The Spy Who Spanked Me

THE SPY WHO SPANKED ME Doreen DeSalvo ® www.loose-id.com Warning This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and a...

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THE SPY WHO SPANKED ME Doreen DeSalvo

® www.loose-id.com

Warning This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. Loose Id® e-books are for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

The Spy Who Spanked Me Doreen DeSalvo This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either 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.

Published by Loose Id LLC 1802 N Carson Street, Suite 212-2924 Carson City NV 89701-1215 www.loose-id.com

Copyright © December 2007 by Doreen DeSalvo All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced or shared in any form, including, but not limited to printing, photocopying, faxing, or emailing without prior written permission from Loose Id LLC.

ISBN 978-1-59632-558-6 Available in Adobe PDF, HTML, MobiPocket, and MS Reader

Printed in the United States of America

Editor: Maryam Salim Cover Artist: Marci Gass

Dedication For all the friends of Lois and Anne… May you find bliss!

Chapter One

The gentleman did nothing in particular to distinguish himself, but Tasha found her gaze arrested by him nonetheless. Certainly tall, brown-haired gentlemen in somber evening clothes were a ha’penny a dozen at King’s Theatre, but this man would draw her eye in any crowd. Not exactly handsome, not with those arched black brows and slightly crooked nose. Still, he looked as regal as a lord, standing proudly behind a buxom lady with an elaborate coiffure. Purple feathers adorned her bonnet, the frothy concoction all but obscuring his firm chin. A military man? Probably not, although he did have the bearing of an officer, with his shoulders back and his chest thrust proudly forward. In the chattering, whirling crowd leaving the theatre, this man stood apart like an obelisk. His stance was both proprietary and defiant, hawkish features seeming to challenge anyone who dared encroach upon his property. Property? Ah, he must be the woman’s protector. The feathers fluttered away, and his stark blue eyes locked on Tasha. Goodness, what a riveting look. She nearly put a hand to her chest in shock. Did he know her for a thief? Those piercing eyes seemed to peer into the deepest secrets of her soul.

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Almost, she almost turned to run. But then his gaze slid away as though he hadn’t noticed her at all. He inclined his head slightly to the right, no doubt acknowledging a passing acquaintance in the crowd. The frothy ivory cravat at his throat seemed incongruous, a touch of civility on a man more predatory than polite. When he smiled, the flash of even white teeth reminded her of the lion she’d seen at Astleys, restless animal energy threatening from behind the bars of its iron cage. She could easily imagine him snarling deep in his throat like that great jungle cat. A sudden image of him growling against her bared breast made her knees go weak. When he raised a long-fingered hand to lift the brim of his hat…oh yes, she pictured those masculine fingers on her belly, sliding teasingly lower… Mouth suddenly dry, Tasha swallowed. The warm, stifling air could not be blamed for the prickling flush of heat on the back of her neck. Bouncing feather fronds obscured his face again, and Tasha leaned to the side to keep his face in view. From this angle, only his mouth and jaw were visible. She glared at the giggling courtesan. Silly widgeon. Ridiculous to envy a woman who earned her bread on her back, but sharing her handsome protector’s bed could be no hardship. Watching his expressive mouth quirk at some private joke, Tasha sighed. ’Twould be a rare pleasure to lie with a man so confident and quixotic. It had been long, far too long, since she’d bedded down with a man…and longer still since one had cared to make the experience a pleasure for her. Another gentleman approached, a thin-shouldered, thin-lipped dandy with a purple waistcoat to match the harlot’s bonnet. As the dark gentleman stepped back, the newcomer took the courtesan’s arm. Ah, this was the feathered widgeon’s protector. The hawkish man melted away as though he’d never been near, moving back until he stood next to a circle of young bucks. As Tasha stared, he somehow transformed into a gentleman of the sporting set. Despite the wings of gray hair marking his temples, he gave himself a much more youthful air, his shoulders slanting in a casual pose, one hip slightly higher than the other. An

The Spy Who Spanked Me

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insouciant smile curved his full lips, and his stormy blue eyes narrowed in sarcastic delight as though he’d been privy to the jest that had set the others chortling. Tasha didn’t know him, but she recognized a person trying to blend in where he didn’t belong. A kindred spirit. But oh, this man was a master of the art. She could learn much from observing a chameleon of his caliber. She slowly worked her way in a circle around him, keeping her distance, watching him transform time and again. Now a country squire, somehow appearing portly despite his impeccably flat torso; now a weary veteran, shoulders stooped, expression blank, eyes hollow. Never quite handsome, but always fascinating. She could scarce look away. He moved through the crowd until he’d scoured the entire throng, subtly altering his posture and demeanor to blend in with different groups. And then, with an expression of pure annoyance, he left through a narrow side door that led to the alley behind the theatre. Somehow she knew that fierce scowl, that flash of anger, was the only truth of the evening. The real man behind the mask of an actor. Without conscious thought, Tasha followed him. She pushed through the crowd with a single purpose until she reached the door, shoving it open with a creak all but drowned by the chattering voices behind her. She glanced to the left and squinted. Even though the sun hadn’t quite set, the London air at dusk was gloomy from the smoke of thousands of cooking fires. A horse whinnied, stamping one restless foot behind a cart that blocked the alleyway, but nothing moved. She looked right. Ah, there he was, turning the corner at the end of the alley. She rushed after him, her sturdy shoes clopping softly on the paving stones, careful not to step in wet patches left from the afternoon’s rain. By the time she reached the crossing street, her calves ached from straining to keep her balance as she ran over the slippery pavement. She slowed and eased her way around the corner. Would he see her? She could pretend to be a doxy or go in the other direction to evade him completely.

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The thought of abandoning her pursuit gave her a pang of unease, and she’d learned to never question her intuition. She had no intention of letting him slip away into the dusk, never to be seen again. His long strides had already taken him down the street to the outer corner of the square. If she got too close, he’d hear her. Would he call the Watch? No matter. She hadn’t pocketed much from the nobs tonight, so he would have no reason to suspect her. Perhaps he’d think her a trollop and proposition her. Perhaps she would accept. Good heavens, that thought shouldn’t make her breath catch. More likely he’d demand an explanation, and what could she say? “You fascinate me?” He’d think her fit for Bedlam. No, she’d remain hidden tonight. Find his lodgings, then think of a way to contrive a meeting tomorrow. If she crossed the way, he’d be less likely to notice her following. She dashed across the street, weaving her way between the standing carriages waiting to receive well-heeled theatre goers, keeping one eye on the gentleman on the opposite side. Clear of the carriages at last, Tasha rushed down the street, lungs burning, until he was only thirty or so feet ahead of her. Then she slowed her pace. At that moment, he glanced to the side and saw her. Did her step falter for an instant? She hoped not. She kept her head high and clutched her reticule a bit closer, like a governess or housekeeper who’d been out later than expected and now hurried to reach home safely. She’d never pass for a lady, not in her serviceable wool coat, and definitely not walking alone on a darkening street. Was he as adept at recognizing imposters as he was at being one? She didn’t dare look in his direction to see if he stared at her. From the corner of her eye, she saw him move away, crossing through the park that bounded the nicest residences of St. Mary-le-Bourne. The soft grass of the park would deaden her footfalls, and she could


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circle around to the mews and pretend to enter a house from the back, as a servant would. When she saw him next, she’d be dressed in her finest. He’d have no reason to suspect her of being the servant who’d followed him tonight. She dashed across the street and crept into the center of the square. Where was he? Scanning frantically, she heard a metallic thunk. A lock turning? There, across the deserted park, a rectangle of light shone from the open doorway of a stately green house. The silhouette of a tall, hatted man appeared for an instant, then disappeared as the door closed. That must be his home. It was nearly full dark now, the moon weak behind a haze of soot and fog. Bold as brass, she strolled across the park toward the house. The curtains were all the same somber dark blue. No woman would decorate every room the same. A bachelor. Better and better. She squinted at the walnut door. Number 8. Tasha turned away. Better hurry to her lodging house before it grew too late to move safely through the city streets. Number 8 Clarges Street would still be here in the morning. She’d follow him tomorrow and learn what tricks she could…and perhaps contrive to meet him in the bargain.

