The Prince of Broadway

by Joanna Shupe

  “I wouldn’t look in there, were I you.”

  She ignored Clay and peered into the rectangle of light. Good God. She could see into the bedroom next door. And there were people in there. She jerked back, startled.

  “I warned you,” he said, his voice laced with superiority. He reached to close the partition. “Those activities aren’t for a lady’s eyes.”

  The fine hairs on the back of Florence’s neck stood up. How dare he decide what she could and could not see? Her hand darted out to catch his wrist, stopping him from closing the slat. “You said you wouldn’t play the part of a gentleman around me. Don’t change your mind now.”

  “Florence,” he said on an exasperated sigh, “there are people fucking in there. Do you really want to see that?”

  Yes, she sort of did, actually. “I suppose it’s rude to watch them.”

  “Not from their perspective. They want others to watch. If they didn’t, the partition on their side would be closed.”

  Oh. “You mean . . .”

  “That some people like to perform sexual acts while others observe? Yes, that’s what I mean.”

  “Then you are concerned for my delicate sensibilities.”

  He paused. In the soft glow from the partition she could see his features, which now appeared etched in granite, as he considered what she was saying. She’d visited casinos, poolrooms, tenements and dives all around this city. Any delicate sensibilities she’d possessed had long disappeared. Furthermore, she didn’t need him to shelter her from the unsafe or unsavory. God knew her parents had tried to do that for the majority of her life—and it hadn’t worked then, either.

  He moved out of her way, shifting to stand behind her. “If I tell you no, you’ll watch out of spite. So go ahead. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He knocked twice on the glass, presumably to let the occupants know they had an audience.

  Out of habit, Florence ducked. “Can they see us?”

  “No, it’s too dark in here.”

  “Oh.” Feeling foolish, she straightened. The window was rectangle shaped, roughly the size of a piece of paper. Just big enough for Clay and her to watch at the same time. She moved closer to see what was happening.

  A man and a woman stood in front of the fire, kissing, the man in trousers and shirtsleeves. The woman was dressed in a corset, chemise, drawers, stockings and boots, with her brown hair piled on her head. Their mouths moved feverishly, lips parted slightly to reveal how their tongues rubbed against each other. The man moved his hands to the woman’s breasts, cupping them, his fingers digging into the plump flesh rising above her corset. Warmth slid through Florence, her skin prickling at the scene in front of her.

  The man loosened the laces of the woman’s corset and she helped him, the two of them continuing to kiss as they worked together to get the piece off. When she was down to her chemise, the man began kissing her throat, his hands cupping her heavy breasts. Her hand went to his groin, where she stroked him through his trousers. Florence’s nipples tightened behind her corset, her breasts growing heavy with want. Her own amorous sessions hadn’t been this . . . carnal. They had been civilized. Almost polite.

  Boring.

  This was something else altogether, wild and raw. Desperate. Her body reacted with blood pulsing in her veins and gathering between her legs. Clay’s scent, the outdoors and faint cigar, filled the small space, making her quite aware that she wasn’t alone. He stood behind her, not speaking, a potent hulk of masculinity she couldn’t ignore. Yet, she didn’t take her eyes off the couple in the next room.

  Now the man tore off the woman’s chemise and immediately began sucking the tip of one breast, and she threw her head back, eyes closed in ecstasy. Florence could hear her own breathing, rapid exhalations that gave away her arousal, but she didn’t care. She could neither look away nor could she leave. Her feet were rooted to the floor, her body both hot and cold as desire dug its claws into her flesh. She remembered the sweet tug, the pressure of what it felt like to be suckled by strong lips.

  Heaven. Pure heaven.

  Then something unexpected happened. After untying the woman’s drawers, the man lay down on the floor and brought her atop him. Just when Florence thought the man might kiss the woman’s lips, he wriggled lower until the woman straddled his face. “What on earth . . . ?” Florence whispered.

  A soft chuckle sounded behind her. “Say goodbye to your delicate sensibilities.”

