Private Research: An Erotic Novella

by Sabrina Darby

  “Thank you for telling me,” I said finally, opting for something that would disperse the tension. “You must not have wanted me to tie you up.”

  His lips quirked. “I have a far better idea.”

  An idea that involved drinking more and then continuing where we’d left off.

  But I kept thinking about everything Sebastian hadn’t said, hadn’t revealed. About his emotions, which were still so deeply tucked away.

  Seb doesn’t have a history of serious relationships.

  That shouldn’t bother me. After all, neither did I. In fact, if all flings and affairs were like this one, maybe I wouldn’t long for one.

  But I did long for a serious relationship.

  And I did long for Sebastian. I swallowed down the errant thought. The one that didn’t belong anywhere in my head.

  I slid down Sebastian’s body, my mouth ravenous in that way it seemed to get when I’d had a few drinks, and I took him in my mouth, loving his groans, his taste. Wishing he could fuck me even as I did this. Wanting him everywhere all at once.

  When finally he pulled me up and fit himself between my thighs, I came at the first thrust. As my body shook between the orgasm and the movement of our bodies, my chest ached with a sense of loss that I wanted to understand, tears beading at the corner of my eyes.

  Chapter Fifteen

  THERE WAS SOMETHING about being Sebastian’s plus one on a double date that made this affair we had feel more like a relationship. And despite my emphatic denial to Kate, there was a lump in my chest that grew with the hours because, as Nigel had said, Sebastian was not a serious-relationship sort of guy.

  Not that I wanted one with him. Not that it was feasible, logical, or even desirable.

  And once I knew there had been infidelity in his family, I saw a certain logic to his choices.

  So, I threw myself into my work, determined to focus on that future Sophie so emphasized, on my dissertation. On reality.

  Then . . . it happened. A breakthrough so basic and fundamental that I really should have had it months and months before. Another researcher on one of the many e-mail loops I was on asked if I had looked into the printer’s partner, with whom he had split on acrimonious terms in 1830. Was it not possible that some of the records I sought, if they still existed, might be under his name?

  I felt stupid for an instant, then threw the self-recriminations away and dove into the new line of inquiry. It might lead to nowhere, but this graduate student at the University of Glasgow, who was writing her dissertation on nineteenth-century Scottish publishers, was absolutely correct.

  After splitting with Maddox, Wolford had married the daughter of a minor publisher, William Creighton, and joined forces. A good portion of Creighton and Wolford Ltd.’s papers were housed in the library of the University of London, where I’d already been several times. I scheduled an appointment with one of the archivists, explaining what I was researching.

  I was cautiously optimistic. This process had been a roller coaster of emotions, and I was tired of the letdown after the renewed hope. I still had almost three weeks in England. So much could happen in that time.

  LIKE GETTING CHAINED to a bed at Harridan House.

  We were in a private room; the door was closed. But knowing that there were all sorts of peepholes in the club, I still felt exposed, blindfolded, nude, and spread-eagled, wrists and ankles restrained in velvet cuffs.

  I wasn’t certain what I was doing, but Sebastian had been insistent and persuasive, asking me to trust him. I wanted to trust him, for now. To do as he’d said and embrace the side of me that was engaged in the sensual world.

  The mattress shifted, and I knew that Sebastian sat next to me on the bed. I could feel the heat of his body near my hip. I wanted to touch him, but I was stuck there, cool air kissing me in every open corner.

  “You are so beautiful.” His voice caressed me, then one hand followed suit, stroking me along my collarbone. Not being able to see him, not being able to move, made every other sensation that much more intense. I was so aware of sounds, of touch, of scent. Of Sebastian.

  His hand drifted lower, to my breast, stroking in circles. He was my entire world, and anticipating what he would do next was my obsession.

  His thumb slid across my nipple, before two fingers, or maybe three, closed over it, teasing, tugging. I sucked in my breath and squirmed. It was just a small touch, almost nothing really, but my breasts had never felt so sensitive. I could feel my other nipple, the one still as yet untouched, tight and rigid and wanting.