***** Damned filthy city. With a gloved forefinger, Marcus carefully wiped the stinging speck of grit from his eye. Yet another reason to hate London, as if he needed one. It wasn’t enough that the city reeked with the stench of overripe fruit, horse dung, and burnt coal, or that the streets were littered with mud and muck. No, even the air was polluted with filth. Carriage wheels ground dirt into a fine powder that rose from the heavy hooves of passing horses, billowing

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up in gray clouds. Particles of soot and grime wafted down from chimney flues, a constant annoyance and potentially blinding hazard. The whole blasted city was a cesspool. He continued his stroll along the south side of the park, swinging his cane casually, just an idle fribble on his way to some gentlemanly pursuit. No one worth particular notice. An elderly lady in a violet cape moved slowly toward him, her gait uneven. Two steps behind, a gray-bonneted maid with deep lines etched in her tired gray face followed, her arms weighted with packages. He smiled politely as he passed, but they ignored him. Excellent. A gentleman alone was not the usual sight at this hour, but there was nothing to be done about that. His business allowed for no assistance. If anyone knew him, remembered him, Marcus would have to kill the unfortunate soul. His own survival depended on being unremarkable. As soon as he reached the theatre, he’d attach himself to a group. Far easier to go unnoticed in a crowd. At the bottom of the square he turned left onto Bailey Street, shifting his gaze to unobtrusively look behind. A habit, nothing more, but the dark-haired lady in the brown wool coat ambling in his direction through the square looked a bit familiar. Had she been at the theatre last evening? He sifted through the evening’s memories, but nothing surfaced. He’d paid scant attention to the ladies. The only faces etched in his brain were those of the men. But one lone female had been behind him on the street as he’d walked home, just before he’d reached the park. Had there been a similarity to this one? Difficult to tell from this distance. Certainly the neighborhood had its share of governesses and upper servants, and she could be newly in service to one of his neighbors. Most likely nothing of consequence, but he’d keep her presence in mind. At the end of the block, the sheltering trees to his right ended, and the setting sun shone full in his eyes. Marcus squinted, tilting his head forward until the brim of his hat shielded his eyes a bit. He turned slightly, as though avoiding the sun. The woman had stopped at the fruit peddler’s stand, inspecting an orange. Her fingers were so small, she


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could barely circle the fruit. As he watched, her free hand slipped into the pocket of the short man next to her for an instant, then out again -- a quick flash of movement. Ah. A pickpocket. No concern of his, at least. Now that he saw her in profile, he did recognize her from the theatre. She’d worn a more serviceable bonnet but the same chestnut brown cloak, looking around impatiently as though waiting for her escort to summon a hackney cab. The crowd had been thick and rowdy with drink; no doubt she’d done good business last night. At least one of them had. Mayhap he’d have better luck tonight. With his mission completed, he could collect his hefty fee and retire to the country for a few months. Perhaps longer. If his handlers at the War Office released him… Ah, there was a fitting fantasy. Freedom. He’d sell the Town house and leave this miserable, filthy city for good. Purchase a small farm or a seaside cottage and spend his days taking long, idle walks through serene pastures, perhaps with a dog at his heels…while away the nights with a buxom maid or obliging widow, or more simply with a calming cheroot and glass of Madeira before a crackling fire. The vision made him grin. How Stubbs would snicker to see “the fancy gent” in bucolic splendor. Not that a lackey like Stubbs would ever know. If the War Office released him, he’d disappear without a word to Stubbs or anyone else. He had little contact with the Secretary of War, who preferred to have Stubbs pass along his encrypted orders. A fortnight ago, he’d sent back a carefully polite message asking for a reprieve, but the Secretary had ignored him. No doubt the King thought his services too valuable to do without. Even so, they would both owe him dearly if he took care of the current inconvenience. Perhaps they’d be grateful enough to relieve him of duty. No sense in planning for that idyllic future quite yet. First he had to find the bothersome man.

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The pavement grew crowded as he neared the theatre, and Marcus slowed his steps to keep in tandem with those around him. Hurrying would only make him appear suspicious. Better to go slowly and search the crowd before entering the theatre. Once inside, he’d be far easier to corner when the deed was done. He swept the people in front of him with a methodical glance, ignoring any women and slender men. Only the portly gentlemen were worthy of interest. That one? No, too tall. He wanted a short and stout man, with sandy hair and flat gray eyes. Ten feet ahead, one man seemed to fit the description. Gaze focused on him, Marcus increased his steps by small degrees, passing those around him without hurrying, smiling amiably despite the excitement thrumming through his veins. When the man turned to cross the street, Marcus felt his heart leap. Yes! At last. Could he catch his quarry before entering the theatre? His own escape would be easier out of doors. He didn’t dare run, but he stepped quickly between the carriages glutting the street, barely conscious of his surroundings. All attention stayed focused on his quarry, the fox in his personal hunt. When a horse snuffled at his elbow, he drew in his arm without glancing at the creature. The man stopped a few steps outside the foyer, hand cupped to his mouth. Lighting a slim cheroot. Oh, excellent. Marcus slowed his pace, reaching under his lapel to retrieve the silver case that held his own smokes. The closer he got to his quarry, the more the urge to strike welled up in his breast, an instinct born of years in the army. Kill or be killed, and he had no wish to die. Patience came hard to men like him. He smiled down into the fox’s ruddy, moon-shaped face and held out a cheroot in his left hand, careful to keep his distance. No threat here. Let your guard down, if you have one. “My pardon, sir. May I trouble you for a light? My tinderbox seems to have gone missing.”


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The man grunted and gave a nod, then clamped his own cheroot between his fleshy lips and fumbled through the pockets of his waistcoat. “Probably a cutpurse. The City’s full of the buggers.” Marcus managed not to raise a brow at the crudity. “Indeed.” To keep the man’s gaze occupied, he waggled his cheroot a little. His other hand stole into his pocket, fingers curling around the handle of the slender blade inside. With a scrape and a flare of light, his quarry held out a flame. Marcus bent forward, cheroot held steady in one hand -- and struck with a quick, unflinching blow to the chest. His blade scraped a rib on the way in, stalling. He shoved harder, higher, staring into the man’s eyes, watching for the death blow, pressing his fist hard against his chest and forcing the blade back and forth. A gasping breath of onions hit him full in the face. The horrid stench made him scowl. Must have pierced a lung, which explained why the man wasn’t screaming -- and why his death was taking so damned long. With a turn of the wrist, Marcus pushed the knife to the left. There, the eyes were going glassy. His blade had found the heart. The quarry gurgled once, then fell silent and still. With one strong hand, he held the man upright and eased him back against the short window ledge, propping him there to be found in a few moments. With a swift motion, he withdrew the blade and slipped it into his pocket, drawing the man’s greatcoat over the wound. Then he turned to make his escape. And saw the woman in brown, staring with wide, horrified eyes.

Damn and blast it. He rushed to her side. “What’s the matter, dearest? Are you growing faint?”

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Before she could answer, he wrapped an unyielding forearm around her neck, simulating an embrace but applying steady pressure. Slender fingers came up to pull at his forearm, but the lack of air had already weakened her. He bent low to whisper in her ear. “Stay quiet or die.” Incongruous to notice how soft her hair felt against his cheek. The euphoria of the kill, the danger of being seen, had set his blood pounding. Even his manhood was half hard, and the soft female body leaning against him only increased his excitement. Her head moved in a little nod, but she made no sound. He eased his grip a fraction. How could he get her away? Dragging a woman was bound to cause a stir. A shout came from his left -- the dead man had been found already. “Call the watch!” Damn. He pressed a little harder on the tender throat under his arm, carefully cutting off her breathing. When she went limp, he picked her up in both arms. “Make way! My wife has fainted.” The people surging toward the theatre parted grudgingly, their eager eyes fixed on the dead man. No one offered to assist him, thank the devil. He carried the witness down a dark street, pausing for a moment to find the small vial in his pocket. He shifted her weight until he could open the bottle, then waved it under her nose for a few seconds. There. She’d be unconscious for a half hour at least. Hefting her body over one shoulder, he turned toward Seven Dials. No one would question a doxy found dead in the stews. But first he’d find out exactly who she was…and more importantly, who had sent her to spy on him.


