Clockwork Stalker: The Dirty Heroes Collection

by Silverwood, Cari

“Yes. This…” She swallowed, imagining how it would surge and split her, fill her. “Inside me.” To add an underline of urgency, she squirmed her hips and they bumped against his legs where they straddled her.

  “Then I shall indulge this darling whore, the lady, the goddess before me.” He slid backward, and magically produced a condom, or so it seemed, placed it over the head of his member, and rolled it downward.

  No pregnancy. “I should have thought of that,” she said huskily.

  If the curse unhinged him, Mr. Holmes did worse to her.

  “Mr. Holmes, sir.”

  “Yes?”

  “You are my Satan, my evil lust demon, and I’m sure you have invisible horns and a tail tucked away somewhere.”

  He only chuckled, which would mean nothing for a normal man, except he was the arrogant Holmes, and she was sure he had never laughed like that in her presence.

  As he positioned himself and pushed his cock at her, with his hands planted beside her shoulders, she raised her knees. He parted her, dipped in. Exhaling in a shudder, she could feel how prepared he’d made her. So slick, so wet, and he kept going, inside her in one thrust, gliding like a huge goddamned spear, making her heart stop.

  Her walls, below, clamped inward on him.

  “What’s this wet thing I’ve speared? A fish? A mermaid? Or my goddess who wants to be fucked until she dies the little death?”

  “Goddess!” she said, groaning before being silenced, as Holmes kissed her mouth, then he was kissing her jaw, her neck, then latching onto her breast with teeth, biting her, sucking at her nipple. Teeth slid. Her nipple sucked well into his hot mouth, and his cock thrust again.

  Nirvana, so close…

  “You can hold me. Let go of the sheet,” he commanded.

  Immediately, she released the bedding, and before she could think it, she’d reached up and grabbed hold of whatever part of him her hands met first. God, he was a muscular man beneath the suit. She dug her fingers into his shoulders, then arm, then back, then hip, while he thumped into her. All the while, she was groaning and whimpering, her breath catching at his deepest obliterating penetrations.

  She needed… needed more of him.

  Then she held him even tighter, as if she were a lecherous vine wanting to suck this mortal man down to make him one with her. Again and again, his cock plunged in and rendered her speechless, arching, with her muscles straining. She cried and writhed under him.

  The slap of flesh on flesh continued, echoed.

  Her eyes rolled upward.

  This felt so good. She’d never go to Heaven after this.

  To be filled, to be fucked, to make the beast with two backs. Wicked, so wicked.

  To not let go. He was growing slippery. His muscles jolted and slid, sweaty under her grip. He grabbed her hair in a fist and pinned her.

  The bed squeaked at every impact of his body on hers, as his weight slammed into her. She cried out at the deepest thrusts.

  “Please.” She pulled her knees higher to give him access.

  He kissed her full on the mouth as if to devour her whole. Then he rammed into her and dragged a pillow over her head, pushing her face sideways and into the bed. She could breathe but was instantly anonymous, a thing.

  There was a freedom in having no sight, no reason for guilt, no identity.

  Arousal blossomed, soared, and she whimpered in the darkness.

  He took her left wrist and dragged it beneath the pillow. Hair fisted, wrist pinned, pillow darkening her world, with Sherlock driving into her, she closed her eyes fully and merely felt… everything.

  Blind and aware of how degenerate this had become, she felt a final massive smack as he speared home and stayed inside her, squashing her knees to her chest, he leaned on her.

  His come erupted. His cock jerked.

  Rigid above her, with the hold on her wrist as hard as steel, Sherlock gave a last grunt, a last twitch of hips and cock, and stilled.

  Done. They were both panting. Her blood pounded in her temples. Her heart bashed at her chest. The pillow was wet from where her mouth had brushed it.

  “Did you climax?” he asked, pulling the pillow partly off her face.

  Slowly she shook her head, whispering, “No,” and not bothering to come out from under the pillow.

  “Good.”

  He withdrew from her, lay to the side, propping on his elbow while he removed the condom, she guessed.