  “Please,” I whispered, not sure what I was begging for, unless it was more and faster and more.

  “I like you this way,” he said. His hand moved to my other breast and I sighed at that touch, at the way he cupped my flesh, the warmth of his skin spreading over me. “All mine.”

  The bed shifted, the air too and then more heat and his mouth hot and wet closing over my nipple, even as his hand squeezed my other breast, massaging it. His tongue swirled around me, and then his teeth grazed the sensitive skin lightly. I reached for his head, to thread my fingers through his hair, but my arm only moved an inch before the restraints made themselves known. I whimpered.

  I felt his chuckle against my skin. His mouth moved, tongue trailing across my body, to give attention to my other breast. His movements were slow and decisive, lingering. My body tingled everywhere, from fingers down to my toes.

  As if he knew, his mouth followed, touching all those places that thrummed with energy, all nerve endings awake. He kissed me up my arm, his tongue finding all the sensitive spots, the hollow on the inside of my elbow and where my wrist met my hand. Then back down. To my neck, my earlobe—to where my pulse flickered above my chest.

  I had no sense of time, no sense of beginning or end. My world was his mouth, his tongue, and his hands trailing. He was everywhere and everything.

  Finally, when I was lost in a drunken dream of colorful sensation, his breath eased over my sex. Then his fingers stroked across my flesh, down my wet slit, before spreading me open to the onslaught of his tongue, which flicked across the muscular little bundle of nerves.

  I cried out, my voice high and needy. The more he played with me, licked me, brought me closer to the edge, the emptier I felt, the more I wanted him to fill me up.

  “Seb,” I moaned. “God, please!”

  His answer was to thrust his fingers into me, and I sucked in air sharply before my hips jerked up, and my knees and my head arched back. Restrained as I was, I could do nothing but ride the wave of pleasure as his mouth and fingers kept torturing me.

  Until he covered me with his body, thrusting hard and deep. The feel of his cock inside me was exquisite, and his mouth on my neck almost too much.

  “I love the way you feel, squeezing me inside,” he said roughly. Then he slid out again and I whimpered at the loss. I felt his hand at my ankle, and with a click, my leg was free, then the other one.

  I moved them weakly, but he spread them apart again, grabbed me under my ass, and settled back inside with a decisive thrust. I strained against the cuffs that still bound my arms, and the bed shook with my frustration.

  “No, not yet. You’re not free yet,” he murmured. I satisfied myself by wrapping my legs around his hips, urging him deeper. He groaned in a way that made me triumphant with pleasure.

  He kissed me, and I devoured him. If only this–the endless rocking of his hips against mine, the tangle of our tongues–could last forever, then I didn’t need to be free.

  HARRIDAN HOUSE GAVE us a stage on which to play out our fantasies. From the flirtation with bondage to role-playing. Emboldened by my new determination to embrace the honesty of our sexual desires, I wanted to please him even more.

  One night, as we strolled through the club, we stopped in an open room to watch a woman sprawled out on a bed, alone, touching herself. Her body was different than mine, lusher and more voluptuous.

  Her eyes opened and she turned her head to look at us
and her gaze found mine. Then a lazy smile curved her lips. There was a clear invitation in that gaze. One that Sebastian seemed to be aware of as well. I remembered his words the night I first met Nigel; he’d prefer to watch me with another woman.

  I glanced at him, tilting my head with an unspoken question. His lips parted in surprise, then his gaze darkened.

  “You wanted to watch me with another woman,” I said, voicing both our thoughts.

  “Oh, I’d watch with pleasure.” He let out a little laugh. “But Mina, you don’t . . . only if—”

  I didn’t wait for him to finish the sentence. Instead, I stepped forward, shedding my cloak. The woman sat up, her smile broadening. Then she stood.

  “I’m so glad you decided to join me. I’ve been . . . lonely.”

  I didn’t ask why she hadn’t joined one of the other groups of people elsewhere in the club or gone to the lounge to find a partner for the evening. I didn’t care. I was about to do something I’d never imagined I would do, wasn’t even entirely certain I’d enjoy, but I knew that it would bring Sebastian pleasure, and that in itself sent a certain warmth throughout my body.