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Chapter Two

Her mouth tasted like ashes, dry and bitter. A gritty film glued her tongue to her palate. When she coughed her throat burned, and moisture stung her eyes. She reached to wipe the tears away, but her hand was stuck. Frozen. Tied? Tasha opened her eyes to a grimy, water-stained ceiling, gray with dirt and splotched with browning patches of mold. She struggled reflexively, but neither hand nor leg could move. Oh, lord -- she was tied to a bed! Over the hammering of her heart, she heard the creak of wood. Suddenly a man loomed over her, his face and hair covered with a hooded black silk domino. Only his lips and chin were exposed. “Are you thirsty?” She’d never heard the voice before, but those sensual lips were easy to recognize. The chameleon. The murderer. What did he mean to do with her? “What --” The words would not come. Only a dry grumble left her mouth. “Water?” He said the word slowly, as though she was a simpleton. Water sounded like ambrosia. She nodded. A clink of glass, then he leaned over her and held a small cup to her mouth. “Sip slowly.”

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The rim of the cup was cold, and a small chip felt rough against her lips. A dribble of wetness splashed into her mouth, and she gratefully swallowed. After he lifted the cup away, he gently dabbed her mouth with a handkerchief. The chivalry nearly made her laugh. He’d wiped her mouth before killing her? Why hadn’t he killed her already? She licked her parched lips. “What do you want from me?” Her voice came out a bit hoarse, but understandable. The mattress dipped when he sat next to her. “Some answers.” She had nothing to tell him. Would he torture her to get knowledge she didn’t possess?

Please, let me go. No. Better to show defiance. “Release me or I’ll scream.” His lips thinned. “You won’t be pleased with the results.” Like lightning, he wrapped a hand around the front of her throat. She swallowed convulsively, but he didn’t press hard. Not yet. No, his long fingers stroked her neck softly, an absurdly gentle caress considering she’d seen him kill a man with this very hand. “If you scream, no one will come to help.” Probably true. From the look of the ceiling, she wasn’t in the best neighborhood. Residents of the stews were too concerned with their own troubles to get involved with a stranger’s. And who knew how long she’d been unconscious? If he’d brought her outside the city to a deserted area, screaming would only lessen her strength. And he could silence her screams forever with a quick press of his hand. She wouldn’t go calmly to her death, but at present there was nothing she could do to prevent it. Perhaps she could persuade him to release her somehow. Cooperate? “I won’t scream.” “A wise decision.” His fingers slid down the side of her throat and off, planting themselves on the bed as he leaned closer, his simmering blue eyes barely a foot over hers. “Who are you?”


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No reason to lie. “Tasha.” One side of his thin mouth quirked up. “You’re Russian?” She nodded. “Oh, come now. You sound as English as I.” When she shrugged, the ties pulled tight, causing her to wince. “I have a gift for accents, but my parents were thoroughly Russian.” He’d get no more of her history. The sordid facts would only make him kill her more painfully. Her heart shuddered, but the truth was plain -- he couldn’t allow a witness to live. But then why wear the mask? If he was going to kill her, he had no reason to hide his face. “Why didn’t you kill me?” He planned to do so soon enough -- she saw the cool acknowledgement of it in his eyes. “I ask the questions, Tasha.” He said her name after a brief pause, reinforcing that he thought it was a false moniker. “What were you doing at the theatre?” “I enjoy music.” He grinned, then leaned over her. Lord, was he going to kiss her? His mouth hovered over hers for a long, silent moment. She resisted the urge to lick her lips, a nervous habit her governess had never drilled out of her completely. He pulled back and held up one hand to show her a silver card case and a thin leather purse. He looked at the case as he turned it over in one hand. “A rather masculine accessory for a lady. And you really should have destroyed the calling cards after you nicked it. The contents declare the owner a Mr. Harold Turner. Somehow I doubt that’s your real name.” How cruel, to toy with her while she lay helpless. “Call the watch, then, and report me as a thief.” Surprisingly, he chuckled. “You’d willingly go to the gallows? Thievery is a hanging offense.” When she shrugged, the ties bit into her wrists. “I’ll die either way. At least the hangman would be quick about it.”

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“Perhaps.” A slow tickling graze rose from her ankle to her knee, fingernails on bare skin. Bare skin? Yes, it seemed she wore nothing but her shift, though she couldn’t lift her head to look. The thought of him removing her stockings while she lay helpless sent a shiver up her spine. “Perhaps I have other plans for you, Tasha.” Did he think to frighten her? She’d fought off more burly men, but none had tied her beforehand. This man had rendered her helpless. Her heart knocked against her ribs. Would he take her by force? Her legs were spread wide, and his threatening hand moved up and down the inside of her calf, rising a scant inch higher on each stroke, those scratching fingernails leaving a tingling trail of fire in their wake. “Do you know what I could do to you, pretty Tasha?” She could only imagine. But her parents had met their grisly end without pleading for mercy, and she would make them proud in death. “Do what you will, sir. I won’t amuse you by begging for mercy.” His lips quirked. “Naming me ‘sir’ has definitely amused me. Appearances to the contrary, we both know I am anything but a gentleman.” Then he grew serious, and his nails scratched deep, dragging slowly up the tender flesh of her thigh and pausing threateningly an inch or two from her quim. Her pelvic muscles quivered as he traced a tantalizing circle with one scraping nail. “I ask again, Tasha, what were you doing at the theatre?” The urge to writhe away from his hand was strong, but with the ties so tight, the gesture would be futile. “You already know. I was thieving.” “A convenient story.” His fingers drifted up over her private hair, lifting her shift in a tickling trail above her thighs. His eyes glittered as they looked down at her. “What a lovely bush you have, dusha.”


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Hearing Russian on his lips was more startling than his baring her privities. “I know you were following me, so you needn’t answer that question.” He curled a bit of her private hair around a finger, tugging gently. “Who sent you?” Her heart hammered at having the hand of a murderer so close to her sex. The little sting of having her hair pulled seemed to focus all sensation on her tender quim. “No one sent me.” Her voice shook so badly, he’d never believe her. His hand lifted overhead, and she braced for a blow to her face. The harsh slap on her inner thigh startled her into a cry. Heat pooled low in her belly, a sharp flicker of desire. Blood thundered in her ears. “Who?” he demanded. She opened her eyes and saw his hand poised for another strike. Without conscious thought, her legs shifted, inviting another blow on her tender inner thigh. “No one.” His hand fell on her quim this time, a stinging slap that had her hips lifting. The pain burned through her private parts, igniting needs long buried like a torch set to rushes. She closed her eyes and whimpered, her cheeks burning at the unmitigated need flooding her. Better he think her in pain than see her shocking arousal. How could she rise to passion with death so near at hand? She’d nearly been killed in The Terror, had spent days hidden in a hedgerow from an angry mob. It had been far from arousing. Being alone with this man, rendered helpless, at his mercy…something about the situation stirred her passions deeply. He might kill her at any moment, yes…and somehow the thrill of it fired her passion. Oh, she was a wicked woman to enjoy this torment. When she opened her eyes, the stranger was staring deeply into her face. After a long moment, he left the bed. Was he abandoning her, tied like this? No, the sound of fumbling came from across the room -- clothes rustling, then the scrape of a chair. When he returned, he held up a shriveled skein. A French letter. Without a word, he dropped it into the glass of water in his other hand.

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So he planned to ravish her before she died. Her throat went dry. Although she’d fought off a man who’d tried to take her by force, the thought of this handsome stranger using her body made her heart leap. His air of control, of sensual mastery, told her he’d take great pride in making her spend before he took his own pleasure. He moved to the side of the bed and raised long fingers to his shirt buttons. Disrobing. He stripped off his waistcoat and shirt, then peeled down his breeches in one smooth motion. Her mouth went dry at the sight of those broad shoulders. Even in his smallclothes, he was a threatening sight. In a bare instant he stood naked, his bronzed chest covered with a thick pelt of black hair arrowing down his torso. His member jutted tautly against his muscular belly, thickened with lust and longer than any she’d ever seen. For a gentleman who must be nearing forty, he had a tremendous physique. No man had ever displayed himself so proudly for her before. And yet he still wore the mask. Why protect his identity if he planned to kill her? Perhaps he merely threatened to do so…perhaps he would use her, question her, and set her free. Tasha squeezed her eyes shut. No sane woman would look at a murderer with lust in her heart. No sane woman would anticipate her own ravishment. She’d best think of escape, not passion. If she persuaded him to untie her, maybe she could find a way to escape when he was in the throes of lust. She could use the mug as a weapon. Yes, she’d have to convince him to untie at least one hand. But how? When the mattress dipped, she opened her eyes. He knelt on the bed, towering over her with his engorged member less than a foot away from her breasts. His gaze seemed fixed on her midsection. “How shall I spend the half hour before the French letter is ready?”


