Virgin Enchained (Virgin Series Book 4)

by Louisa Trent

  How could I resist?

  I led him there, out the double-hung French doors and into the windswept night.

  “Treat me like a whore, sir,” I said, repeating the same admonishment as before. “It is for my own good, after all. How else will I learn to behave as one? Spank me if you must.”

  His touch roughened, the severity making me come alive. Especially in the pounding rain.

  In no time, I was soaked to the skin – all I was wearing at present. My hair plastered to my body and my face, I once again took the lead and boldly lifted my mouth for his kiss.

  An offer he ignored. Instead, he squeezed my buttock. “Christ. Your arse is amazing.”

  I was beginning to think that part of my anatomy truly must have been amazing, perhaps even magical, for it was with obvious reluctance that he lifted his hand from that spot to place it atop my skull. Applying a gentle if steady pressure, he pressed me ever downward onto my knees before him on the balcony.

  The puddle in which I landed was still splashing when he growled, “Suck me off.”

  If only I knew how.

  But more than willing to learn, I sought out the gape in his trousers he had yet to close up. Taking a restorative breath, I removed his cock. Delicately.

  “Do I look like I might break?” he asked.

  My gaze widened, drawn to the hard flesh jutting from my hand. “No, sir, you do not. Indeed, you appear quite sturdy.”

  “Then enough of your ladylike ways.”

  “I am no lady, sir. You and I both understand that to be so. I am your whore for as long as you will have me.” Without any pretentions whatsoever, I led him hungrily between my lips, one hand cupping the heaviness of his sac.

  Where ever had I found the brazenness to do so?

  Love, I thought. It was love. My love for him emboldened me.

  Pursing my mouth, I worked him hard, greedily too, until he was first groaning, then moaning, then crying out, a great explosion of salty need erupting against my tongue. It all happened so fast! Not about to spit – quite rude! – I swallowed, a fast gulp, before looking up at him. “Well? How was it for you?”

  “A whore is never complimented. A whore is paid. You will find the amount on the nightstand on the morrow after I have come again.”

  “Come again, sir?”

  “I am not done with you yet,” he advised, pulling me to my feet and unceremoniously bending me backwards over the balcony’s metal railing.

  I thanked my dancer’s flexibility for keeping my spine from breaking.

  “I want your luscious breast in my mouth and by fuck I will have it.”

  Who was arguing with him?

  I took a fast breath, and then his teeth were there, right there, latched onto my chest, first licking the rain away and then torturing my very distended nipple.

  He bit me. He absolutely bit me.

  “Oh God, oh God,” I moaned above the clap of thunder, my body rocking against the railing. “More, sir. Deeper, sir. Leave teeth marks on me, sir.”

  How could he help but leave his mark on me?

  And not only physically. I loved him so. Surely putting me away from him on the morrow would mark me deeper than any imprint he could ever leave on my flesh.

  So be it. Scar me! Even as my jaw tensed at the hurt being done me, my thighs wantonly opened to him. And if he decided to delve me there between the thighs again, I would never think to refuse him. What was a little more hurt?

  Nothing in comparison to the thought of not having him.

  His teeth scraping and nipping and biting, bruising me in the rain, he made his slow way down my torso, stopping at my loins.

  “Open,” he demanded. “Open to me.”

  No thought of denying him, I spread myself for him, my thighs trembling as he bent to me, his face at the level of my slit, moving back and forth there, side-to side there, rubbing, rubbing, rubbing, his skin against my skin.

  He shaved every day, at least it seemed so to me, but this was late in the evening, and his whiskers scratched my sensitive flesh as he breathed in my scent before sending his tongue inside my passage, still raw, still sore, from his prior entry.

  I needed more from him. And he needed more from me. This was no act, not for either of us.

  I hammered the railing at my back with my fists as he knelt on the floor of the balcony. He worked on me with his mouth, with his tongue, with his lips, making guttural noises all the while, nothing genteel or civilized about it. He was ravishing me and I was letting him do it, no care for the future.

