Virgin Enchained (Virgin Series Book 4)

by Louisa Trent

  Gil gave me a long, hard, look from the side, an angle I could clearly view in the mirror. Despite my awkwardness in matters of carnality, even I could tell he lusted over me.

  “Her ass is nothing short of spectacular, eh, Matt?”

  Only the village idiot would misconstrue his intent.

  Mr. Simmons was far from the village idiot. He raised a knowing brow. “Feel that way? Like I said – arrange something with her on the morrow. From straight missionary to something more adventurous – all on the house. Take her for the whole night…if she agrees. She may not, considering she just arrived here from over at Milton’s place. He was putting heat on her to cooperate. Told her, I never do that here, that appointments are always up to the girl.

  “Be aware, Gil, that that goes double for you. I am not liking your attitude. And clean up your mouth while you are at it. That kind of language has no place in a decent establishment.”

  Obviously, Mr. Simmons did not mince his words.

  Gilbert grinned, though, all the same. Practically rubbing his soft, plump hands together, he said, “Tomorrow cannot come quick enough for me. Sober her up, would you, Matt?”

  “That was the idea.” Lifting his hand away from me, he clapped Gilbert on the shoulder.

  Then Mr. Simmons escorted Gill to the door, which he locked with the decisive click.

  He turned back to me. “Well…what have you to say for yourself, Emma?”

  “Huh?” I asked, one shot glass of Absinthe removed from drooling.

  “Bit off a little more than you could chew, did we?” he asked, as if humoring a child.

  As I wove back and forth on my feet, he moved behind me, as if to support me should I lose my balance and start to topple.

  I was still at the mirror, and my reflection had to assure him I was no child. The looking glass displayed a woman – a full-breasted, wasp-waisted, rounded-hipped woman, ripe for bedding.

  Did he agree?

  Difficult to know. His features gave nothing away.

  His body was not as easy to arrange into passivity. He was big and solid, an oak tree at my back, not touching me, just there, making me feel incredibly small by comparison. And indecisive. And wishing…wishing…wishing for something.

  What?

  I took a backward step, then another, until my bare bottom rested against the massiveness of him. “Please believe me, sir – had I not been so out of my head on absinthe, never would I have invited Gil inside.” Not an apology, but close.

  “Mind if I remove your plumage?” he asked. “The feather is tickling my chin.”

  “Be my guest.” I burrowed closer into his warmth, yielding to his size, his extraordinary musculature unmistakable at this close range. Something else was obvious too –

  Mr. Simmons was no Gil. No pawing. No suggestiveness. If anything, he remained in total control.

  But not relaxed with it. Stiff with it.

  Mr. Simmons seemed well acquainted with the role of protector but, perhaps, not with the role I had forced on him, the role of the seduced. His unease showed.

  I had lost all my reserve. All my inhibitions. For all that I was naked and alone with him, behind a locked door, and I knew no one would come to my aid should I scream for help, not with the boss, I felt at ease enough to urge him on, safe enough to act the aggressor. Of course, a certain Green Fairy also helped there.

  “I meant what I said, Emma. Your interactions with customers are at your own discretion. But whoring is not why I brought you here. I have plenty of applications in my office drawer from professionals seeking those positions. And by the way – I take no commission from the source of their livelihood. I provide a safe working environment and that is all I provide. I make my money off the gambling end of the operation. I am no whoremonger.”

  If not for the mirror, I would not have known my breasts protruded as far out into the air as they did, the hardened tips reddened, almost raw, the ends severely distended. That would explain their hurt, a pain I neither protested nor tried to rectify, only wished I understood better. Apart from my longing to dance the ballet, I understood little about my own motivations and drives.

  I stared more intently at myself in the glass. My thighs – Lord – but they were loose. Conspicuously loose. Unaware of my positioning before, I suddenly grew conscious of how far apart I had unknowingly spread my legs. Not simply splayed, I was open, as if to all-comers. And wet-looking. Down below. The triangle covered in damp black curls. The slit, so swollen and moist. What did it all mean?