  “Oh.” My. Her legs were still bent at the knees, and trembling.

  She felt mildly demolished, and happy. The memory of where he’d been was potent, and she turned it over in her mind, hugging it to her—struck by how innovative, dark, and wicked, Mr. Holmes was. Surely, the curse could not implant ideas like this? It must be him? A subterranean part of his psyche he never knew existed now unearthed?

  She shut her eyes, searched blindly for his hand and found it. Strange, how reassuring it was to feel the strength in his fingers. “They say, that place between my legs, it should be kept for reproduction only.”

  “They? There is no they anymore.” The pillow was taken from her face and she pouted at him. He tapped her nose then held her chin with finger and thumb. “I am the only authority you need heed from now on.”

  “Hmmm.” Easily swayed, she nodded.

  “Excellent.” He flopped to the side, rolling onto his back, his fingers stirring in her hair.

  With wetness on her thighs, she lay unable to get loose from him, and not caring to. She liked the quiet feel of his fingers, the smell of this man, and she rolled into the angle of his arm and body. His hand tangled, tweaking at her scalp.

  “No escaping,” he drawled. “Be still.

  She sighed, smiled, and cuddled against him. It wasn’t spooning but close enough.

  He spoiled her contentment a moment later. “We’ll get cleaned up, then I will order a steam-electric limousine and we will go on a small and calculated journey about London, Miss Moriarty. And thank you, my dear. You were wonderfully filthy and as good as the best harlot.”

  She thought about biting him somewhere but did not—it could be dangerous, and likely it would not change him one, single jot.

  Insufferable. Holmes was insufferable.

  He was a lover of a sort she’d never dreamed of—terribly dominant, nauseatingly arrogant, with atrocious fetishes. She shivered and thought some more.

  Curiously, he seemed perfect for her, if not for the indifference to a greater connection between them. She’d not known she was this… bad.

  15

  Bought in London

  The gray dress she wore down the stairs and into the steam-electric limousine had a corset beneath, as Sherlock had suggested, the one true corset she owned. No drawers were allowed, but she’d come to expect that. Inside the limousine were shuttered windows equipped with roll-down shades and a compartment walled off from the driver, with a speaking tube for instructions.

  The advantage of not being allowed to climax, she discovered, was an acute awareness of her sexuality with every slight movement of her body. It was an awareness of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and of how swollen and wet her lower lips were at any given second, of the heaviness of her breasts, and sensitivity of her nipples.

  Holmes was in neat vest and suit, coat, and black gloves. He looked atrociously sexy to her.

  She shot him more than a few pained looks.

  When she snuggled closer on the seat, and oh, the thrill when her thigh contacted his… he rigidly, tsk tsked.

  Then he pointed, directing her to take the opposite seat. Her miffed imagination went sideways, to darker realms. If she shot him, would he have an erection she could ride? She smirked to herself at the ridiculous thought.

  He straightened the fingers on his leather gloves and peered at her from behind a few locks of black hair that had flopped over his eyes.

  “We’ll head off now and perform the best part of this survey—in central London.” He nodded at her machine where it sat beside her opposite h
im, plugged into a large battery that dented the seat with its weight. “Then we shall visit a shop I’ve been told of. I plan to purchase some things for you.”

  His lips curved momentarily as he assessed her from knee to bodice.

  “Things?” Willa raised a brow, then rearranged her dress.

  Just his glance affected her. Why was she this pitiful?

  Embarrassingly, she realized the involuntary wetness coming from her sex might darken the dress. Dove gray was a bad choice, today, or perhaps any day she had let Sherlock… possess her.

  Possess. Oh the tangled web we weave.

  She rather hoped he would weave a new web and trap her, again, soon.

  The limousine set off, steam and electric engines alternating and clocking in when either was judged to be needed by the driver. Up street, down street, past parliament where she registered high malignant energy readings, and further afield. As they traveled, she made notes and Sherlock showed great interest in them all. His brain surely matched hers. Frederick had been military through and through and had found her theoretical physics boring.

