against a rash need to exert his authority, to mark her somehow as his. Fighting the urge to ruthlessly crush the soft flesh in his hands out of some inexcusable anger over something that shouldn’t matter, he gruffly said, “Show me what else you like. Entertain me.”
It was impossible to overlook the umbrage in his voice. “I’m sure your repertoire is more extensive than mine,” she said, not sure she dared smile, although she found his sulkiness appealing. “But I’d be happy to try entertaining you because I’m very pleased you’re here.” Rising smoothly to her knees, she slid her finger down his slippery cock. “And mostly here,” she added, plunging downward again, shuddering as her bottom met his thighs and their bodies were irresistibly joined.
It only took a moment to erase the unwanted images of other men enjoying her largesse. He was a sensible man. “Yes, definitely there.” But still troubled by his mad, unconscionable passion for this woman, by his outrageous cravings, his voice held a hint of curtness. “Now a little more speed, my pet, or I might decide to leave.”
She knew he wouldn’t. She knew he could no more leave than she could. But he’d given her so much already tonight, given her countless orgasms with exquisite artistry and skill and courtesy she could do no less for him.
He didn’t last very long after that.
And she wondered if he was so expert that he could come at will. Whatever the reason, he said, “Thank you,” through gritted teeth a few moments later, lifted her off him, and climaxed in his shirttails with a kind of efficiency she found strangely annoying. When it shouldn’t matter in the least. When they were both here for casual sex. When neither wanted anything more.
Correction. The Earl of Dalgliesh inexplicably wanted to possess her body and soul, own her completely, not let another man touch her. He wanted her with a blind rage and with an undemanding tenderness, and he could never have her that way or any way.
He was married.
He had responsibilities.
It was impossible.
CHAPTER 8
D ALGLIESH HAD ROLLED off the bed so quickly after he’d climaxed Zelda was tempted to teasingly say, Was I that bad? But clearly he wasn’t in a playful mood; he was obviously determined to resist further dalliance. And while she sympathized with his wish to avoid entanglements, selfishly, she preferred he wait a few more hours before he reverted to type. “Don’t leave just yet,” she said, her voice deliberately mild, well mannered. “Please.”
Dalgliesh was stripping off his soiled shirt, and once his head emerged from the garment, he said without looking at her, “I shouldn’t have come.”
“But now that you’re here, why not—”
“No.” Dropping his shirt, he reached for his trousers.
Zelda’s lounging pose altered at the sight of his tautly muscled body on full display. She’d not seen him completely naked before. He was magnificent—like a gladiator from ancient times, she thought, coming up on her elbows to better take in the bonny sight. His tall, broad-shouldered form was honed to the inch, a hard, tensile energy and brute force conspicuous beneath the perfect conditioning.
His dark skin was even darker in the checkered light, his rough-hewn strength enhanced by the gloom, the raw, primal image stark—as if a barbarian had entered her bedchamber, or perhaps the devil in disguise or maybe only an archetypical libertine with an indefatigable cock.
Not that conjecture or cerebral concerns mattered in the least with lust flaring through her senses, ungovernable desire beating at her brain, Dalgliesh’s magnificent erection, splendid in profile, tantalizing her gaze. “Please, I’m without pride,” she whispered. “Don’t go. I need you.”
He turned, his dark brows drawn together in a slash of discontent. “Sorry, I can’t help you.”
“Why not? I only want a few more hours of your time.”
“My time?” Mocking and truculent, he
It was impossible to overlook the umbrage in his voice. “I’m sure your repertoire is more extensive than mine,” she said, not sure she dared smile, although she found his sulkiness appealing. “But I’d be happy to try entertaining you because I’m very pleased you’re here.” Rising smoothly to her knees, she slid her finger down his slippery cock. “And mostly here,” she added, plunging downward again, shuddering as her bottom met his thighs and their bodies were irresistibly joined.
It only took a moment to erase the unwanted images of other men enjoying her largesse. He was a sensible man. “Yes, definitely there.” But still troubled by his mad, unconscionable passion for this woman, by his outrageous cravings, his voice held a hint of curtness. “Now a little more speed, my pet, or I might decide to leave.”
She knew he wouldn’t. She knew he could no more leave than she could. But he’d given her so much already tonight, given her countless orgasms with exquisite artistry and skill and courtesy she could do no less for him.
He didn’t last very long after that.
And she wondered if he was so expert that he could come at will. Whatever the reason, he said, “Thank you,” through gritted teeth a few moments later, lifted her off him, and climaxed in his shirttails with a kind of efficiency she found strangely annoying. When it shouldn’t matter in the least. When they were both here for casual sex. When neither wanted anything more.
Correction. The Earl of Dalgliesh inexplicably wanted to possess her body and soul, own her completely, not let another man touch her. He wanted her with a blind rage and with an undemanding tenderness, and he could never have her that way or any way.
He was married.
He had responsibilities.
It was impossible.
CHAPTER 8
D ALGLIESH HAD ROLLED off the bed so quickly after he’d climaxed Zelda was tempted to teasingly say, Was I that bad? But clearly he wasn’t in a playful mood; he was obviously determined to resist further dalliance. And while she sympathized with his wish to avoid entanglements, selfishly, she preferred he wait a few more hours before he reverted to type. “Don’t leave just yet,” she said, her voice deliberately mild, well mannered. “Please.”
Dalgliesh was stripping off his soiled shirt, and once his head emerged from the garment, he said without looking at her, “I shouldn’t have come.”
“But now that you’re here, why not—”
“No.” Dropping his shirt, he reached for his trousers.
Zelda’s lounging pose altered at the sight of his tautly muscled body on full display. She’d not seen him completely naked before. He was magnificent—like a gladiator from ancient times, she thought, coming up on her elbows to better take in the bonny sight. His tall, broad-shouldered form was honed to the inch, a hard, tensile energy and brute force conspicuous beneath the perfect conditioning.
His dark skin was even darker in the checkered light, his rough-hewn strength enhanced by the gloom, the raw, primal image stark—as if a barbarian had entered her bedchamber, or perhaps the devil in disguise or maybe only an archetypical libertine with an indefatigable cock.
Not that conjecture or cerebral concerns mattered in the least with lust flaring through her senses, ungovernable desire beating at her brain, Dalgliesh’s magnificent erection, splendid in profile, tantalizing her gaze. “Please, I’m without pride,” she whispered. “Don’t go. I need you.”
He turned, his dark brows drawn together in a slash of discontent. “Sorry, I can’t help you.”
“Why not? I only want a few more hours of your time.”
“My time?” Mocking and truculent, he
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