  As if paralyzed, I was unable to close up. All I could do was gawk at the wanton sight I made in the looking glass. I felt like a female animal, stretched wide for mating.

  The influence of the Green Fairy? My innate promiscuousness brought to the surface by the drink?

  While I struggled with a previously unknown urgency, Mr. Simmons struggled not at all. His muscled arms hung loose at his sides, his hands nowhere near my person. He was only there to provide me with support should I require assistance.

  I needed more from him.

  “Could you possibly hold me, sir?” I daringly…inexplicably…asked.

  Like a giant automaton, he did just that, his arms lifted, mechanically wrapping around me, his hands now resting easily – no pressure – on my naked body, one high up on my shoulder, the other hand at my waist, the thick fingers spread so wide they encompassed most of my belly.

  My head fell back against his chest, my mouth opened, shortened breaths exited my lips.

  Never before had I realized how sensitive skin could be. I felt every one of his digits on my flesh, a few scant inches above my thick nest of black curls. But unlike Gilbert’s hand, his did not feel like a trespass.

  Gilbert’s touch made me wish to bathe. My rescuer’s touch made me wish to bathe too…with him…after we did very naughty and sweaty things to one another. Now if only I knew what those things were.

  Imagining some of them, I grew overheated. Although I thought it impossible, the tips of my breasts elongated again. And wetness. So much wetness. Surely, he could see the droplets pool at the notch before drizzling down to my knees.

  Experimentally, I drew the tip of my finger through the pooling, smearing the honeyed stuff across my splayed thigh while I watched. Was he watching too?

  Yes!

  “Ohohoh,” I groaned.

  Chapter Seven

  My voice shaky and slurred, but still understandable, I said, “Between my legs…high up against the core of me…is sodden. And my nipples are uncomfortably taut. I have never felt so before.”

  “Are you telling me you are a virgin?” His hands falling away from my body, he staggered backwards. “That you have never been with a man?”

  His sudden leave-taking left me bereft. Not only that, even in my drunken confusion, I knew I had said the wrong thing. He sounded horrified at thinking me a virgin.

  How to fix it? How to set him at ease about being with me.

  My brain was so sluggish! Thinking was so difficult. I only understood this much – I must set the situation to rights with a lie or lose him.

  “What do you take me for?” I tossed my head, and then tossed honesty aside. “Of course, I have been with a man. More than one man, several as a matter of fact, all hastily done affairs. I have never been with anyone like this before, sir, entirely naked and unrushed like this. I feel things, sensations, with you that I never felt with them. I-I-I think I like it. I think I like the sensations you inspire in me, sir.”

  And I did, until…moving in on me, he fingered between my legs. Shocking!

  “I can feel no barrier,” he told me as I squirmed.

  My brow furrowed. Was that information supposed to mean something to me? Was his discovery of no barrier a good thing or a bad thing?

  Lest I give my innocence away, I dared not ask.

  I understood nothing about how this worked, about why he had been so abrupt with me before, so cool and distant, when he had only just now engaged
me in the most familiar of activities, an activity that made me even hotter, that made me yearn for more of the same heat.

  I arched my throat. “The drink, you know. The Green Fairy has addled my wits. Yes, the barrier. But of course! My maidenhead is long ago gone, sir. Did I not just tell you so?”

  And no lie, it was gone. As a child at the orphanage, a bad injury while on horseback – the mount stolen from the barn during one of my many escape attempts – had caused me to bleed into my drawers. It never occurred to me until now what that bleeding meant:

  The rip within me signified the end of my virginity. While in practice, I remained very much untried.

  And how perfectly unromantic to give even a single thought to the specifics of carnality now. I yearned for drama, high passion. I yearned to be swept away. Not examined like a cow is examined by an animal doctor. His fingering qualified there.

  “I am no virgin, sir. I simply never felt like this before. Wondrous!”

