Clockwork Captive

by Anh Leod

  CLOCKWORK CAPTIVE

  Enslaved in a gentlemen's club by her father's debt, and branded by the clockwork piercing at her throat, Liza Flaherty knows she has few options. Until the night she recognizes Brace Howell...

  From the instant Brace sees a photograph of Liza at the club, he knows he must possess her, though he has no idea a secret binds them together.

  When they meet, he sees her scars from sex marred by violence, but he has sexual healing in mind. He has one goal, to rescue the captive and make her his forever.

  What others are saying about Anh Leod

  "Anh Leod has the ability to weave words to create very explicit pictures within the mind." — Alternative-reads.com on “Cherokee’s Playmates”

  “Anh Leod is a spectacular author...” — Romance Junkies on “Lucky Number Seven”

  “Even though this story is short, the reader becomes engaged with the characters from page one. You want to know what happens and which decisions they make. Plus, the love scenes sizzle with unspoken passion that the reader can feel teeming from each page.” — Whipped Cream Erotic Romance Reviews on “Playing Lycan Games”

  “Anh Leod has written a sexy tale of love, lust and passion. There were times when I forgot the characters were shape-shifters who moved between werewolf and human form. The romantic aspects of this well-written story filled my mind so completely it didn’t matter to me what the pair was, just that they find happiness.” — Romance Reader at Heart on “Bijou’s Bonds”

  Clockwork Captive

  By Anh Leod

  Copyright Anh Leod 2012

  Amazon Edition

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  CLOCKWORK CAPTIVE

  COPYRIGHT 2012 by Anh Leod

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Coffee on Sundays Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: heather@heatherhiestand.com

  Cover Art by David Hiestand

  Coffee on Sundays Press

  Visit us at http://www.coffeeonsundays.info

  Publishing History

  First Amazon Edition, 2012

  Published in the United States of America

  CHAPTER ONE

  He liked her exposed throat, was enticed by the way the tender column arched.

  Her eyes, half-closed under thick brows, challenged him. The shiny brass medallion at her throat heightened the lush texture of her skin, the glossy golden tone.

  Her breasts drew his interest, perfect globes forming into pert rosy nipples at the tips. He imagined sucking them, laving them, biting them. How would she taste?

  Mrs. Teagarden’s Gentlemen’s Club featured many girls on the walls, captured by a photographer. No smiles were in evidence since the exposures took so long but this particular girl encouraged him with the promise of ecstasy to come. His cock, in agreement with his brain, hardened to half-mast beneath his trousers.

  “You like ‘er, Mr. ‘owell?” The proprietress slithered up next to him, her scarlet hoop skirt brushing against his legs. Her accent indicated Cockney origins, though she worked in this better part of London now.

  Instinctively, he stepped back, repulsed by the painted former whore. Compared to the fresh young beauty depicted on the wall, Mrs. Teagarden was a crone.

  “I’d like to meet her,” Brace said. He’d meant to spend the night drinking and gambling in the lower rooms, but the portrait had caught his eye. His friends were late and he’d decided to wait for them in the hall instead of entering the raucous game room, full of strangers and cigar smoke. Something about this girl dared him to change his plans.

  “Six shillings for the ‘our, sir,” she said, holding out her hand avariciously.

  Her open greed did not say much for the class of this establishment. Nonetheless, he found himself fishing in his pocket for the exorbitant fee, then followed her up crimson-carpeted stairs to the second level. All the while, he berated himself for foolishness. He’d never paid for a woman’s favors before. What was it about the portrait that made him lose all sense?

  Mrs. Teagarden knocked firmly on one of the thin doors on the left side. “Liza! Gentleman caller.”

  Brace heard soft footfalls, and then the door opened. Liza, if that was indeed her name and not a whore’s moniker, appeared, her dark face floating above a thin white gown. She enchanted him instantly.

  Her black hair twisted into a braid that looped over one shoulder, curled around the curious medallion at her throat. The portrait downstairs had not flattered this young woman, no, it hadn’t done her justice. Her lips, for one thing, were impossibly puffy and glossy, reflecting the gas light hissing from the corridor wall.

  Something about her slight welcoming smile set him at ease, assuring him that his shillings were well spent. He felt his shoulders relax.

  “He paid for an ‘our, dearie,” Mrs. Teagarden said with satisfaction, as she pulled a slender, intricate silver key from her cleavage.

  When she put it to Liza’s ornament, he realized the medallion was a clock. The proprietress poked at it for a moment with her key, then tucked it back into her dress.

  From the girl’s raised eyebrows, Brace knew their trade didn’t normally extend to an hour. But, he could easily last that long, even if he didn’t have additional delights in mind. His cock pressed eagerly against his smallclothes, reminding him of how long it had been denied female comforts. He’d spent the summer working long hours and walking with friends the rest of the time, attempting to get out of London as much as possible. No time had been spared for women. But now autumn weather turned his associates to indoor delights. They could gamble without him for one night.