  “Yes, yes, yes,” I wailed into the rain at what he had called a climax before. No mistaking this tumultuous upheaval followed by boneless release for anything else but that. Afterwards, I went limp. Uncaring of what might happen next, I dropped my hands from the railing, thinking I could fly.

  Mr. Simmons caught me before I could fall. He kissed me then, the taste of myself on his tongue past erotic.

  * * * *

  For the whole of that same month, I was wretchedly sore and swollen between the legs. Mr. Simmons had indeed left his mark on me, both in the degree and the manner of the bruising.

  And I still believed he held back.

  While not understanding how and in what fashion, I sensed he had more to give me. As soon as I figured it out, I intended to first rebuke him for his negligence and then insist he make up for the lost time by venturing into those dark areas of carnality upon which decent society frowned.

  It was not decency I craved from him but indecency. And I strongly suspected he would more than appreciate my own indecent traits…if he would only accede to his true self.

  Did he fear offending me? Was that why he couched his desires in acceptable terms?

  My goal was to break him of this wholly annoying habit. How else was I to get my own dark yearnings satisfied?

  One night, two weeks later, I took the bull by the horns, and purposefully crossed the line with him. I shuddered to think of his outrage. Whatever would he do to me?

  “You are late for your shift on the roulette floor, Emma,” he said.

  Calmly. Pleasantly. Was this the same man who deplored being late by even a minute, himself?

  I was half-an-hour late and the best he could do was:

  “You are late for your shift on the roulette floor, Emma.”

  All my masterminding, and not even a scowl did I receive for my troubles?

  Oh, dear. This was not going according to plan. Not only that, I was insulted.

  Lest he was fresh out of ideas, I had prepared a long list of inappropriate possibilities to offer up for his consideration to punish me for my tardiness. Though I preferred he come up with his own fiendish schemes about what constituted a just punishment, I did what I had to do – I lit a fire under his arse about disciplining me.

  Not by docking my wages, either. That sort of thing was not at all what I had in mind. Though a reasonable course of action, what was the point?

  Not only would he make up the difference to me later in some sneaky fashion – gifts and whatnot – he would remain wound-up just as tight as before. And how would that serve me?

  A wound-up lover served me not at all. A wound-up lover could not go at me for any great length of time. A wound-up lover would not go the extra mile in an effort to satisfy me. His head would be elsewhere, occupied on business or whatnot, not inside me. The bulbous head of his thick cock, that is.

  Honestly, I worried for his health should his tightness continue. In my impatience with him, I might very well do him serious harm. Kicking his arse came to mind.

  So he could do better by me than docking my wages. Where was his bloody imagination?

  I had already dropped him a hint in confessing my liking of caning to him, having told him of my dance master’s rod. At the time, he had been very sympathetic to my proclivity for certain unorthodox acts. After making myself vulnerable to him, the very least he could do was follow-up with me here and now and manipulate the hell out of those vul
nerabilities of mine. That would put a gleam in his dark eyes. Or, at least, loosen up his tightness in straight order.

  But no, ever honorable, he would never use underhanded tactics like that against me.

  What the fuck was wrong with him?

  Had the situation been reversed, I certainly would have.

  He could not let me get away with this infraction of the rules! Goodness knows what would happen if he looked the other way. Thirty minutes late today might grow to an hour late on the morrow. What kind of example would that set for my fellow workers here at the gambling den?

  “A very poor one,” I said aloud.

  “Pardon?” he politely asked.

  Was I ever vexed! Courtesy. Who needed that at a climactic moment like I had intended this one to be?

  When I thought to look up at him, I caught Mr. Simmons gazing at me. And still not with a scowl on his face. He looked at me as he often did when he thought me unaware, with a soft smile, a cross between bemusement and bewilderment on his handsome face.

  “Nothing, sir. I spoke out of turn, is all. Most likely talking back to you about my being late.”

  “Lateness happens at times,” he forgivingly replied.

