Bertrice Small - Captivated

He was slipping the bone buttons of his fringed jacket free as he moved toward her.

He walked through the dappled light, his dark hair gleaming intermittently as sunshine and shadow bathed his form, the sculpted planes of his face cast and recast in flickering splendor. She wondered for a moment what parents begat such handsomeness, and a heartbeat later realized they might be parents someday to a similar young man.

Past and present images raced through her mind toward a staggering unknown, and for a transient moment the stark reality of parenthood overshadowed even her husband's lethal threats. But, as quickly, those reflections were suppressed by more powerful instincts of survival.

There were no choices in this obligatory country sojourn neither for herself nor the marquis.

She watched him discard his fringed jacket in a pale, velvety heap on the marble floor, and when he tugged his shirt from his riding pants in one smooth pull, she found herself focusing on more immediate sensations.

Her nostrils flared as though primordial emotion responded to the Marquis of Crewe's audacious sexuality. He undressed casually as if he'd done this numberless times in similar situations, unconscious of the impact of his lean, powerful body. And fascinated by his virility and strength, she gazed, tempted like Eve herself in the presence of such flaunting masculinity. "You show well, my lord," she murmured, his conspicuous erection garnering her full attention.

"So I've been told," he unabashedly replied. "I expect you could silence a room without much effort. I won't ask if you have," he cheekily added.

"We don't have the same exhibitionist impulses," she softly said.

"Obviously you have some," he murmured, moving closer, "or you wouldn't offer yourself in such a seductive pose. How many men have seen you like that," he went on, sitting down beside her, "in that arms'-open welcome? How many have you offered to entertain in that lush, tantalizing purr?" He placed his hands lightly on her thrusting breasts, palms down, and, leaning forward, a sudden uncharitable light glittered in his eyes. "Tell me," he whispered, "how many?"

"We don't want to start comparing numbers, Crewe," she quietly replied. "Believe me."

His slender, tanned fingers tightened.

"Do you like violence with your sex?" Insolence colored her tone.

"Sometimes," he murmured, not sure himself why he couldn't overlook the men in her past. "Is your husband violent?"

"If you're talking about sex, I wouldn't know."

"The others then."

"How can it matter? This is only sex, not ownership. Or do you only like women who slavishly adore you?"

Her remark raised a smile, and, diverted from his inexplicable resentments, he said, "I particularly avoid women who adore me."

"Then we should get along famously, and if you'd ease your hold, I could take this very constricting riding habit off."

"Would you like help?" he lightly asked, sitting upright, his hands falling away, finding himself capable once again of depersonalizing his feelings.

"I'm here to accommodate you, my lord," she softly said. "You tell me."

"Such carte blanche, Princess. It almost makes one believe in heaven."

"A male heaven no doubt," she observed, one brow pertly arched.

"No doubt," he murmured, taking in the lush vision of paradise before him. "Undo those fastenings on your jacket."

His quiet voice of command made her shiver, the plain words, the authority, more seductive than a score of kisses. "And then what?"

"Then I'll tell you what I want nextand because you're here to accommodate me… you'll oblige, won't you?"

"Of course." She slipped the first silken frog free.

"And you'll like it, too, won't you?" he sardonically observed.

"You make it very pleasant." Her voice was bland.

"How tame you make it sound. Would you prefer we go riding instead?"

"I'd prefer riding that splendid cock of yours."

"That's what I thought," he gently said, "and as soon as you take all those clothes off, I'll let you climax once or twice."

"I should despise your arrogance."

"Do you actually like fawning men?" His mouth curved into a wicked smile. "You seem as though you prefer something different."

"Meaning you."

"Meaning me," he impudently replied. "Take your time, though; I can wait."

She paused in her unfastening. "Maybe I can, too."

"Suit yourself," he murmured, lightly grasping his erection, sliding his closed fingers downward so the full length reared upright, the swollen red crest gleaming. "I don't have to come in you."

"Yes, you do," she hotly whispered, and, swiftly moving upright from her lounging pose, she covered his clasped hand with hers and, leaning forward, lightly licked the full, stretched head. Looking up at him a second later, she murmured, "Now let's see who can wait." And opening her mouth, she drew the pulsing crest into her mouth.

His eyes shut, a soft groan punctuated the silence, and his free hand automatically moved to cradle her head. The dynamic suddenly shifted, levels of lust instantly equalized, and for a lengthy interval, the only sound in the grotto was the light ripple of moving water and a soft sucking sound.

When the princess raised her head sometime later and gazed at him, her lips, pinked and wet, he muttered, rampant and resentful, "You're much too accomplished."

"You didn't like it?" she dulcetly inquired. "When it seemed as though you were"her eyes were amused"responding…"

No longer interested in a skirmish of wills, interested only in possessing her completely, his hands clamped hard around her slender waist, and, swinging her upright in a blur of muscle and sinew, he set her on her feet facing him. "Lift up your skirt," he curtly ordered.

She instantly obeyed, as aroused as he, as selfish, not quibbling over motive with libidinous desire torrid in her blood. Urgent, lustful, he stripped her doeskin pantalettes down her hips with a brusque, wrenching jerk.

He swore under his breath at the delay while he unbuckled her boots and stripped them off so he could slide the sleek leather over her feet, his erection throbbing, aching, his need for this woman beyond any former concept of wanting.

She was panting at the last.

They were both trembling.

"Tell me there's a rational explanation for this," he muttered, lifting her again as though she were weightless, depositing her on the chaise, sliding between her welcoming thighs a second later with the ease of considerable practice.

She shook her head. "It's insanity," she whispered. "We're losing our minds…"

But her last words were lost in a muffled moan as he drove into her, plunging so deep, he bodily moved her up on the chaise, and intellect and reason instantly gave way to riveting sensation. She came in seconds, as if she'd waited for this man, this hysteria, this exquisite degree of bliss, her entire life.

And now she'd found the secret key.

He knew all the keys; they weren't secret to him but the result of years of amorous diversion, a discriminating eye and sensitized perception. And more importantly, perhaps, he had a genuine passion for women.

Another orgasm washed over her brief moments later and, crying out, she fiercely gripped his strong body, his erection pressed hard against the extreme limits of her honeyed passage. Intoxicating bliss, bewitchment, melted through her brain, pulsed through every nerve and cell, touched the depths of her soul and miraculously entered her heart when she'd thought all feelings of love had died long ago.

And when he teasingly whispered, "There is a Cupid," she gazed up at him in wonder.

"You're feeling this too?"

His faint smile was close and hers, she thought with sudden revelation. "It's sorcery," he murmured.