get you a clue.”
“How—”
“Lock the door behind me, lass,” he continued without pause. “Barricade it if you wish. When I return I’ll knock three times and serenade you.” He fumbled with the buttons on his trousers.
“You’re drunk.”
“Not enough to stopping thinking, alas.” He picked up a wing chair and carried it to the door. He wore shirt, trousers, shoes, and an open waistcoat. “Shove the back under the knob,” he instructed.
She certainly knew how to barricade a door. She had both an older sister and a younger one.
The instant he closed the door behind him, and she was alone, Maryanne sprinted over, turned the key in the lock, and jammed the chair in place.
Now all she could do was wait.
And think about how exquisite it had been to hold the broad vee of his back and surge up to meet his thrusting cock.
Or she could think about being ruined. Think about being pregnant, possibly.
Think about how gloriously she had thrown away her life.
He had promised her the clue, and now he must live up to his promise. Besides, he needed the clue, too.
The brandy began to taste sour in Dash’s mouth, and his head buzzed with the descent from lust and alcoholic madness.
He’d thought his cousin hadn’t known.
Murderer.
The word still rang in his head. His cousin Robert thought he was responsible for an innocent man’s death—for the death of Robert’s older brother, Simon.
He needed to shove aside those thoughts. He wished he could go back to Verity to obliterate his memories with ecstasy. To obliterate his mind.
There was drink to be found everywhere—carried on silver trays by half-naked footmen. He threw two glasses of champagne into his belly. The dull roar in his head focused once more.
The couplets of the clue that brought him here danced in his head:
Dark pleasures on the fringes of Mayfair for the daring, the bold
Bindings at slim wrist and ankle fair, the flick of a lash to behold
’Til torment and ecstasy shatter the voluptuous lass
And willing wenches use clever tongues to pleasure a gentleman’s ass
The last line was raw, blunt, designed to titillate. He enjoyed anal play, especially from a woman’s tongue—it was a treat rarely bestowed. A soak in the tub followed by a woman lying between his thighs, licking cock, ballocks, and anus. Such a rare boon, he had to admit he’d be almost tempted to take Verity to the dungeon, if she were to enjoy the same fun and avoid the whipping. But genuine horror had shown in her brown eyes at the thought of birch work.
Scavenger hunters—in couples—held the clue cards and raced toward a plain wooden door set in the wall of one of the back rooms of the town house. He’d been here months ago—Dante’s Dungeon was famed amongst those who sought dark pleasures.
As he followed the crowd down the narrow, twisting staircase, he overheard snippets of conversation. All the women expressed the same fear: “Am I really to be bound? To be whipped?” And the men laughed about their fate with the wicked jades awaiting them—a pretty pink tongue thrusting in their asses.
Dash joined the crowd that stood in the shadows of the punishment cell. One nude auburn beauty was being shackled in place. She gave her partner a fetching smile. A proper little submissive, she would accept her whipping with pretty grace.
The men who bound her were footmen dressed only in black breeches, with massive codpieces of gold. Two attended her, one on each side, locking the iron bracelets around her wrists. They bent, locked up her slim ankles. Her back was to the expectant crowd—full hips, large derriere, small waist.
She sighed delightedly as the footmen pinched her nipples and spanked her bottom. “Oh, yes. I have been naughty. I do need to be punished.” She half turned, face enraptured.
He scanned the crowd. Craven stood with a buxom blonde on his arm. Hell, he wanted to break Craven’s nose. No sign of Barrett,
“How—”
“Lock the door behind me, lass,” he continued without pause. “Barricade it if you wish. When I return I’ll knock three times and serenade you.” He fumbled with the buttons on his trousers.
“You’re drunk.”
“Not enough to stopping thinking, alas.” He picked up a wing chair and carried it to the door. He wore shirt, trousers, shoes, and an open waistcoat. “Shove the back under the knob,” he instructed.
She certainly knew how to barricade a door. She had both an older sister and a younger one.
The instant he closed the door behind him, and she was alone, Maryanne sprinted over, turned the key in the lock, and jammed the chair in place.
Now all she could do was wait.
And think about how exquisite it had been to hold the broad vee of his back and surge up to meet his thrusting cock.
Or she could think about being ruined. Think about being pregnant, possibly.
Think about how gloriously she had thrown away her life.
He had promised her the clue, and now he must live up to his promise. Besides, he needed the clue, too.
The brandy began to taste sour in Dash’s mouth, and his head buzzed with the descent from lust and alcoholic madness.
He’d thought his cousin hadn’t known.
Murderer.
The word still rang in his head. His cousin Robert thought he was responsible for an innocent man’s death—for the death of Robert’s older brother, Simon.
He needed to shove aside those thoughts. He wished he could go back to Verity to obliterate his memories with ecstasy. To obliterate his mind.
There was drink to be found everywhere—carried on silver trays by half-naked footmen. He threw two glasses of champagne into his belly. The dull roar in his head focused once more.
The couplets of the clue that brought him here danced in his head:
Dark pleasures on the fringes of Mayfair for the daring, the bold
Bindings at slim wrist and ankle fair, the flick of a lash to behold
’Til torment and ecstasy shatter the voluptuous lass
And willing wenches use clever tongues to pleasure a gentleman’s ass
The last line was raw, blunt, designed to titillate. He enjoyed anal play, especially from a woman’s tongue—it was a treat rarely bestowed. A soak in the tub followed by a woman lying between his thighs, licking cock, ballocks, and anus. Such a rare boon, he had to admit he’d be almost tempted to take Verity to the dungeon, if she were to enjoy the same fun and avoid the whipping. But genuine horror had shown in her brown eyes at the thought of birch work.
Scavenger hunters—in couples—held the clue cards and raced toward a plain wooden door set in the wall of one of the back rooms of the town house. He’d been here months ago—Dante’s Dungeon was famed amongst those who sought dark pleasures.
As he followed the crowd down the narrow, twisting staircase, he overheard snippets of conversation. All the women expressed the same fear: “Am I really to be bound? To be whipped?” And the men laughed about their fate with the wicked jades awaiting them—a pretty pink tongue thrusting in their asses.
Dash joined the crowd that stood in the shadows of the punishment cell. One nude auburn beauty was being shackled in place. She gave her partner a fetching smile. A proper little submissive, she would accept her whipping with pretty grace.
The men who bound her were footmen dressed only in black breeches, with massive codpieces of gold. Two attended her, one on each side, locking the iron bracelets around her wrists. They bent, locked up her slim ankles. Her back was to the expectant crowd—full hips, large derriere, small waist.
She sighed delightedly as the footmen pinched her nipples and spanked her bottom. “Oh, yes. I have been naughty. I do need to be punished.” She half turned, face enraptured.
He scanned the crowd. Craven stood with a buxom blonde on his arm. Hell, he wanted to break Craven’s nose. No sign of Barrett,
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