  I reached for her, tentatively, my hand sliding over silken skin that felt so different from any male’s. I tangled my hand in her hair, and her body pressed against mine, breasts to breasts, thighs to thighs. Familiar and strange.

  Then her lips touched mine. At first dry and then, as with any exploratory kiss with a new person, it increased in intensity. Lips parted, tentative touches of tongues to skin, to each other. She sucked my lower lip into her mouth, and I tried to forget who she was, where I was. Tried to focus only on the sensation. But my brain wouldn’t stop working. She was a woman, and I had never been attracted to a woman before. Wasn’t now really, despite the fact that my body was reacting positively to the physical sensation. Breasts growing heavier, warmth settling between my legs. And Seb was watching us. I opened my eyes a bit to peek over at him through the strands of this woman’s sleek blond hair.

  His face was slightly slack, mouth parted, eyes a bit glazed. His erect penis poked out between the folds of his cloak.

  Desire hit me hard to the gut, that strange mix of nausea and intense arousal. I wanted him. I wanted him inside me, but the game I’d concocted was this woman. And she was still kissing me, her hands still wandering tentatively over my hips as if she had sensed I wasn’t yet committed to our tryst. I deepened the kiss, took control the way I would have if she were Seb and I wanted to be in control. I moved away from her lips and kissed the line of her jaw. Held her at the small of her back as I molded my hand around the under curve of her breast, so similar to my own yet different, bigger, fuller, higher. I kissed down her skin, the way I had Seb’s the night before, licking and seeking, trailing my tongue across the smoothness toward her breasts. I wanted desperately to feel her nipple in my mouth, to know how a woman tasted and felt. How I felt to Seb.

  As I moved lower, I could smell the scent of her arousal, or was it mine? As I swirled my tongue around her left nipple, my right hand drifted down, brushed across the apex of her thighs, where her bare skin was hot under the pads of my fingers. She moaned and shifted in my arms, and the knowledge that I gave her pleasure turned me on even more. I shifted my head just enough to peek at Seb again, and instead of taking his cock into my mouth (just using that word to describe the length of him made me want him more), I sucked on her nipple. I slid my fingers down farther, felt the hot, moist, opening of her sex, where her lips parted, where her clitoral hood was slick with discharge.

  I was thinking of her body all wrong. The parts too familiar, too clinical. Even as I stroked her gently, teasingly, in the way I liked to touch myself, my interest in her waned.

  I didn’t want her. I wanted Seb.

  I parted the hot, slick folds of her skin and slid my second finger inside. I’d done this to myself before, marveled at the ridges and textures inside my body, and her body felt similar yet strange at the same time. Her body gripped my finger. I pulled out and in slowly in a mimicry of what I wanted Seb to do to me. The motion turned me on again.

  I moved my oral attention to her other breast and slid another finger inside her. Shifted my hand a bit so that my thumb could work on her clit, push under the small hood and circle the sensitive skin.

  She was moving in my arms, fidgeting, and I listened to her soft moans. How close was she to orgasm? She seemed content to let me pleasure her, one of her hands gently stroking my hair in a rhythm that I tried to mimic in my touch.

  Her hips were shifting more wildly now, and I tried to keep my movements even, knowing how my own body worked, that even the slightest shift in rhythm could change the path of the build.

  She sank down as she came, and I caught her, helping us both to the floor, to our knees, my hand still buried in her pussy (a word that felt right to me, finally, as I thought about this other vagina). Her lips sought mine, and we kissed wetly, deeply, her need that openmouthed, after-orgasm desire. I was fascinated by the feel of her convulsing around my fingers, and with her cradled in my arms, I kept thrusting lightly, trying to pull more sensation out of her. Wondered if I’d find I’d contracted some STD on my fingers.

  Finally, she made a slight noise. Pushed my hand away. Under her black silk mask, she gave me a sleepy, boneless smile and then pushed me back so that I was lying on the floor. She ran her hands down the front of my body to where my knees were bent and pressed together. She pushed them apart.