  Florence swallowed. The woman was . . . sitting on the man’s face, his mouth and lips feasting between her legs. Florence had never dreamed anything like this was possible. Her one serious lover, Chester, certainly hadn’t kissed her there. Was this . . . Did everyone do this?

  The woman rocked her hips, her hands molding her breasts, squeezing them, as the man pleasured her. Her eyes were closed tight, her face slackened in bliss. Florence had never seen a woman in such a state of euphoria before, like she’d been drugged. Her own core was slick and swollen, jealous of the attention, throbbing insistently between her legs as she observed the couple.

  I’m aroused just from watching.

  Actually, aroused was a tame word for what she was experiencing. She was on fire. Burning alive. Sweat rolled between her shoulder blades, her clothes confining and uncomfortable. Her chest heaved, each exhalation pushing her breasts against the hard whalebone of her corset, cloth dragging across her nipples. God, I’m dying. They would find her here weeks from now, expired from lust.

  Soon. She’d soon leave, return home and ease this awful craving with her own hand under the covers. Until then she had to keep a level head.

  “Do you like what you see?”

  Clay was behind her, his voice a dark whisper in her ear. She shivered and tried not to melt into a puddle on the floor. “I had no idea,” she rasped.

  “He’s eating her. Licking her juices. Sucking on her clitoris.”

  Florence gasped for air, the raw words sinking into her bones to weaken them. Her knees nearly buckled. She was dying to ask him if he’d ever done the same but her mouth had gone dry. Speaking felt like too much effort.

  “There’s nothing like the taste of a woman’s arousal,” he continued. “Sharp and spicy, utterly delicious.”

  Oh, sweet Lord.

  A buzzing built in her ears, as if she could hear the blood coursing through her body. Craving gnawed at her, and she wondered what Clay would do if she spun around and pressed her mouth to his.

  “Or when her thighs shake around your head,” he said. “When her tiny bud hardens and swells on your tongue right before she comes.”

  Florence placed a palm on the wall to steady herself. The pounding of her heart echoed between her legs, a steady beat of desire that only grew stronger. Needier. Hotter.

  “She’s climaxing. Watch.”

  As if she could look away.

  Florence pressed her thighs together and stared as the woman began quaking, the shouts clear through the wall. The woman trembled until she nearly fell over, but the man steadied her as he moved a hand to his trouser fastenings. When she recovered, she helped to free his erection. The flesh was hard and thick, capped with a round head. Florence had seen a penis, of course, but not for any length of time. With Chester, the unveiling had happened mere seconds before the instrument was put to use. There hadn’t been a pause for her to take it all in.

  Now, she took it all in. What a marvel this piece of anatomy was, so tall and proud. Designed to give and receive pleasure. The man stroked it, using his hand along the shaft as the woman shimmied down to align their hips. She lined up and he angled himself toward her core, preparing to penetrate her.

  Florence nearly crumbled. Oh, my God. How will I possibly last?

  “Had enough? Shall I close the partition?”

  “No,” she wheezed and he gave a soft chuckle. She didn’t care. Let him laugh at her, if he chose. This was too . . . educational to resist.

  The man’s cock slowly disappeared inside the woman’s body�
�and Florence heard herself whimper. It was faint, a sound of pent-up frustration and hunger, but no chance Clay missed it. And she was beyond caring. The scene was the most arousing thing she’d ever watched. Her body was tight, on edge. If she rubbed her thighs together, she might possibly combust. If only Clay weren’t here . . .

  “Would you touch yourself right now if you were alone?” he whispered.

  Heat burned her skin. Was he reading her mind? Or was her desire so obvious?

  She couldn’t answer, partially due to embarrassment. But more likely because her brain was too busy processing what she was witnessing.

  The woman rose up on her knees then lowered once again. The man reached to toy with her nipples, pinching and petting them. Their eyes were wild, movements frantic, like mindless creatures of pleasure. Two nymphs in a secluded wood working toward mutual satisfaction. The woman was bold. Confident. She steadily rolled her hips to work the man’s cock in and out of her body.