  His hand dropped away from high up between my legs. “Not wondrous at all,” he disagreed. “There is a reason your breasts are as they are. You had a bad night. A terrible scare. First Milton…then what happened in the alley on the way here…your responsiveness is a natural reaction to your fright. Your blood is pumping hot, seeking an outlet.”

  “No, sir! Seeking you! My blood is pumping hot as a natural reaction to you, not fear.”

  “You may think so now…but your thoughts are scattered. That liquor is the culprit.”

  “Do you not enter into this at all?”

  “I enter into this only as a punching bag enters into the release of tension in a boxer. Nothing personal. I am not taking anything you do as such. As you say…the Green Fairy. ”

  How very convenient. The liquor had supplied me with a free pass to do untold things with him, outrageous and wicked things, without blame attached. I could just point to drunkenness as an excuse for my behavior.

  He washed a hand over his face. “What we are doing…you said you liked it.”

  “Yes, sir. I do.” I smirked. “Or I did.”

  “You should know…you need not necessarily like it to succeed in the business of prostitution. Some would say it is far better to get no gratification from the exchange at all, that it is more desirable for the whore to feel nothing when with a client. But we are not discussing just anyone here, are we? We are talking about you in specific. And the question remains…do you intend to pursue a career in whoring?”

  “Too many choices. All the options, sir. Makes my poor soused head hurt.”

  “Allow me to end some of your confusion – if you intend to go down that road – to prostitute – stay here. Here you will have protection and receive a full cut of the proceeds. As I already explained, the house takes nothing. This is no brothel I run. I am in the business of gambling, not the business of taking advantage of women.”

  I had no interest in any of what he said. Too dry and boring. And how did it apply to me, anyway? I was a dancer in love, not a prostitute trying to turn a quick buck.

  I shook my head back and forth. “I have never whored, sir. Is this what a whore normally does – rubs herself up against a customer while both of them are naked?”

  “Usually, only the girl gets naked. The customer only takes out his cock.”

  “Oh. I see,” I said, trying to sound worldly-wise, the very epitome of sophistication. “His cock.” I nodded as if I knew my way around one of those.

  I did not.

  Still in the grip of absinthe, my thinking proved erratic. Ideas, most of them silly, jumped around all over the place.

  Like my shoes. Suddenly I wanted them gone.

  I kicked them off. “The ballet slippers are ruined beyond repair, anyway.”

  The daring girl in the mirror agreed. She had plans for this man, fairy tale kinds of plans. If it took a little hanky-panky to make those plans come true, so be it.

  I still wore black hose and crimson garters. Where was the harm in leaving them alone? They looked erotic and made me feel less naked.

  “And Emma – as to what to expect should you decide to whore – you will do whatever the man who is paying you tells you to do. Should he tell you to stand on your head, you will do so.”

  I giggled.

  “But only if you agree to stand on your head. No force allowed here. This place is a safe haven for prostitutes, someplace to stay temporarily until they save enough money to achieve financial independence and move on. I am still in contact with most of them, many now entrepreneurs in their business of choice. Whether that is providing pleasure or something else, they are all successful beyond their wildest dreams.”

  I had dreams too, and he featured in all of them.

  “All because of you, sir,” I said wistfully.

  “Because of me…what?”

  “Oh. Oh. My mind went blank there for a moment. Discount what I said previously. What I meant to say was…because of you, their dreams came true.”

  “Not because of me. Because of their own ambitions.”

  “You are entirely too modest about your accomplishments, sir. Those whores owe you plenty.”

  “They owe me nothing. I merely provide a means for them to get ahead. What I take pride in is this: through the intervening years, we have all remained good friends.”

  “But not lovers?”

  “No. Not lovers. I never felt that way about any of them.”

  I would be his single exception. To convince him of the same, I started dancing against him – close, very close against him – my too-full buttocks rising and falling with each grinding motion.