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His idle tone required no answer. Long fingers trailed down her neck to her breasts. The tight pinch on one nipple drew a groan from her throat. His touch burned even through the fabric of her shift. “Why did you follow me, Tasha?” “I…” With his fingertips rolling her nipple ’twas difficult to think. “I wasn’t following you.” He released her nipple, only to scratch over it with a fingernail. Her shift did nothing to dull the sharp flick. She shuddered, involuntarily lifting her chest -- or trying to. He had her tied too tightly to move. “Still no answer?” He scratched the other nipple, and she whimpered. “Don’t lie to me. I can make this painful or pleasant, you know.” His head dipped, mouth suckling at her breast, wetting her shift. With his chin, he pushed the fabric down to bare one aching breast, and an ardent tongue circled the nipple he’d abused. The soft caress felt unbearably arousing after his punishing scrapes. “You see?” The rumbling murmur made her skin come alive. “Let me give you pleasure, Tasha. Tell me the truth.” Did he not realize that his slaps and pinches excited her? “I wanted to observe you.” A hand stroked her naked breast, molding the sensitive flesh. When his lips suckled gently on her nipple, she moaned aloud.

Bite me. She dared not say it. He lifted his head, and the fingers on her breast gave a threatening squeeze. “For whom do you work?” What on Earth did he mean? “I have no employer.” A hard pinch on her nipple sent a zing of pleasure to her quim. Her chest lifted with shallow pants, drawing his tormenting fingers closer. “Don’t make me hurt you, sweeting. I’ll do a good job of it, and no doubt hate myself for it on the morrow.”

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A murderer who teased his victims. And yet his nearness, his nakedness, had her panting. His biceps were easily twice the width of her own puny arms. She wasn’t a small woman, but he made her feel delicate and vulnerable. “I work alone.” He freed her breast and held a long blade in front of her face. “I’m not a patient man. Tell me now and death will come more easily to you. Perhaps I won’t even fuck you first.” The rogue grinned at her, teeth flashing in the dim light. “Unless you ask me politely to do so. I never disappoint a willing woman.” How could his threats cause such unbearable throbbing between her legs? “There is nothing more to tell.” He turned the blade from side to side, and a flash of light glittered along the edge. “You invite a painful death.” Would a lie satisfy him? No, if she lied, he’d kill her for certain. He seemed far too perceptive; he’d see through subterfuge. But truthfulness might cause him to lower his guard. Perhaps she could even convince him she welcomed his ravishment. She tried to give him a smile. “I have no reason to lie.” The blade lowered to her chest, colder than ice between her breasts. Her skin quivered under the chilling metal. She closed her eyes tight, gritting her teeth against the pain that was sure to follow. “Shall I give you a reason?” Rending fabric pierced the silence. Goodness, he’d cut off her shift, baring her breasts. Her nipples drew tight in the cool air. The icy blade slid up one breast and scraped across the bare nipple, spreading fear and shivers in its wake. Tears formed in her eyes, yet she had to bite her lip to stave off a moan. Little shudders followed the knife down her belly to her quim. The stroking edge of the blade over her private hair made a faint scratching noise in the silence of the room. When would the knife slice? Where? She held her breath, trembling.


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A hard clamp on her breast caused a cry. “Oh!” His mouth was on her, biting deep enough to bruise, his firm tongue lashing her aching nipple back and forth. Sanity shattered as throbbing heat pooled in her sex. The sensual pain was exquisite, a gnawing, burning pleasure. If he touched her quim for an instant, she would surely explode.

Please, please, touch me there. Suddenly the fire was gone, her breast freed. When his head lifted, she whimpered at the loss. Blue eyes stared deeply into hers. “I can make it hurt even worse, Tasha.” Her cheeks flushed with heat. Thank heaven he didn’t realize she enjoyed the pain. He’d torture her for certain. He lifted the knife again, stroking her cheek with the cool, flat side of the blade. “I could cut your tender skin…” His gaze wandered down her body, as though tracing the path his knife would take. “I can slice you to shreds and leave you conscious for a brutal fucking.” Brutal? His torment so far had given her pain and delight in equal measure. One hand slid along her side, thumb playing in her bellybutton like a lover would do. “I know how to be brutal, Tasha. And you’re so lovely, I feel inspired to go at you all night.” His eyes pierced through the slits of the mask, narrowed in threat. “But if by chance I tire, I’ll call in a dozen men to take you before you die.” She’d beg before it came to that. Beg, scream, fight in whatever way she could. Pride be damned. Fear clogged her throat, but she forced out a word. “No.” His fingers touched her cheek, so warm where the blade had been icy. “Don’t make me torture this delectable body of yours. Tell me what I need to know.” “There…” Her breath caught. His vivid eyes and tight lips scattered her thoughts. “There is no more to tell.” His mouth tightened with displeasure. When he rose to his knees, the bed sagged under her head, tilting her face to one side. His member bobbed before her eyes.

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“If you won’t speak, I’ll find another use for your mouth.” Would he -Suddenly his lips fell upon hers, kissing her with fierce pressure, forcing her mouth open for the hard thrust of his questing tongue. She closed her eyes and returned his kiss, using her tongue to duel with his, returning every ounce of his passion. If she pleased him, he’d untie her. He’d want to feel her hands playing on his body, her legs wrapped over his when he took her. He nipped at her lips, tenderly bruising her flesh with his sharp teeth. Oh, how she wanted to pull him closer, force his mouth against hers. She could only moan, encouraging him with sound. Suddenly his lips were gone. She opened her eyes in time to see him raise the knife high, poised to strike. Her heart pounded. “Who sent you, Tasha? I will not ask you again.” With passion clouding her mind, she couldn’t formulate a reply. She shook her head, and the blade glittered in his hand. The knife fell to the bed. She braced, but he’d dropped it next to her it seemed. His hand descended, slapping her hard across one breast. She nearly screamed with the surprise, the jolt of pleasure. Then hot moisture surrounded her breast -- his mouth again. Teeth scraped over her nipple, then captured it with shards of pain. He bit delicately, rolling the aching point between his teeth. What a devil, to torment her with threats and passion by turns. He could do anything to her -- any perversion at all -- and she would be at his mercy. Powerless to stop him…and free to enjoy. He’d kill her when he was finished, but first she’d have her portion of pleasure from his torment. He released her nipple and bit the side of her breast, hard enough to bruise. The pain thrummed into her racing heart.


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“Tell me,” he muttered against the slope of her breast. “Who do you work for?” Would it be better to invent a name? Surely he’d know she lied. “No one.” Her voice shook. He raised his head and lifted one hand high above her. Oh, yes. When she arched a little, offering her breast to him, he frowned. “You enjoy this?” Her face burned with shame. Never would she admit such a thing. Being treated roughly by a man was her secret pleasure, a need she dare not indulge. Many men were brutish and uncaring. None would understand that though she craved roughness during bed sport, she would not accept harsh treatment in other ways. Men who weren’t brutish by nature would understand even less. Her mild-mannered husband had been horrified when she’d begged him to bite her, strike her, hurt her. The only true pleasure she’d had in his bed was the night he’d broken her maidenhead. The masked stranger slid a hand from her knee up to her quim, then delved into her body with his thumb. His eyes went wide, lips parted in surprise. “My god, you’re soaking wet.” No point in denying the truth he’d discovered. As he twisted his thumb deeper into her body, the remnants of sanity fled; her brain had long since clouded over with desire. If he killed her tonight, she might as well take what pleasure she could first. If she satisfied him well, perhaps he’d set her free. She tilted her head, trying to give him a coquettish glance but no doubt looking ridiculous. With a slow stroke, she licked her lips, and his gaze fell to her mouth. “Bite me,” she whispered. “Please bite me again.”