  The proprietress pushed him into the small chamber with a none-too-gentle hand at his back. The room smelled fresh at least, free of those body odors that steamed from the very walls in some brothels after so many years in service to human pleasures. He stumbled and reached out to gain his balance, but Liza stood right in front of him. His hands landed on the toothsome breasts he’d admired in her portrait.

  The feel of her warm, barely-covered flesh under his hands pleased him. When her eyes widened, only a few inches from his own gaze, he realized she was older than he’d expected, close to his own age of twenty-two, and her amber-brown eyes looked familiar somehow.

  That cat’s gaze narrowed on his as he squeezed her breasts, testing the firm warmth, before releasing her. His cock jerked as her flesh slid from his fingers.

  “My apologies,” he said quickly.

  “No need for that. You’ve paid for the privilege.” Her expression softened.

  He was hard as an oak tree already, but with the hour ticking away at her throat, he had time to taste the alluring female scent drifting up from her spicy cunny. Why spend himself quickly when he had time to anticipate? And he’d enjoy it more if he could entice his partner to take her pleasure as well.

  With a challenging stare of his own, he slid to his knees in front of Liza as the door closed behind him. He grasped the hem of Liza’s plain, floor length gown and rucked it up to her knees.

  “You needn’t be a supplicant. You’ve paid for your time,” she said, lifting her chin toward the narrow cot on the right side of the room. Her voice held no hint of common origins, yet he wasn’t quite able to place the accent. She’d moved about, most likely.

  He exposed her knees. “Does this offend you? I’m not used to paying for a woman’s time.
”

  “Of course it doesn’t offend me. And a woman is a woman whether she’s paid for or not, Mr. Howell.” Her eyes widened slightly as she said his name.

  He liked the sound of it on her lips and for some curious reason she smiled as if she liked it too. “Then I’ll do what I please. As you said, I’ve paid for the hour.”

  She touched the medallion at her throat.

  As he lifted her shift to mid-thigh, he asked, “Am I your first customer this evening?”

  “It’s early yet,” she said noncommittally.

  “Do you service the male staff before the guests arrive?” He knew how she earned her living, but he’d at least like to know he was her first of the evening. Strange that he cared. The shift was at the top of her thighs now and he could see a hint of black curly hair between her legs.

  She shifted, as if made uncomfortable by his question. He noted faint marks striping the insides of her thighs.

  “You’ve been whipped, and often. Is Mrs. Teagarden a harsh mistress?”

  “My patrons enjoy such things,” she said, her mouth pulling to one side.

  “Really? I’ve found it is the men who enjoy being beaten. All those brutal schoolmasters from our youths, I imagine.”

  Her eyes sharpened for a moment as if waiting for him to continue, but he couldn’t make polite conversation when he was staring at the treasure between her legs.

  “A certain class of men enjoys aggression,” she said. “They like striping my inner thighs, then listening to me cry out as their skin slides against mine while we fuck.”

  He swallowed hard at her crude language. Her inner fire attracted him. He put his hand to his trouser-front and adjusted himself. “Do you like the pain?”

  She smiled, though he didn’t think emotion reached her eyes. “I tolerate it well. See?” Bending her head toward his, while still holding his gaze, she let out a low moan of pain.

  An erotic thrill coursed through him at that musical moan, even if it was mere artifice. The dark, sexual tone heated his blood and his hand shook where it held cloth against her upper thigh. No wonder she specialized in the perversion.

  “One would almost think you craved it,” he said.

  Her breasts rose as she inhaled deeply before her head turned to a small highboy in the corner.

  The room was so small she could open the top drawer without moving closer to it. A small selection of crops of varying widths rested inside.

  “What excites you?” she asked. “Any of these?”

  He couldn’t suppress the slight shudder. Moans were one thing, but the whips revolted him. This delightful creature deserved pleasure, not pain.

  “Not that.”

  She closed the drawer with an air of satisfaction softening her lips, as if he’d passed a test. “No? I wonder why you chose me.”

  “Your portrait in the hallway below challenged me.”

  “Most men want to master the girl in that portrait.”

  “I don’t think like most men. I want this.” He lifted her linen to her waist, and buried his face in her crisp muff.

  She gasped. Her hands found the back of his head. He was sure shock and not design had motivated her quick movements. Wanting to continue to surprise, he tasted her slit with the tip of his tongue and stroked down until he found her channel. It rewarded him with a drop of musky fluid. He lapped it up, delighting in her individual taste, pulling her against his mouth with his hands on her naked buttocks. She felt firm, velvet-soft, and warm under his palms, and enticed him further with a tiny gasp of pleasure.

  He didn’t think she’d been a whore long. Her responses to his offered pleasure were too untutored for that, despite her scars.

  Testing her again, he speared her channel with his tongue, stretching her open. Then he slid his fingers up the insides of her nether lips until he found the tiny pearl at the apex. When his tongue found her there, she gasped again and ground against his mouth. He grasped the backs of her thighs, only to find her trembling.