  A cheroot cannot light itself, after all. The imported cigar required either an old-fashioned tinderbox or a new-fashion friction match to set it ablaze.

  I would provide that friction here. The question was – would I succeed where others had failed? Would his passions blaze?

  “Enough,” he growled.

  Evidently not. What was worse, he sounded annoyed. At moi.

  “But why?” No whine. I merely pleaded my case, while accepting my shameful persistence was absinthe inspired. I was powerless to change direction even after realizing my persistence was what had caused his consternation.

  Drunk was drunk, and I was very tipsy. And there was something else too:

  Over and above using my inebriation as an excuse – this man drew me.

  I wanted what I wanted. And I wanted it now. And what I wanted now was him. Whatever the culmination of that wanting entailed.

  “Stop now, Emma.”

  “Why?” I ached so! “Why must I stop?”

  “I asked you to act as my hostess. That is the position I offered you and it is a respectable one. If you decide to be more than that to customers, I shan’t interfere…save to provide you with protection. But as far as the personal goes, the rule is this – nothing untoward must ever take place between us. Nothing improper. I am your employer, and that is all I will ever be to you. As you are new here and therefore unaware of the boundaries, I will allow your attempt at familiarity to go. This one time. Try breaching that line again after tonight, and you are out, Emma. I shan’t hesitate to let you go.”

  Huffing and puffing in agitation, my chest – no small matter – heaving with my exertion, I reiterated my private thoughts aloud:

  “There are exceptions to every rule.”

  “You tried being the exception to Milton’s rule. How did that work out for you?”

  In my drunken state, he had thrown down the gauntlet, which made me more determined than ever to be his single exception. I would change his mind about his stupid rule!

  “Either you agree, Emma, or pack up your belongings and leave. Immediately.”

  Belongings?

  And where might those be?

  I had arrived empty-handed, wearing utterly destroyed ballet slippers and a can-can costume appropriate only for a stage. Oh, and a feather. I had almost forgotten about my theatrical prop. Furthermore, I was a mess, unable
to stand without his support.

  Of course, he had rejected me! Why on earth would he have anything to do with me, a snotty-nosed whelp of a former orphan? Everyone who should have cared had washed their hands of me long ago…

  So what?

  I had left the orphanage, left the gentleman farmer’s kitchen, left my dance master’s coaching, left Milton’s dancehall, and I could leave here too. I would not be anyone’s burden or charity case.

  I wiped impatiently at my face and pulled back a hand smeared with greasepaint. No matter. As soon as I could literally stand on my own two feet, I was leaving. Tonight! And good riddance to Mr. Simmons anyway!

  Wearing nothing but black hose, crimson garters, and a smirk, I pulled away from my rescuer and tottered over to another closed door in the room, this one located in the corner, flinging back over my shoulder as I stomped off, “You have seen the last of me, sir. I shan’t darken your door a moment longer. I know when I am not welcome.”

  “It is past midnight. Where do you mean to go, Emma, in your present condition, with no funds for a room?”

  “Anywhere so long as it is far, far away from you,” I childishly cried.

  Refusing me a graceful exit, he lunged for me. “I cannot allow you to leave tonight, Emma.”

  “Wha…what are you doing?” I cried as he lifted me clear off the floor.

  “There are limits, Emma. You disrespected those limits when you pushed me too far.”

  As it turned out, I soon found out the second closed door I meant to storm off through was in actuality the entrance to a WC.

  He plunked me down on the marble floor. “A cold bath will sober you up right quick.”

  “No bath,” I said, slapping at him, pushing him away.

  Unsuccessfully. The man was a mountain, hard and glacial.

  “Afterwards, you will feel better, more yourself. Then, come morning, should you still feel this imperative to leave, you may do so with my blessing. While you try to find new employment, I will stake your first month’s rent in a decent boarding house and an adequate food budget. You cannot afford to lose weight. Apart from these…” He handled my breasts, weighing both in his palm before snaking that same hand around to my buttocks. “… and these, you are far too thin.”