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Chapter Three

The shocking plea was the most enticing invitation Marcus had ever heard. Her voluptuous breasts quivered, framed by the frayed edges of the chemise he’d cut from her body. Mesmerized, he dropped his mouth and clamped one pointed nipple hard between his teeth. She squealed, a high pitched sound of feminine desire. Even through the mask covering his forehead, he felt her chin move as her head thrashed back and forth. Using his tongue, he tweaked her nipple, pressing the hard bit of flesh against the roof of his mouth, suckling with the instinctive fervor he’d always been forced to keep in check. Her moans set his blood on fire. Never had he thought to find a woman who enjoyed sensual torment of this kind. He bent his thumb, pressing hard against the wet wall of her quim, skewering her body as she writhed beneath him. “Yes!” she cried. “Oh, yes.” Blood thundered in his cock. He’d never ravished a woman, never dared to set free his inner beast, but here was a lady, tied and helpless, begging for the worst he could mete out. She had no idea how badly he could hurt her. Or did she?


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When he pulled his hand free from the sucking heat of her body, she whimpered. He rubbed gentle fingers through her wet flesh, teasing the petals of her sex apart until he uncovered the hard little nubbin of her pleasure. She gasped, setting her breasts jiggling. He captured one nipple hard between his teeth while his fingers pinched the tender bud between her legs. Could she really enjoy the pain? She moaned. “Harder, harder.” Good lord, she knew how to fire his blood. If she kept that up, he’d spend on the mattress. No, damn it. He’d have answers from her first. It took an act of willpower to pull away from her lush, warm body and leave the bed. Her breasts glistened with moisture from his tormenting mouth; her nipples were dark red and distended from his harsh suckling. He dared not look at her quim or he’d fall on her like a madman, without the benefit of the French letter. Her body was clean and sweet-smelling, but a strange thief like her was far too likely to harbor disease. A moment of lust was not worth a lifetime of eating mercury, even if she offered him the kind of passion he had only dreamed of before. She looked up at him with hooded eyes, but said nothing. As he watched, color rose in her face. Passionate, but far from a hardened whore. Woman enough to take her pleasure, but lady enough to blush at her wanton needs. God, she tempted him. If she licked her lips one more time, he’d force his cock between them. A tender pink tongue ran over her bottom lip, and red mist rose before his eyes. He was on his knees without conscious thought, crawling up the bed. Her dark eyes went wide, but she showed no fear. A lesser woman would have screamed her fool head off by now, forcing him to silence her, but Tasha, or whatever her true name was, held herself with little show of fear.

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With her exotic high cheekbones and slightly almond-shaped eyes, she might be Russian in truth. At this point, he little cared. The pounding blood in his groin commanded him, pulling him until he knelt beside her head. Her sable brown hair had completely slipped free of the pins, spreading across the dingy mattress like a swathe of the finest silk. Her gaze stayed riveted to his, despite the cock bouncing so close to her face. Unable to resist, he stroked her long hair back from her forehead. Soft as velvet. When she opened her mouth to speak, he brushed her silky lips with the head of his cock. A little gasp bathed his cockhead in moist heat. Then her tongue came out and delicately circled the head. An invitation that would drive an archbishop to sin, and he was no man of the cloth. He fell forward over her face, thrusting his cock between her pretty lips with all the finesse of a stevedore. Her moan vibrated around his cockhead, sending tingling heat through his aching flesh. He pounded her mouth with no restraint, shoving his cock deep into her throat, loving the slick heat of her tongue, the sharp nick of her molars. She suckled him ardently, yet a bit awkwardly, like a gently born lady trying her damnedest to please a randy new husband. The hesitant little murmurs that escaped her throat fired his blood. He braced himself on his forearms and swung his hips furiously, fucking her mouth hard and fast. His vision dimmed as he rushed blindly to culmination. When she pressed her lips down on his shaft, milking him, control shattered. He spurted into the sucking heat of her mouth, spending with deep wrenching shudders and wracking spasms, jerking his hips to wring the last drop of pleasure from her mouth, forcing his throbbing cock even deeper, heedless of the little choking noises she made as she tried valiantly to swallow his flood of seed. A deep groan left his throat as gratitude and release swamped his mind, lulling him to the state of bliss that only an exquisite sucking off could give him. Sucked off by a bound woman, a lady held captive by him…one of his darkest fantasies come to life.


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When he roused to full consciousness, he found himself sprawled on top of her face, his hips pressing her head into the bed, his cock limp within her mouth. Dear God, she must be suffocating. He pulled away, embarrassed at his lack of control. This shameful scene made him a ravisher, there was no doubt. Finding pleasure in a woman’s mouth was no novelty to him, but when the woman was tied and helpless, one could hardly call her a willing participant, no matter how prettily she’d licked at his cockhead. He forced himself to look at her face, expecting to see revulsion and horror on her exotic features. Instead, he saw eyes dark with passion, lips parted and moving rhythmically as she sought to catch her breath. Her delicate tongue flicked out, taking up the small trickle of seed that ran from the corner of her mouth. Damned if the sight didn’t cause his sated cock to lift in interest. A soft pink flush spread over her cheekbones. “I’ve never tasted a man’s seed before.” Her shy admission made his chest swell with possessive pride. He wanted to kiss her with a ferocity that terrified him. “You’ll taste a lot more before the night is out.” Her smile faded, and his spirits sank. Demme, he would not feel guilty for threatening her. Guilt? Bah. He’d sacrificed his conscience to duty years past. She met his gaze bravely. “I can’t stop you, sir. But I hope your seed will be the last I taste.” And then she gave him a tender little smile, as though inviting him to fuck her cunny until he was blind with satisfaction. No, damn it. Before she distracted him again, he wrapped his fingers around her delicate throat. She swallowed, a nervous movement he felt beneath his hand. Had her pretty throat moved like this when he’d fed her his seed? Another jolt in his groin. His cock was half hard already, and the realization made him scowl. “For the last time, tell me your name.”

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Now she looked frightened, her eyes glittering with unshed tears. Did she think him ready to kill her, now that he’d spent? “Natasha Petrova.” Could she be speaking the truth? “A Russian in London? Are you an agent?” Her dark eyebrows drew together. “An agent?” He’d never seen a better image of confusion, tinged with a bit of fear. If she was lying, she should be on the stage. “Are you a spy?” Her mouth dropped open in patent shock. “A spy? No, I’m a thief.” Her head tilted toward the bedstead, where he’d put the contents of her pockets. “You have proof of my thieving.” A convenient disguise for an agent. “How did you come to live in England? Russian émigrés are not exactly commonplace.” She glanced away -- a sign of lying? “After my parents died, I married an Englishman.”

Married? What kind of man sent a woman this beautiful to thieve for him? And even worse, a husband meant complications. Someone who’d look for her, who’d demand she tell him all the details of where she’d been all night. Demme, he’d have to kill her now. “Was your husband at the theatre tonight?” “No.” Again the little pink tongue licked her lower lip. “He’s dead.” Releasing her delicate throat, Marcus cupped her cheek and let his thumb rub away the trail of tears dripping from the corner of her eye. She still grieved, obviously. “When?” Devil take it, why did he care? “Seven years past.” She must have married the bugger quite young. She couldn’t be older than twenty-five, from the looks of her smooth skin. “Why were you following me?” “I…I saw you pretending to be…someone else, and I wanted to learn from you. You’re a fine actor. ’Tis a skill that would be useful in my trade.”