  Outside, thunder cracked, and rain began to pound the cobblestones in the lane, drowning out her sounds of approval, higher pitched than her dark, pained moan, and the wet sucking sounds his mouth made against her velvety flesh.

  With a sense of triumph, he sucked on the tiny pearl and found her rear channel with his thumb. He dipped between her rounded cheeks, rimming the entrance.

  “You need not go to this effort, sir,” she whispered. “I’m here to please you.”

  He pulled away for a moment. “Liza, you do please me. Let me do this.”

  She sighed for a moment, staring at him, and then tilted her pelvis toward him, pulling him to her with strong fingers. Did she use crops herself against some of those faceless customers? His hands lifted from her buttocks and stroked up her arms, finding them rounded with muscle, not soft like most women’s.

  She verbalized her displeasure and he let his hands drop again, to play with her bottom. His tongue offered renewed attention to her pearl. When he sucked it in, she thrust against him, crying out her completion as her orgasm wracked her nubile form. His face was damp with her fragrant juices. He kissed her cleft and pulled away, allowing her dress to cover her body again, as modestly as the single thin layer of fabric allowed. As he was used to heavy, voluminous fabrics draping women like armor, being so close to a woman’s true form was unusually erotic in itself.

  She stumbled away from him, half-sitting, half-collapsing, onto the bed. A tiny chime emitted from her direction.

  “Ten minutes gone,” she whispered. He could see her nipples poking against the low-cut bodice when lightning sliced through the sky, brightening the dim room to near daylight for a moment. His next thought was of sucking those buds to even tighter peaks.

  He wanted to leap on her. “Will that infernal mechanism interrupt us so often?”

  “Every five minutes toward the end. It dictates every phase of our day.”

  He brushed aside the implications. “At least it is quiet enough, and a pleasing sound.”

  Her voice was harsher this time. “It gets louder. You can’t hide from it ever. They always find you.”

  Had she tried to escape? Were some of those stripes on her legs punishment as much as tradecraft? But his cock was gaining ascendance and he wanted to revisit that secret place between her legs, not chat. Still, he couldn’t help responding. “Why did you agree to this life? Surely there are other brothels with less controlling proprietresses.”

  “My father was in debtor’s prison. He sold me into Madame Teagarden’s to raise the coins he needed to free himself.”

  Brace pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his hands. “I’m sorry.”

  She put her hand to her cheek for a moment. “He did it for my mother’s sake. She lived there with him, lost two babies to those horrible conditions.”

  “Where were you?”

  “At school. An uncle paid for it, but he died just as my mother lost the second baby.”

  “How convenient for your father.” His gaze drifted to her breasts. The gauzy material first revealed, then hid her in a maddening dance.

  Before he could feel bad about not forcing his brain out of extreme arousal long enough to say something fascinating, she stared at him, then stood again, and slowly lifted the gown until she pulled it over her head. He was amused by how she carefully folded the garment and tucked it under the cot before walking toward him on tiptoe, her slender hips swaying. Her expression lost the hint of betrayal he thought he’d detected, became practiced and alluring. In the air hung the scent of rain and her satisfied body.

  Again, some fragment of memory caught at him, but he couldn’t capture it.

  Even at opposite ends of the room, they’d only been four tiny steps apart. Liza stroked a finger down his waistcoat, flicking open the buttons as she moved down. “Surely a gentleman like yourself would like to be undressed before the act.”

  “I like skin against skin,” he agreed, knowing he would not refuse to forni
cate with this woman even if the roof was on fire.

  She leaned into him and rubbed those perfect breasts against his shirt. “I have plenty of skin, sir.”

  “I’m Brace, call me that.”

  She smiled, those pillowy lips obeying him though her gaze still challenged. “Brace.”

  He pulled off his jacket and waistcoat, then allowed her to assist with his shirt. His cock pressed against the placket of his trousers but her nimble fingers made quick work of the fastenings. Though his member sprang forward eagerly, she ignored it and helped him remove his boots.

  When he was naked, she stepped back and caressed him with her gaze.

  “Such a fine form. Few men are blessed with such.”

  “Too much hair,” he demurred.

  “It’s the Italian blood,” she murmured, flicking her fingers at the curls around his flat masculine nipples.

  He felt them harden. “How did you know?” he asked.

  She pulled his mouth down to hers. “We talk too much, Brace.”

  His lips were still slick from her cunny, and slid against her when she captured his mouth. He angled his tongue between her parted lips, eager to simulate the act he most wished to perform with her. As they stumbled toward the bed he heard the chime at her throat again, but he couldn’t be distracted from the pleasures of her body.

  She tugged at his hips, already spreading her knees, but he had time to savor her still. His teeth grazed along her slender jaw, nipped at the indentation on her chin. Then his tongue traced the contours of her neck. The chain there was of some heavy linked stuff, nothing that could be broken by tugging, no matter how hard. He did not let it distract him, but tried to push the clockwork medallion aside so he could kiss the dip at her throat. It didn’t move.

  He lifted his hand from where it played with her braid to touch the medallion. It stayed fast against her throat. “How is it attached?”