  I gave him a push. “I know, I know, sir. You have to nip this procrastination trait of mine in the bud immediately, stomp on it before I take horrible advantage of my personal relationship with you, the gambling den’s owner. No favoritism! How would it look to ignore it?”

  I answered for him “It would look bad. Bad. Very bad, sir. That is how it would look. Long and short, to maintain morale amongst workers at your club, you cannot afford to take my lateness lightly. Rules serve a purpose. No ignoring rules…that is the rule. Rules must be obeyed. And if they are not obeyed, well, all manner of pandemonium will result.”

  He shrugged, said evenly, “I doubt anyone even noticed, Emma.”

  “That is not the point, sir. The point is I was late.”

  My old hairbrush was lovely and very solidly constructed, indeed. None of this soft wood, like pine or such, went into its crafting. Made for giving bare-arsed thumping, that brush would last me for years. On the other hand, a cheaply designed brush would break apart upon delivering the first good whack and there would go all my naughty fun, right down the drain. The handle would break right off.

  Now – the handle attached to my old brush was made of stronger stuff, oak to be exact. That handle would withstand all sorts of carnal delights without the nuisance of splinters. I liked a good hair brush spanking as well as the next perverted woman but, unless one looked at splinters as a gift that kept on giving, who would wish to pick those things from one’s derriere?

  Also – the brushing end was unusually wide, like a good paddle brush should be wide. Wide like me, as a matter of fact. That paddle would fit well-endowed me to a T. With little in the way of persuasion, I would even let him borrow it…

  Alas, it would probably never come down to that. No sign of annoyance was written on his face. It was as if, to his mind, there was no conflict between his making allowances for me, his whore, and his strict treatment of others who worked for him and arrived late. A double standard if ever there was one.

  Lord! His face. His expression had gone all soft and mushy. Could it be? Did he really mean to forgive me?

  So disappointing! My attempt to turn a carnal corner with him was turning into a farce instead.

  I had to be more direct with him. That was the ticket! No more subtlety. The naïve man was not getting the picture. Even if I had to hit him over the head with a sledgehammer, I would make him understand.

  I tried again. “I know how much you loathe tardiness, Mr. Simmons.”

  “Correct, Emma. I certainly do.”

  “You hate it because of what an individual’s lateness signifies.”

  He wore a cornered look now. “Unless there were extenuating circumstances,” he hedged.

  “Not here, sir.” I said, dismissing his attempt to give me a way out with a vigorous shake of my head. “No extenuating circumstances here. I simply chose not to arrive on time.”

  “Are you ill?” he rushed to ask. “Perhaps you should absent yourself from your duties tonight altogether and go take a lie-down.”

  Behind a raised hand, I gave him an evil smirk. Not unless I go take a lie-down with you, sir.

  Because he looked so concerned over my health, I said, “No nap needed. Not ill. Indeed, never felt better, sir.”

  “Relieved to hear it.”

  I tried a different approach. “By your own statement, which you have diligently reminded me of countless times, and I quote: ‘Lateness is nothing more than a form of inconsiderateness, all the more dire because it often impacts those who depend upon the late person’s prompt arrival.”

  “That is quite the mouthful. Did I say all that, Emma?”

  “All the time, sir, to all your staff members, which also, by the way, includes me in case you have forgotten. I am subject to the same rules as everyone else around here.”

  “I cannot believe I really said that. I sound like a long-winded, pompous ass.”

  “If prefer to think of you as a stuffed shirt, sir. Less disrespectful.”

  He held up a hand. “I get the point.”

  But, like dice, I was on a roll and I refused to be deterred. The devil was in the details, and I remained a stickler for those. “You also always say, ‘Nothing justifies ignoring the hands of a clock’ .”

  He closed his eyes. “Christ. What an inflexible prick I am.”

  Yes, he was. But I loved him and so I let it go.

  I grinned. “In my somewhat biased opinion – inflexible pricks are stiff pricks and stiff pricks are better than limp pricks, sir.”

