appearance deliberately nondescript, his talent for languages so proficient, he spoke regional dialects without flaw. The Chechens’ Mongol antecedents, however, set them apart, while their glowering countenances would have brought attention to them even if they were cleverly disguised. So King Frederick’s agent thought it best to travel at night and rest during the day.

It wasn’t difficult to overtake Duras’s retreating army; burdened with wounded, they were moving very slowly. And three days later, Mingen and his execution squad took lodgings in the same inn Duras had stayed in the previous night.

Over dinner that evening, Mingen struck up a conversation with the serving maid, complimenting her on her
embroidered apron, then expressing satisfaction with the meal, wondering, he said a few moments later, whether she’d actually seen the illustrious General Duras. “Everyone in the village is talking of him,” he added. “His generosity extends to paying for his soldiers’ food and lodging,” he cordially noted.

At which point, the young girl waxed glorious over the general’s charm and courtesy. Why, he’d stayed right upstairs, she went on, describing in great detail the events of the previous day.