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Authors: Susan Johnson
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painters use that word?"
"This one does. And yours is very fine and the thought of feeling you inside me is tantalizing in the extreme."
Her words added dimension to his rigid length, and he found it necessary to take a small breath before speaking. "I'd suggest doing whatever it is you still wish to do quickly, or you're going to find yourself backed up against the wall and fucked standing up."
It was her turn to require the sustaining breath before speaking, the image he evoked intensifying the throbbing between her legs. "I'd prefer a bed the first time."
The implications in the words
first time
sent a heated rush through his senses. "Clothed or unclothed. You've about a minute to decide."
She moved from the doorway. "Unclothed," she said, and walking to a tapestry screen set in the corner of the studio, she added as she disappeared behind it, "Come and see me in a minute."
He rapidly counted to twenty and, impatient, followed her. Walking around the screen depicting Leda and the Swan against a vivid scarlet background—an appropriate subject in his current ramming-speed frame of mind—he came to an abrupt stop. The screen hid the entrance to her bedroom, and from the size of the bed dominating the small room, he'd say the lady he was about to fuck knew what she was doing. It wasn't the bed of a tyro, nor of a lady for that matter, if he subscribed to the conventional meaning of the word. The bed would be more appropriate in a seraglio, its headboard and canopy ornately carved and elaborately gilded, the entire structure swathed in diaphanous tulle and even though those silken draperies were white, it wasn't a virgin's bed.
"People tend to have that reaction to my bed."
"People?" A low, faint growl underscored the word.
"I have women friends too."
"And what the hell does that mean?"
"What would you like it to mean?"
He exhaled slowly. "You're enjoying yourself, aren't you?" She was partially undressed, standing to the left of the door, her gown at her feet, her chemise and drawers lace-trimmed silk and pristine white.
"You forget, I live outside the aristocratic world by choice."
"Not always. Not this afternoon at the races."
"Mostly I do," she corrected herself. "Because I wish to separate myself as much as possible from people who ask the kind of questions you just asked. And if I wish to have women friends who are more than friends, I will, as will I cultivate the kind of men friends I wish. I hope that's clear… Sam."
"As a bell… Alex."
"Then I'll meet you in bed."
It wasn't as though he made love only to deferential women. The range of females in his life ran the gamut. And he was the least likely man to demand submission. But this splendid woman, this image of incarnate femaleness, was so blatantly challenging, he found himself responding to her with a kind of brutish authority, as though some contest of wills were about to commence.
"If you don't mind," she said with a smile, taking note of the sudden rigidity of his stance.
"I'm trying to maintain my equilibrium, and don't say people always say that."
"I wouldn't think of it."
"Good." Kicking off his shoes, he began unbuttoning his coat because he was going to fuck her regardless of the modicum of contention she provoked, regardless of the fact that she evoked so extraordinary a lust, he should be wary, or that he found it necessary to tamp down the violence she inspired.
A small, heated silence ensued as they undressed, both struggling with the tumult of their emotions, both driven by ungovernable desires, both unfamiliar with such loss of control.
And then Alex swore softly, unable to untangle a knot in the ribbon threaded through her chemise neckline.
Sam dropped his shirt on the floor. "Let me do that."
"Are you sure you want to?" She had her own provocations to deal with.
"I'm sure," he insisted, crossing the short distance between them. "And I don't want to fight."
"At least not until after," she replied crisply.
He was
"This one does. And yours is very fine and the thought of feeling you inside me is tantalizing in the extreme."
Her words added dimension to his rigid length, and he found it necessary to take a small breath before speaking. "I'd suggest doing whatever it is you still wish to do quickly, or you're going to find yourself backed up against the wall and fucked standing up."
It was her turn to require the sustaining breath before speaking, the image he evoked intensifying the throbbing between her legs. "I'd prefer a bed the first time."
The implications in the words
first time
sent a heated rush through his senses. "Clothed or unclothed. You've about a minute to decide."
She moved from the doorway. "Unclothed," she said, and walking to a tapestry screen set in the corner of the studio, she added as she disappeared behind it, "Come and see me in a minute."
He rapidly counted to twenty and, impatient, followed her. Walking around the screen depicting Leda and the Swan against a vivid scarlet background—an appropriate subject in his current ramming-speed frame of mind—he came to an abrupt stop. The screen hid the entrance to her bedroom, and from the size of the bed dominating the small room, he'd say the lady he was about to fuck knew what she was doing. It wasn't the bed of a tyro, nor of a lady for that matter, if he subscribed to the conventional meaning of the word. The bed would be more appropriate in a seraglio, its headboard and canopy ornately carved and elaborately gilded, the entire structure swathed in diaphanous tulle and even though those silken draperies were white, it wasn't a virgin's bed.
"People tend to have that reaction to my bed."
"People?" A low, faint growl underscored the word.
"I have women friends too."
"And what the hell does that mean?"
"What would you like it to mean?"
He exhaled slowly. "You're enjoying yourself, aren't you?" She was partially undressed, standing to the left of the door, her gown at her feet, her chemise and drawers lace-trimmed silk and pristine white.
"You forget, I live outside the aristocratic world by choice."
"Not always. Not this afternoon at the races."
"Mostly I do," she corrected herself. "Because I wish to separate myself as much as possible from people who ask the kind of questions you just asked. And if I wish to have women friends who are more than friends, I will, as will I cultivate the kind of men friends I wish. I hope that's clear… Sam."
"As a bell… Alex."
"Then I'll meet you in bed."
It wasn't as though he made love only to deferential women. The range of females in his life ran the gamut. And he was the least likely man to demand submission. But this splendid woman, this image of incarnate femaleness, was so blatantly challenging, he found himself responding to her with a kind of brutish authority, as though some contest of wills were about to commence.
"If you don't mind," she said with a smile, taking note of the sudden rigidity of his stance.
"I'm trying to maintain my equilibrium, and don't say people always say that."
"I wouldn't think of it."
"Good." Kicking off his shoes, he began unbuttoning his coat because he was going to fuck her regardless of the modicum of contention she provoked, regardless of the fact that she evoked so extraordinary a lust, he should be wary, or that he found it necessary to tamp down the violence she inspired.
A small, heated silence ensued as they undressed, both struggling with the tumult of their emotions, both driven by ungovernable desires, both unfamiliar with such loss of control.
And then Alex swore softly, unable to untangle a knot in the ribbon threaded through her chemise neckline.
Sam dropped his shirt on the floor. "Let me do that."
"Are you sure you want to?" She had her own provocations to deal with.
"I'm sure," he insisted, crossing the short distance between them. "And I don't want to fight."
"At least not until after," she replied crisply.
He was
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