  On the outside, Mr. Simmons seemed perfectly satisfied with our carnal status quo. I knew better. And I meant to repair the situation…even if belaboring my objective irritated the piss out of him. I would break him out of his gentlemanly reticence here and now!

  He gestured for me to go on about my business then, and I went…but in utter despair.

  At the end of my shift, on my way toward the stairs to our private retreat, as I picked up my skirts for the climb, Mr. Simmons snuck up behind me and cleared his throat, a habit of his when he wished to get something off his chest.

  “Emma, I could not help but notice your irresponsibility tonight.”

  Was this where he redeemed himself?

  “What irresponsibility, sir?” I cooed.

  “Your untimely arrival for your hostess duties this evening, Emma, showed a lack of consideration to your fellow employees at this club. What do you have to say for yourself, young lady?”

  Oh, goody?

  Not exactly. Though that was exactly what I thought.

  His frown informed me my ruse had worked, and on the first attempt too. His dander was officially raised. That question sounded like the beginnings of a chastisement to me. However – was my being guilty of lateness a serious enough offense to tip his ire into action?

  “I cannot think of what I should have to say for myself, sir.”

  “In my office, Emma. Now! Obviously, I need to explain a few things to you.”

  “My work day is over, sir. You cannot order me about any longer.” I was long past talk. I needed action. From him.

  And I got it.

  Mr. Simmons grabbed my elbow – none too gently – and pushed me – also, none too gently – through the heavy paneled door into his inner sanctum, where all dark mahogany furnishings spelled out his importance and an important-looking safe hinted of his wealth. A windowless room –not even barred windows– and a fancy lock on the door told me this room could compete with a bank in terms of security and win.

  When I turned to say something glib about all this, a dominant male stared me down and had my mouth snapping shut. A thread of fear ran through me.

  How well did I really know Mr. Simmons?

  Circus strongman to illegal gambling entrepreneur was not the suc
cess story of any milquetoast I had ever heard of. In my head, I outlined all the strikes against him:

  A prostitute mother. Father unknown. The stigma of illegitimacy in a straight-laced society. The early death of his only parent. Setting up shop in the Red-light District, where Boston politics dictated a pay-to-play mentality in business…

  And I thought I’d had it tough in the orphanage.

  Also, which made me more than a little nervous, Mr. Simmons was on a first-name basis with an Irish street gang so dangerous that the police steered well clear of them.

  He could kill me and get away with it. If he had no taste for sullying his own hands, his Irish pals would do the deed for him and bury my body, not in his flower garden – What! And dig up his petunias? – but in the basement of any abandoned building in town. Or he could have me dumped in Boston Harbor. We were only a short walk from there.

  Chapter Twelve

  Mr. Simmons gestured to the rear of the room. “See that bookcase?”

  “Hard to miss, sir, given its central location against the back wall.”

  But what a strange place for it, I mused.

  “Withdraw the blue book on the far right,” he told me.

  He wanted to read? Now?

  But perhaps, he only meant to point out an illustration inside the volume. At any rate, without argument, I did as told…and the bookcase creaked open.

  “A hidden room,” I cried. “How very gothic.”

  “You are the only one to know of it,” he informed me.

  I bit my lip at the romance of it all. But my, he was the mysterious one.

  “Go on in,” he told me.

  I took a brave step inside.

  He followed at a distance. “Stop at the hooks drilled into the brick wall and stand facing them.”

  His voice was patient, but not patronizingly so, just his usual calm demeanor. And it flashed through my mind then how fortunate his future children would be to have him as their father, a man who never raised his voice or said a harsh word, who remained quiet-spoken, reticent too, and always polite in manner, regardless of the provocation.

  Conversely, Mr. Simmons also had an authoritarian streak a mile wide. He made no attempt to hide it from me. I understood now that it was that very dominance that had drawn me to him. This man had certain expectations of the world around him, which now included me, and he fully expected to have those expectations met. At the moment, his dark eyes…indeed every aspect of his brooding attention…was concentrated entirely on me. Highly arousing to find oneself at the center of a powerful man’s focus. Frightening too, in a way.