  “So would you?” the devil asked over her shoulder. “Would you lift your skirts and make yourself come?”

  “I . . .” Florence cleared her throat. “Stop trying to embarrass me.”

  “I don’t want to embarrass you. I want to know you. It’s obvious this arouses you. And, as you said yourself, you’re no innocent.”

  “Would you?” she threw back at him.

  “Yes, were I alone I might pull my cock out and tug on it until I spent.”

  Her lungs froze, unable to function at his confession. God above, why would he say such things to her?

  “But we’re discussing you. And there’s no reason to deny yourself, seeing as how we’re trapped here for the time being.”

  “No reason other than your presence.”

  “I could turn around.”

  Her sex pulsed, liking the idea very much. But that was too wild, too deviant . . . even for her. “I couldn’t.”

  “Yes, you can. Just pretend I’m not here.”

  “But you are here. I can’t forget it. And what you’re asking of me? It’s private.”

  “Where is your spirit of adventure? The woman who enjoys taking risks, who wants to be treated equally? You have nothing to fear from me. I won’t touch you. I swear on the deed to the Bronze House.”

  “I . . .” The woman in the next room curled forward until the man could suck on a nipple, his feet braced on the floor to give him leverage as he thrust upward. Florence briefly closed her eyes, her body a wire pulled taut. My God, how much more could she take? “This is different. I cannot undo a lifetime that tells me it’s wrong.”

  “Then undo who you are.”

  “What?”

  “Be someone else, if only for a moment. Physical pleasure is not evil. Whoever tells you it is has an interest in keeping you ignorant or chaste. Perhaps both.”

  “Who would I be, then, if not myself?”

  “Anyone. A hedonistic creature seeking self-fulfillment. A woman I’ve brought here as my guest. A young girl who snuck in to see what all the fuss was about. There’s any number of choices.”

  On the other side of the wall the man rearranged the woman on her hands and knees and quickly shed his remaining clothing. Naked, he mounted her from behind. His buttocks clenched as he pushed in and out of her, while her breasts swung with each thrust. It was raw and earthy and utterly mesmerizing. Florence’s body screamed for relief.

  Could she do it? Could she pretend to be someone else while easing this insane need? Clay promised not to watch or touch her. What was the harm?

  Embarrassment, that’s what.

  When she paused, he asked, “What if I do the same but face the other way?”

  She bit her lip, nearly moaning at the idea. That would certainly ease her mortification. If they were both pleasuring themselves then she wouldn’t worry about the aftermath. Clay, stroking himself, hand flying over his shaft? Yes, please, yes. God forgive her, but her resistance weakened at the image.

  She surrendered. “Turn around.”

  Glancing over her shoulder, she waited until he’d angled toward the opposite wall. When all she could see was his back, she said, “You start first.”

  He made a strangled noise in his throat. “Fine, but I expect you to soon join me.”

  She could see his shoulders shifting as his hands went to his waist. Clothing rustled and after a few seconds he groaned. “Oh, fuck,” he whispered. “That’s good.”

  Now, now, now . . . She spun toward the window and her fingers couldn’t gather her skirts fast enough. Desperation caused her to fumble but she kept going, moving fabric out of the way, tugging, shifting, until she could hold all the layers of cloth in one arm. Air rushed over her stockinged legs, and she dove to find the part in her drawers. When her fingers brushed through her folds, her eyes nearly rolled back in her head. She was soaked and swollen, delirious with need, and she didn’t waste any time, focusing directly on her clitoris.

  “I can hear you,” he said, then grunted. “You’re dripping, aren’t you?”

  Words eluded her. She panted, air bellowing harsh and fast, as the pads of her fingers circled the taut nub. Her lids fell and she envisioned she’d snuck inside the brothel, an innocent young woman eager to discover the carnal delights two people could find together. Shocks of pleasure streaked up her legs, pressure building in her muscles.

  He was right. Imagining does make it easier.

