Cheryl Holt by Total Surrender Page B

months earlier. His heart had been bruised and battered by those he loved, and he’d had his fill of compassion and empathy. Now, he was content to drift, indifferent to his misdeeds, so he wasn’t about to countenance some red-haired witch burrowing under his skin.
    If she finagled herself into his life, he’d start fussing about her and chafing over her plight. He’d revert to the type of sensitive fool he’d been before events had taken their toll. The frivolous noblewoman had managed to insert herself into the middle of treacherous intrigues that were too abundant to mention, and if he wasn’t circumspect, he’d find himself checking on her, guarding her, keeping the lechers at bay, unveiling the scheme of her brother and cousin.
    Dammit! The blasted woman wasn’t any of his concern! How she’d been lured to Pamela’s house, why she’d agreed to attend the party, what might transpire because of her family—none of it was any of his business.
    He was here to fornicate and to gamble, and for no other reasons, and he wouldn’t fret or fume over an imbecilic spinster who didn’t have the good sense to depart when sheshould. The crazed woman needed a protector, but he wouldn’t endeavor to assume the role.
    He wouldn’t care about her. He wouldn’t!
    Forcing his attention to the mirror, he scrutinized his current paramour. Her breasts were nicely formed, and he toyed with them overly long. He was hard, ready, willing to offer her however much she’d accept, but the woman herself did not matter.
    No higher purpose lurked behind his actions. There was just the sex; vulgar and crude and risqué—just how he fancied it. The anonymous, blatant copulation fit his mood perfectly, and he intended to bury himself in this stranger until he couldn’t continue, until his overeager phallus was limp, his raging sexual drive finally, but temporarily, slaked.
    Gripping her hips, he deliberately flexed against her buttocks, letting her savor his enormous size, providing an indication of what was coming. Shoving the cloak off her abdomen, he eyed her pussy; it was bald and smooth as a babe’s. “You’ve shaved yourself.”
    “Aye.”
    “Just for me?”
    “Yes.”
    His male vanity was immensely stroked by the inane feat she’d performed for him. He cupped her, then roughly entered her with two fingers, conferring no ease, pilfering what he wanted, supplying what she craved, but as he worked against her in a fixed rhythm, another uncomfortable image of Sarah flashed, diverting his attention.
    What was it about her? She’d bewitched him!
    When he’d agreed to this evening of debauchery, he’d foreseen a leisurely, sating escapade with the woman in his arms, as well as with the various others who were scheduled to visit later, but intrusive thoughts of Sarah made this seem ridiculous; he was out of his element, unprepared to proceed. Suddenly, he felt unclean and profane—just when he’d resolved to feel nothing at all.
    Desperate to chase Sarah away—quickly—he whispered into his lover’s ear. “I’m ready now.”
    “Yes . . . all right.” She consented haltingly, and stiffened, apprehensive about the hasty escalation.
    “I’ll lie down on the cot.” He released her and moved to the bed, propping the pillows behind his head. She froze, either too disconcerted or too nervous to approach, but he was confident that she wouldn’t leave without providing him a carnal release. Others might be watching, and she’d never embarrass herself by fleeing the scene. Her vanity wouldn’t let her become a laughingstock.
    “Come here,” he ordered, and the terse command propelled her forward. She knelt down and fiddled with the buttons on his trousers. Her slender fingers slipped the top one through its hole. Soon, he’d be bared to her torrid gaze and able ministrations, and he braced for the rush of lust to flood over him, but it never arrived.
    Dispassionately, he waited. He was incredibly hard, his cock never