  They wouldn’t get all of London done in a day—the city was too big, especially not when Sherlock had a tendency to lean in and slide his hand up her thigh to toy with her now and then. It was difficult to get her mind back on the job after he did that, especially after the last time, when he’d slid a finger inside her, pumped it a few times while she collapsed against the seat whimpering, whimpering, damn it, and then had made her lick it clean.

  Between her legs, she decided, was now officially a cauldron of hot messy chaos, begging for more of his touch. Every bump of the wheels set her off, sent frissons of pleasure throbbing from her sex.

  Never had she been so grateful for the shades on the windows of a vehicle.

  Maybe she was his harlot, but she was definitely losing her loathing of the word.

  No, they wouldn’t get all of London done, but enough to judge if the malignant energy had taken hold here.

  It had, it seemed. Patches of energy spiked here and there. Parliament House was a hotbed.

  Sherlock tapped the figures after they’d driven by twice to confirm them. “I wonder who that is?”

  “Who?” She frowned. “Why who? I had theorized it simply appeared and affected some people, then somehow stayed with them, as it possibly has with you?”

  She’d had to be careful to aim the probe away from Sherlock on this survey, because he messed up the measurements. The first street had looked like it’d been bathed in ME until she worked that out.

  “I doubt this. It moves with me, yes?”

  It did. She nodded. Of course he was right.

  “This energy seems to seek me out, and these others, one was a famous priest in Russia? I believe the ME is attracted to men of importance. The brilliant?”

  She frowned, pursed her lips. “Or the conceited.”

  “Hah! You joke, but I will accept it. Great men tend to be overly conscious of their greatness. Someone in parliament, or even more than one, is destined for greatness, and it is not our current leader. I think…” he drummed his gloved fingers on his knee, “it may target the heroes.”

  Willa Moriarty managed, by a hairsbreadth, not to snort or roll her eyes at him.

  She folded her arms, lay back against the seat. “So you’re a cursed hero now?” Her small smile broadened into a grin.

  “Oh now.” He leaned in toward her. “Miss Moriarty, do I detect mockery?”

  Eyes locked wide, she vigorously shook her head and suppressed a nervous swallow. “Heavens, no.”

  “I detect a lie now. I know your body well.”

  Damnation. She cleared her throat. “Perhaps.” This was how a deer felt when a hunter stared down the sights of a gun.

  Ignoring her, Sherlock unhooked the flexible speaking tube and spoke to the driver. She gathered he was going to the shop next—the one where he intended to purchase her clothes.

  She exhaled. Safe.

  Until he turned to her, drew the piece of hand luggage to his feet and rummaged within. As he did so, he murmured an instruction, “Lift your dress, Willa, and open your legs.”

  It was a far more shameful situation to do this in a hired vehicle. She stayed frozen. The dress was that of a decorous woman, the limousine was exceptionally upper-class. If the window shade slipped and rolled open, she would be horrified.

  “Now.”

  A few days ago she might, no would have protested further. Instead she steadied herself as much as she could and slowly gathered the skirt of her dress toward her waist.

  “No drawers. This is perfect. Look how willing you are to be violated.” Stated so dryly, his words increased her mortification ten-fold, and her arousal. She felt her clitoris swell into a rigid bump. “Stay like that.” He took off his gloves, then slipped to the floor and onto one knee. Something made of metal was in one of his hands.

  The weird cone-shaped thing.

  “Sir!” she squeaked but still didn’t move, because he’d grasped one knee and held her then he dipped his head between her thighs and licked her there.

  Melting, she slipped back onto the seat, sighed. He kept at her and soon she was suppressing moans. Making noises might alert the driver to what was happening, and she mustn’t do that.

  Squirming, grinding lightly at his tongue and mouth as he teased her and tormented her, she was more than ready. Ready for anything, so long as he let her climax.

  She groan-whimpered when he began to push the thing into her. He’d chosen the larger one, but it seemed to fit. She was so eager he could probably put anything in her and she’d welcome it. The bastard man had teased her thoroughly.