  Noises came from Clay’s side of the tiny room. Distracting noises that heightened her arousal. Skin moving over skin, cloth rubbing. His rough exhalations. She bit her lip, picturing what he looked like, with his fist gripping his hard penis, stroking, pulling, his eyes dark with pleasure . . . Was he thinking about her?

  “Christ, Florence. I wish I could see you right now. I bet you’re slick and flushed, so goddamn beautiful. I—” He bit off whatever he’d been about to say and cursed instead. His breath stopped for a few seconds before he let out a long moan.

  Oh, mother of mercy. Clay was spending. In the same room with her. Right behind her.

  It was too much, too fast. Her limbs tensed, everything tightening as if to fly apart. Before she could prevent it, the orgasm was there, overtaking her in a burst of electricity and heat, obliterating all thought. She trembled and shook, the strength of it causing her to lean her forehead against the wall. On and on it went, so satisfying and necessary. Like nothing she’d ever experienced before.

  When it finally ended and her brain righted itself, disbelief and shame started to creep in, burning her skin. What kind of woman pleasured herself in front of another man, a dark and dangerous man who wished to ruin her father? She’d never been exactly shy, but this was more than she’d ever imagined. Good God. What had she done?

  She cleared her throat and rearranged her skirts. When she peeked over her shoulder, she saw that Clay was fully dressed, no trace of what just occurred anywhere except the handkerchief he was tucking into his jacket pocket. Was that—?

  A knock sounded at the door. “Clay?”

  Annabelle. Panic filled Florence, and she couldn’t meet Clay’s gaze. The brothel owner would surely know what had transpired in this tiny room.

  “We need a minute,” Clay said to the woman on the other side of the door.

  “There’s no rush. Jack said you can return next door whenever you’re ready.”

  “Thank you.”

  Annabelle didn’t answer and silence descended. Florence needed time and space to think about tonight. She didn’t know how this would change her relationship with Clay, if at all, but going back to the House was out of the question right now. “I should return home,” she said, still not looking at him.

  His big shoulders shifted. “Are you . . .” He sighed and rubbed his eyes. “I apologize for bringing you here. And I shouldn’t have pressured you into doing something you weren’t ready for.”

  The apology surprised her, which was why she answered honestly. “I’m embarrassed, but I don’t feel as though you pressured me. I’m quite
capable of saying no when necessary.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Yes.” Exasperation momentarily eclipsed her humiliation. “As I’ve already said, I am not an innocent. You haven’t corrupted me.”

  The side of his mouth hitched before he turned the knob on the door. Light from the corridor suddenly flooded the tiny room. “I’m relieved to hear it, because this was the most arousing experience of my life. I think you might’ve just corrupted me.”

  Chapter Nine

  Clay toed a broken bottle on the floor. Goddamn it. The police had destroyed the entire bar during the raid. Apparently, they hadn’t been able to find anything illegal during their search so they’d turned their attention to smashing the liquor instead.

  Those pricks.

  A partnership with Big Bill notwithstanding, Clay’s payments to police commissioners were supposed to prevent this sort of thing from happening. Now he had a ruined bar, thousands of dollars of spilled liquor, broken chairs and tables . . . Not to mention a night of lost revenue. Bill would regret ordering a raid on the Bronze House.

  The brothel . . . Jesus, but Florence had been amazing. Unexpected. Absolutely enthralling. And he wasn’t one to throw compliments around loosely. Hearing her pleasure, her cries of ecstasy as she came . . . Fuck, he’d never experienced anything like it.

  He wanted to do it again. Next time, facing her. Touching her. Helping her.

  Would she let him?

  After announcing his attraction to her, he’d been resigned to keeping things impersonal between them. He’d convinced himself not to pursue anything physical with a woman like Florence. It would only make things complicated. Messy. And Clay hated both.

  But having Florence naked, beneath him, could make the complication worthwhile.

  “All told, not too bad,” Jack said from across the room. His partner was striding around the pieces of furniture and coming toward Clay, Annabelle at his side.

  “Who was it?” he asked Jack.

  “Let’s see. I recognized Harris and McGinnis. The others were all young, too stupid to realize what they were doing.”