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Perhaps true. When people lied, they tended to make up a more reasonable excuse. I

was hoping to nick your purse or something similar. Tasha’s story was so outlandish, it was probably truth. Her eyes shimmered, and again he felt her throat move in a nervous swallow. “You can ask me all night. You can leave me tied here for other men to use and abuse until I starve to death. But I have no other answers to give you.” He’d never give her to another man. Not a lady like this, so brave in the face of her helplessness. ’Twould be a crime. Then again, he’d committed too many crimes to count. This sudden burst of sympathy would never do. Her pretty sucking mouth had addled his wits. Time to take command of her again, and he knew exactly how to do it. He forced his lips into a scowl. “Cry out again, and I’ll kill you on the instant. Do you understand?” Her mouth trembled, but she whispered, “Yes.” “No matter what I do, you are not to cry out.” She gave a tiny nod, uncertain now. Excellent. Her nervousness gave him a perverse thrill, a sense of power that excited him like nothing else. He could do anything to her, and she couldn’t stop him. He ran one hand down her side, following the lush curves of her voluptuous body, enjoying the tremors that shook under her soft skin. She could pass for a lady with that high forehead and those finely arched brows, but her figure was that of the most enticing whore. Her belly was milky white and soft, gently curving. A trace of fine blonde hairs swirled around her bellybutton, a feminine detail that made him smile. Quite the loveliest thief he’d ever bedded. When he reached her cunny, he combed through her luxuriant bush, letting his fingertips tangle in her sable curls.

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She whimpered, but her rapid breathing told of excitement. Did she truly enjoy the tug of pain? The thrill of being helpless? He’d never dared to hope a woman like this existed…a woman who matched his predilections, the light half to his dark soul. “No noise, Tasha. Not a cry, not a gasp, not a moan.” His voice was harsh, and her thighs went taut. Excellent. Her legs were spread wide enough for him to lie between them and prop his head on one hand. A woman’s sex had always been a thing of beauty to him, ever since the age of fourteen when an obliging dairymaid had taken him behind a hedgerow and wantonly displayed the charms between her legs for his eager young eyes. If Tasha’s hands were untied, he’d force her to use her own fingers upon her quim, stroking her flesh before his eager gaze as the dairymaid had that day so long ago, spreading the lips of her cunny open proudly to show him exactly how a girl was made. He could still picture her grubby fingertips disappearing into the mysterious hole that promised untold delight to a callow youth. When she’d giggled and suggested he have a taste, he’d buried his mouth between her skinny thighs and suckled at her like a lad starving, to their mutual delight. He’d feasted on many a cunny since that day, and he studied the beautiful one spread before him now. Delicate folds of flesh guarded her entrance, ridge after ridge of thick, swollen petals that opened like a flower, reddened in evidence of her passion. Her clitoris rose proudly at the top of her quim, long and distended, thrusting upward like a tiny feminine cock. With such a prominent bud, she must be a lusty bedmate indeed. No wonder she reveled in his perversions. He took a deep breath, loving the musky smell of her sex, anticipating the taste to come. Her thigh trembled beneath his hand, as though she dreaded his next move. Did she expect pain? To surprise her, he moved forward and gave her cunny a long, lascivious lick,


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running his tongue fully from stem to stern. Mmm. Sweet and savory, the most delicious cunny he’d ever tasted. “Oh!” Not quite a cry. She kept the sound to a whisper, but the shocked sound made him grin. Was he the first to lick her so? Ah, nothing so delectable as a quim that no man but he had tasted. Fortunately for her, he was an expert at this particular sport. His fingers dug hard into one thigh in silent warning. “No noise, Tasha. I won’t tell you again.” Her legs tensed, trying to draw closed, but she gave no answer. He studied her sex avidly, drawing out the tension. Her lips were thick and generous; should he nibble them first? Or thrust his tongue into her without preamble? But no, the little organ at the top of her sex demanded attention, thrusting proudly from her bush. When he planted a smacking kiss on that engorged bud, her hips lifted, straining closer, but she made not a sound. Excellent. Forbidding her from making noise would heighten the sensation, drive her passion even higher because she must hold it inside. He’d take her to the very brink, until she’d do anything for release, and then he’d demand his answers again. And he’d enjoy every step of the climb. Every lick. Using just the tip of his tongue, he tweaked her clitoris with a hard flick. She sucked in a deep breath. He gave her another long lick, sliding over her hole, probing a scant inch inside to tease her. How amazing was a woman’s body, that this little opening could take a man to the pinnacle of passion? That a child could spring forth from this small, mysterious hole? He licked around the edges of the entrance to her body for a long time, teasing little touches, until his cock grew stiff as an iron pike and her breaths came in hard gasps.

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Then he thrust fully inside, driving his tongue into her body the way he would soon drive his cock into this same hot cavern. Feminine muscles squeezed down on his tongue. God, she was tight. If not for the husband she’d mentioned, he’d think her a virgin. The thrill of having his mouth pressed to a succulent cunny set his cock throbbing. Her cream was like silk on his lips, and he suckled at her hole, drawing out her essence until he tasted her flavor deep in his throat. Tasha writhed on the bed, straining against her bonds, but she made not a sound. Brave

lady. Most women would have had hysterics long ago, but Tasha was clearly a survivor, a person who took any pleasure life handed her. A woman who reveled in the perversion of having a masked man nibble at her privities, even though she’d seen him drive a knife into another man’s heart less than an hour ago. A woman who thrilled in danger, just as he did. To reward her, he pulled her long bud between his lips and worried it with the tip of his tongue, whipping it back and forth in tender torment. When a little moan escaped her, he clamped down on her bud with his teeth, exerting a gentle warning. She cried out then, climaxing with unbelievable force. Her hips rocked as far as the restraints allowed; her thighs grew taut under his hands. Before he could release her clitoris, the motion of her hips gave it a little pull between his teeth, and she screamed fervently, the sound ringing in his ears. He pressed his mouth to her bud, suckling to prolong her pleasure, reluctant to separate himself from her luscious cunny. A passionate bedmate indeed, to spend so quickly. His own cock pounded with lust, yearning to find relief in the welcoming quim under his lips. Damnation. He was supposed to be the one in control. Satisfying the greedy wench was no way to force the truth from her.


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First he’d get those answers; then he’d fuck her into oblivion. Time to show her what kind of torment he could inflict on her if she resisted. He pulled away while her thighs were still trembling and knelt on the bed. Her eyes were closed tight, her face turned to the side, as though she feared meeting his gaze. Red blazed on her cheekbones. Passionate and shy -- a combination that would have him in thrall if he wasn’t careful. A flickering tallow candle stood on the bedstead, and he reached for it with one hand. Carefully, he lifted the holder and held the sputtering candle over her belly. Her skin trembled. So smooth and white, a faint trail of veins could be seen just under the surface. She looked more delicate than any pampered lady he’d ever lain with. ’Twould be a pity to mar such beauty. What the devil? He cared naught about marring her skin…only getting his answers. “Who sent you, Tasha?” She peeped up at him through long lashes, her eyes half closed in somnolent pleasure, or a good imitation of it. When she saw the candle, her eyes went wide. “No one.” Could she possibly be speaking the truth? No. He’d seen her following him last night plain as day, and again this evening. There were no coincidences on this mortal coil. Someone must have sent her, and before day broke he’d have the truth. He gritted his teeth and tipped the candle, dripping liquid wax beneath her breasts. She whimpered as the hot fluid pooled on her chest, her body arching in torment. No woman alive could stand up to such treatment. She’d tell all in a moment. Under the hardening wax, her chest lifted with shallow breaths. The shimmying of her full breasts caught his gaze, and he spoke to the lush, seductive mounds. “What is your name?” Her lip jutted out in defiance. “I’ve told you.”

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Damned foolish woman. He’d threatened her with a knife, spent in her pretty mouth, burned her with candle wax, and still she resisted. Stubborn, hard-headed…and so very beautiful. Something in her eyes -- a narrowing, a gleam of interest -- dared him to do his worst. Didn’t she realize what a man like him could do to her? He ran a hand down her torso, prying the cooling wax off her skin. A path of red marked her flesh, but no blisters or welts. Nothing permanent, but it must have stung like the devil. And still she resisted. Demme, would he have to hurt her seriously? He had no taste for torturing a woman in truth…only in bed play. He scratched his fingernails over her nipple, and she lifted her breasts into his hand, craving more. “You enjoy the pain, Tasha?” Her brow furrowed, as though she debated whether or not to lie. “You can see that I do.” He smiled, surprised to feel honest amusement. “I’ve barely begun. Certainly you enjoy these little nips of pain…” He pinched a nipple deliberately. “But I haven’t hurt you badly yet.” Under his knuckles, her heart thumped. Was that anticipation in her eyes, or his own wishful thinking? Perhaps he should enjoy the bed sport and get the answers later. To have a lady this beautiful at his mercy, and enjoying his torment -- he’d never dared indulge in such a thing, fearing to hurt an innocent with his rough play. But Tasha…some perversity in her being made her thrill at the pain. He could sense it. Or was it all a lie? Her climax had been real, but could any woman truly enjoy pain? Taking careful aim, he swung his arm with force, slapping the tender skin of her inner thigh. She gasped, then moaned softly. Impossible. She’d spent mere moments ago. Did she think him a fool? He gripped her chin firmly, forcing her to look at him. Her gaze was soft, coming slowly into focus on his face. There was no mistaking the signs of rekindled passion.