  She clutched at the waves of his hair, felt the burr of his chin hairs scratch her thighs and yet cared not at all.

  The licking, the penetration by something that big and heavy, something that stretched her more and more until the narrow part was inside her, it flooded her senses. Her walls tried to clasp the metal, but it was too large, too unyielding.

  He commenced a devoted clitoral campaign, as if he were a general who simply must conquer the enemy. Willa was not complaining. She wriggled her fingers deeper into his locks. She was nudging the heavens, climbing, sure the choked noises she made must be heard outside but no longer able to stop.

  Her muscles rhythmically stiffened, relaxed, stiffened as she strained. So close. Her head thumped back onto the seat padding.

  Almost there. Almost.

  Her humping at his mouth was limited, for he growled at her when she became too vigorous, and still he licked and probed her. Pulling that in and out. Each shove inside reawakened her.

  Again, she shuddered and rose inches from the seat. Perhaps he sensed her nearness, read her. Knew. Sherlock licked her again magnificently, slowly, then enveloped her nub with his lips, then sucked and licked again.

  She cried out, dissolving into the glorious spasms of a climax. Held in that mindless abyss.

  Panting, she was distraught as he kept at her and devoted his tongue and mouth to dragging more climaxes from her that wrung out her body and made her into a wrecked and disturbed puddle of a woman.

  “Oh. Oh. Oh. No more.” She shook her head, blinded, for her eyes were shut.

  Languidly his tongue flicked over her nub, and she groaned and twitched into a final orgasm.

  “No. No more. Please. Please.” She tried to close her legs. Her limp hands fell from his hair to her sides. Done, she was so done.

  Sherlock raised his head. After another moment, he plucked the metal cone from her, then slipped back onto his seat.

  Through bleary eyes, through a minute of struggling to grab a useful breath, her chest heaving, she watched him. He studied her. The man looked pleased. Once he’d wiped the steel cone and his fingers clean, Sherlock pulled on his gloves and adjusted each finger.

  “The shop is here.”

  “What?” Wildly, she looked about.

  “We have arrived at Law’s Emporium. I
am reliably informed they stock some unusual items if those are requested using the correct terms. I shall be doing so. Adjust your dress.”

  Hastily, she yanked down the skirt to cover herself. She was barely done with dabbing her handkerchief on her face and rearranging her hair, when he rose from his seat and flung open the door.

  Law’s Emporium was a very snobbish, upmarket store, with a frontage that suggested the rich were welcome, not so much the middle class. Parasols and primping, pretty ballgowns and men and women with tape measures and backs so straight they could be used for carpentry. She pursed her lips at the prudery and wondered how on earth Sherlock thought this place sold anything… unusual.

  Flanked by him, she wandered in and found herself whirled into a back room to be stripped and measured, in every aspect, by a male tailor who seemed to get as much amusement from her horror as Sherlock did. He sat in an armchair, of course, idly lifting a brow and asking for various places such as her throat to be measured, or her backside.

  It appeared a fantasy shop though, for there was nothing to be seen that was out of the ordinary. She left no further enlightened as to what was being ordered, apart from two dresses and some more fashionable and risqué clothing similar to her so-called pirate dress. One garment had a ribbon-fastened bodice and revealed a great deal of cleavage. It was a pretty green-and-black ensemble, with boots that buckled and a matching belt.

  Mister Holmes had obviously changed his opinion of such clothing.

  Having a man buy for her again was curious and even exciting.

  She enjoyed letting Sherlock Holmes do things for her, even if he had been as passionate as a sleepy badger. On second thoughts, letting might be the wrong word.

  Dusk was coming with the hour.

  Content in some soul-deep way to travel back to her room at the Iron Oak without any conversation, she sat next to the man, dreaming of the past day and of what might be in the future, when they drove past a battle.

  Well, it was an ex-battle according to Sherlock.

  She peered out the window at two demolished houses and a rubble-strewn footpath. Men were sweeping up the bits and pieces or staring at the houses with bundles of paper in hand. A few soldiers stood on a corner, as if not sure what they were guarding.