  I knew exactly what she intended: her mouth on my sex. I looked to Seb. He was watching so intently, and beyond him were several other men and woman, watching us. I didn’t know how long they had been there. I didn’t really care. But I knew what I wanted now.

  I shifted slightly to get her attention, then shook my head. She looked confused, but I pointed at Seb, beckoned him over to me. She moved aside, and Seb took her place, undoing the clasp of his cloak to let the fabric drop.

  I watched him kneel between my legs, his naked body fully on display, his cock jutting out in front of him. He pulled my hips up until I held them up, then with the length of him in one hand, he stroked up and down my heat, making it clear to both of us how wet I was. He was bare, and I wanted him to slide into me that way. Stupid as it was.

  I could rationalize my desire any way I wanted, that I was on the pill, but condoms didn’t protect against all STDs. Thanks to Harridan House, we’d both been tested recently, and aside from that moment with the woman, we’d been monogamous . . . but any which way I parsed it, unprotected sex was not wise.

  A hand moved in front of him, holding out a condom. It was the woman, still so close to us though I’d forgotten her presence, gently enforcing one of the rules of Harridan House. Seb let go of me for a moment, and in the cold absence of his touch, I watched him tear open the package and roll down the thin barrier.

  There were half a dozen voyeurs, as if this was some bizarre initiation ritual, and maybe it was. He grasped me by the hips again, fitted himself to me perfectly, parting me the way I had used my fingers on the woman earlier. Then he thrust.

  I gasped and arched back at the feel of him inside me, stretching me, as if this were the first time and not yet another in a multitude of sexual interchanges we had shared. I looked up at his bare chest and sex-hewn expression with a sense of awe. Like my body was the sacrifice to some god of sex, a sacrifice that could only happen here, on the plush carpet of a strange, decadent club.

  He slid out slowly, then back in just as slow, still holding my hips up. I closed my eyes and focused on the exquisite sensation, on the sounds of our bodies slick where we met. Everywhere he touched me, sensation was sharp, acute in a way it had never been with anyone else.

  His mouth closed over my breast for an instant before I realized it was impossible. Before I shivered at the brush of silken hair across my chest. I opened my eyes and watched the woman in her black silken mask attend to me the way I had to her. Her mouth was hot and her tongue perfect. She sucked
slowly, as if she were trying to match Seb’s pace. I glanced up at him, found his jaw taut, tense with control. I couldn’t have designed a better way to bring him to the edge, and I knew if we were alone, he’d be fucking me harder now. Instead, he was holding back, drawing this out. When she lifted her hand to my other breast, I closed my eyes again and gave in to the feel of four hands on my body, one mouth, one cock, to letting others be in control of my pleasure.

  Her hand skimmed down my body, played with the V of hair between my legs, then down to right above where Seb and I were joined, to where my body throbbed and hummed, and suddenly I was shaking, lost in an explosion of color, sensation, and pleasure.

  Then my hips were down on the ground and only two hands held me, and one hot male body leaned over my writhing body still deep inside me, his lips hot and open against mine. He urged my legs around him, and each continued thrust sent a new shudder through me, until he was shuddering, too, pulsing inside of me.

  I held him tightly, loving the feel of us still joined, my body wrapped around his.

  The sound of our ragged breaths hung in the otherwise silent room.

  I turned my head languidly to the left. Found the room empty but for us.

  We slowly disengaged, stood, weak-legged and well pleasured. We laughed a bit self-consciously at the experience, at the strangeness of being here, naked but for the cloaks and masks.

  In one way I felt powerful, exuberant.

  In another, I felt empty.

  It had been all sex, fucking, skin against skin. If the night proved anything, it was that there was nothing special that stemmed from sex. If it was the basis of a long-term, romantic relationship, that relationship was inherently flawed. At one point, in my youthful idealism, oh so long ago, I had imagined a relationship with Sebastian. A real one that began with long conversations about our experiences, hopes, and dreams, and no sex until maybe the sixth date or longer.