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“You’d do anything to save your life, wouldn’t you?” Even pretend to enjoy my

perversions. Her brows drew together in puzzlement, then cleared. Her soft lips parted in the most seductive of smiles. “What would you have me do?” If she was lying, she was a far better agent than he. The alternative didn’t bear thinking about. If she was an innocent caught up in his web of deceit, if she was no worse than a petty thief, an unsuspecting witness to the extermination he’d carried out today, she didn’t deserve his punishments. In either case, he had no right to use her for his sadistic pleasures.

Release her. The vestiges of his conscience spoke. Damned inconvenient. He studied her carefully, seeking a sign of deception, an excuse to toy with her further. The curve of her lips, the panting breaths raising her full breasts…she enjoyed his torments. Hell, she’d climaxed from the bite of his teeth. Would she take his worst? Too tempting a thought. He should free her. She knew little enough of him; after tonight’s shoddy work, killing the fox in so public a place, he’d have to lay low for a long time. Retire to the country or the continent, change his name, build a bucolic new life for himself where no one would suspect his past. Her tongue peeped out, teasing the corner of her mouth, tearing his resolve clean in two. Lust pounded through his brain, shriveling any rational thought. He couldn’t resist the sight of her, the tender white flesh of her belly stained red from the heated wax, breasts bare and quivering with her tremors. Before he released his pretty captive, he’d take his fill of pleasure from her lush young body. Torment them both with agony and ecstasy, under the guise of seeking the truth. An honorable man would beg her pardon and free her. Unfortunately for her, his honor had been forfeit long ago.

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Chapter Four

Each hard breath felt like a lead weight in her chest. The skin between her breasts, pierced by the heat of the wax, ached with a burning, raw sensation. And yet…the fear, the pain, had her panting like a bitch in heat. The tender nub between her thighs still throbbed from the sordid, wonderful attentions of his mouth. Those tantalizing lips were thinned in displeasure now. Her tormenter, her master for this night, stared down at her with icy blue eyes burning behind the slits in his mask. “Don’t mistake passion for weakness. Answer my questions or I will torture you in truth.” Her heart thundered even as heat pooled low in her belly. Passion and terror. How closely twined these disparate emotions were. He knew it, too. This was the man behind the mask, the face he didn’t show to a soul. This barely controlled passion, this ferocious need to ply a female body with luscious pain. A man who reveled in passion, who drove her to climax with the sharp bite of his teeth. A man unashamed and unquestioning of the deepest needs of his body. Were his threats real? After the amazing things he’d done, could he kill her without a thought? Something in his manner, some little hesitation, a hint of reserve, told her he would set her free.


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Eventually. Until then, her body was his to use…and he couldn’t use her soon enough. Even after a shattering climax, the hollow between her legs ached to be filled. Nothing would satisfy her but a long, hard, tupping. A flash of light stung her eyes -- the knife was in his hand, lamplight flashing off the surface. The blade lowered to her chest, cool where the wax had been searing hot only moments before. He stroked her with the cutting edge, back and forth, tracing a slow, icy trail down her belly. “Tell me your name. The truth this time.” Arrogant bastard. Her chin went up of its own volition. “Marie Antoinette.” Was that a hint of amusement curling his lip? A glimmer of admiration in his eyes? The cool edge of the knife slivered across her throat, raising goose bumps. Back and forth, the icy threat of death only a hair’s breadth from slicing her flesh. Her pulse leapt, blood flooding to the spot. She pressed her head into the mattress, trying to ease the pressure of the knife. “Don’t tease me, sweeting. You’ve already witnessed what this blade can do.” Goodness, this was the same knife? Heat pooled between her legs, even as her flesh shivered. As if he knew, he traced back down her chest to her belly, drawing a fine, scraping line with the sharp knife, using just enough pressure to threaten. With only the slightest flex of his wrist, he could cut her. The image of his blade drawing blood flashed into her head. Would he tup her with blood between her breasts? Smear the liquid between them like a pagan bonding ritual? Wicked, wicked desires. She’d never wanted a man so desperately. His teasing games and tormenting pleasures had primed her beyond belief. If her hands were free, she’d pull him down and wrap her legs around his hips, holding him tightly while he pounded into her with the ferocity of a madman.

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When the knife reached her bellybutton, he drew a circle around it. “A lesser woman would have begged me for mercy long past.” He sounded bemused. Was he as puzzled by her behavior as she? “I don’t want mercy.” I want tupping. The knife stopped its tantalizing wandering, and his gaze met hers. “You wish to die? Why?” She shook her head. When she drew a breath to speak, his gaze fell to her breasts. Heat bloomed in her cheeks at his blatant perusal. “I don’t seek death. I would have…more of you.” All you care to inflict upon me. Ridiculous to feel her cheeks heat at the admission. The heat in his eyes grew fierce. His glowing gaze slid down her belly to her nether regions. “I could abuse you in ways you can’t imagine.” Oh, she could imagine more than he knew. “I could swive you with this knife.” Her heart nearly stopped. Before she could open her mouth to protest, his arm swung and a hard object was thrust into her body. She screamed -- but the searing pain didn’t come. Instead the hard invader moved back and forth, tupping her like a cock made of warm stone. Dear heaven, he was swiving her with the handle of the blade. She squeezed her eyes tight and tried not to clench around the wood sliding in and out of her body. “You see?” How could he sound so dispassionate, when he was twisting the haft of a knife into her quim? “With a mere turn of my wrist, I could thrust into your pretty cunny with the cutting steel of my blade.” Nearly delirious with fear, she clenched her teeth on one lip. In another moment, she’d spend on the wooden handle of the blade. One more moment…one more thrust… When he pulled it out, she almost sobbed in frustration. How cruel, to torment her like this. Her eyes opened to see him reach for her ankle with one hand.


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A slight tugging, and her foot was freed. “Do you still want more?” Would he untie her completely? She nodded. “Yes, yes.” He held up a leather strap, snapping it in the air with a fierce slap. “More of me? Or more of my punishment?” Her heart leapt. “Both. Please.” His lips curved in a genuine smile. “Now you beg?” Only a crazy woman would smile in return. She must truly be fit for Bedlam, to smile at a masked man who held her captive. “Strike me.” The strap fell hard across her thigh, a blow of delightful pain, spreading out from the point of impact in a river of wanting. She gritted her teeth. “Don’t think to give me orders, wench.”

Thwap. The strap struck again, this time low across her belly. She whimpered, a noise borne more of need than pain. With one leg freed, she was closer to escape. But escape was far from her mind. The strap hit her belly, a light tease of pain. Thwap! Harder now on her torso, so very close to her breasts. Agonized delight burst in her brain like fireworks. A memory surfaced from long ago -- a schoolgirl’s punishment, turned over the knee and spanked by a friend’s father for a childish misdeed. Her captor was precisely old enough to be that same man. She moaned at the perverse thought. If he untied her other ankle, he could turn her over and administer the stinging strap to her bare bottom. Wicked! She should be thinking of escape. But the strap held her in thrall. He plied the leather again, and again, each slap rising in intensity as her moans grew louder. Now on her belly, then her hip, now across the tender skin of her breasts, heating her flesh with every pulse. He used infinite care, striking with force but not hard enough to break skin. Oh, how she loved this feeling. Tied down, yet oddly free.

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Helpless, helpless. The word chanted in her head like a mating call as liquid heat pooled in her quim. Soon, too soon, the strap ceased. A hand stroked between her thighs, exploring and probing, spreading wetness over her private flesh. “Look at me.” She opened her eyes and met his gaze as a finger pressed deep into her body. When he curled it to press against her inner walls, her back arched in need. He withdrew without a word, and coolness spread along her belly, then her thighs. Ah, he was painting the marks the strap had left on her skin with her own fluid. Her cheeks burned, nearly as hot as the stinging trail of his fingers. And then his mouth followed, licking along her flesh, soothing even as the titillating rasp of his tongue made her shiver. Would he eat between her legs again? Suddenly his mouth was on hers, his tongue probing with gentle insistence. Her lips parted on a gasp. Such a delicate, reverent kiss from a man who’d beat her like a miscreant. When his head lifted, he cupped her cheek in one hand. “Are you an agent?” His voice had never been so gentle. She shook her head, pressing her cheek into his palm. “No. And…I saw very little of what happened today.” Her throat grew tight, forcing her to swallow nervously. “I’m a thief. I’m not the sort to complain to a magistrate.” The backs of his fingers stroked her cheek for a moment. “I should release you.” Mad panic seized her. “Not yet.” His eyes went wide in shock. “You can’t want…” The words trailed off. His gaze traveled down the length of her body, then came back up to meet her eyes. A hand cupped her breast, thumb teasing the nipple. She arched closer to his touch. “I’m going to fuck you, Tasha.” Her heart leapt. Did he want her to consent, or to resist? “I can hardly stop you, sir.”


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One eyebrow lifted. “Do you wish to stop me?” She swallowed. Would it be best to speak the truth? “I…I suspect I’ll enjoy myself more if I resist.” He grinned. “You have no idea how much I’ve enjoyed myself with you, Tasha.” Oh, she did indeed. “Nor I with you…sir.” The title sounded odd, given all they had done together, but she had no other name to call him. Later, much later, she’d ask his given name. His hand reached off to one side, and she turned her head in time to see him fish the French letter from the glass. He shifted to his knees, raising up until she could see him roll the skein over the hard length of his cock. When he moved between her legs, he gripped her thighs between bruising fingers. “You’re a naughty wench, aren’t you?” “That I am, monsieur.” Ridiculous, to call him monsieur. But the memory of her school friend’s father would not be banished. A hard press on the nub between her legs made her cry out -- his thumb, stroking firmly across her sensitive peak, as though he sought to wring pain and pleasure from her body before tupping. She held her breath, relishing the almost painful caress, not daring to utter a word. He eased off for a moment, and she whimpered. Would he wait forever to take her? She lifted her free foot and stroked it along his hip. He caught her knee, pulling it outward until her quim lay exposed beneath his ardent gaze. “Ah, too damned beautiful to resist.” The muttered words were barely out of his mouth before he swooped down and captured her bud between his lips, sucking hard at that achingly tender point of flesh for an agonizing moment, then nipping gently with his teeth at the lips of her sex. She moaned and thrashed, squealing like a banshee.

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Suddenly a hand clamped over her mouth, silencing her cries. Her privities were left wanting, but before her mind registered the disappointment, he thrust full length into her core. Her body, wet and yearning, felt no pain at his entry, nor at his hard, relentless thrusts. He rode her without a word, head thrust back, teeth gritted, his weight braced on one powerful arm, the other still planted on her mouth. He swung his hips furiously, angling his cock from side to side, pressing against the inner walls of her body. Each pounding thrust was strong and fierce, guaranteed to leave her pleasantly sore on the morrow. No conventional tupping from this masked rogue. She strained for breath against the pressure of his hand, eyes growing dim at the lack of air. A whimpering cry was the only noise she could make. When he released her mouth, she gasped, stars bursting in her brain. And still he thrust into her, without a pause. His cock was like a piston, driving into her body with a powerful rhythm, pressing hard against her button of pleasure with each stroke. Never before had a man given her such exquisite pain with naught but his cock. He wrapped a hand around her throat, a threatening pressure that sent her passion soaring to the rafters. The hint of danger sent her over the edge into mind-shattering pleasure that rolled over her in waves. She shook with a powerful climax, hands clenched into fists, body arching against her bonds. It went on and on, until her body was shaking and damp with sweat, writhing with aftershocks, throat raw from the moans and cries he’d wrung from her. And with one last, powerful thrust, he shouted a single word -- “Tasha!” -- and collapsed onto her as his own release shook him. His cock drove so deep, she nearly felt it in her belly. He trembled as he spent, the wiry hair on his chest abrading her nipples in a tantalizing hint of discomfort.


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If only she could hold him. She’d undo the mask, weave her fingers through his hair, and look upon his darkly handsome face. Showing him that no matter what he’d done, she trusted him with her body…perhaps even with her heart. The sentimental thought made her sigh. When he pressed a hand against her throat, she smiled. Only when her vision went dark did fear arise. Oh, lord. He’d killed her after all.

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Chapter Five

Tasha woke with a throbbing pain in her temples, eyes squeezed shut against the thin light piercing her skull. The ashy flavor in her mouth was all too familiar -- the bitter remnants of whatever chemical her assassin used to render her unconscious. Fog cleared from her brain in slow degrees. Wherever she was, the linen against her bare skin felt cool and crisp. She rubbed her face appreciatively into the soft pillow, and the faint scent of lavender tickled her nose. Scented sheets? Despite the throbbing in her head, she opened her eyes to a wall paneled in pale white birch. A window hung with gathered yellow drapes was the only décor she could see from this position. It seemed to be dark outside, but a lamp burned dimly from behind her head, and the shifting shadows on the wall indicated a fire burning in an unseen grate. Birds lilted outside; the sky must be lightening with dawn, though the window showed no sign of it. She stretched, and the luxurious linens caressed her naked body like a smooth, cool hand. The sheets were the finest she’d had against her skin in ages. For a moment, she breathed deep and enjoyed the sensation, letting the lavender soothe her aching head. When the pounding in her temples eased, she rolled over, taking half the covers with her. Twinges and aches came from odd places, reminders of the debauchery of the night


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before. Her abdomen felt tender, her privities were damp and pleasantly sore, her nipples deliciously raw from the scrapings of the masked man’s teeth and blade. Even the insides of her thighs felt chafed where he’d ridden her so furiously. But this lovely room, with the scented mattress and spotless ceiling, was of a far higher caliber than the grungy room he’d kept her captive in. Why had he brought her here? When he’d pressed his hand against her throat, she’d been certain death was near. She shivered in that odd blend of fear and anticipation. Where was he? Bedsprings creaked as she gingerly eased herself to a sitting position on the soft mattress. She reached up to shield her aching eyes from the light, but it took only a quick glance to show that he wasn’t in the room. Her heart sank a tiny fraction. The dresser was small but neat, with a crockery jug and matching washbasin set next to a pile of clean towels. The sight of the porcelain tumbler and pitcher made her mouth water. Her coat hung on a rack behind the door. Even from this distance, she could see the sturdy lock on the doorjamb. A boarding house. Foolish to hope he’d brought her to his home on Clarges Street. Had he left her to go downstairs? Was he somewhere nearby? She turned back the covers and slid her feet to the floor. A small rug placed next to the bed kept her toes from freezing, but the fire was burning low in the grate. Careful to keep well back from the blaze, she added a few pieces of coal to the fire and watched the flames grow, casting welcome heat to her naked body. How oddly sensual it was to tend a fire stark naked. And how was she to leave this room without a stitch of clothing? Or did he plan to keep her here? The thought made her smile. She would gladly stay naked to please her masked lover. But to find him, she’d have to dress. Besides, she was hungry, and the closest food was probably in the taproom downstairs.

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Crossing to the wardrobe, she pulled it open to find a lovely green round gown. Her fingers stroked the fabric. A warm, soft wool that would keep her warm in the cold days of winter. A fine lawn chemise hung next to it, and her old tattered stays were tossed over another hook. He must be a wealthy man, to replace half her clothing in the dead of night, but apparently finding a well-fitting set of stays was beyond even his power. She carried the undergarments to the bed and slipped the shift over her head. A pop from the fireplace made her jump. How silly -- ’twas nothing but the coals shifting in the fireplace as they burned. But the noise made her turn toward the fire, and she saw a thick leather folio on the bedside table. A purse? Surely if he’d left his purse, he planned to return. But a folded bit of white paper tucked underneath sent her walking toward the table. Fingers shaking with a sense of impending doom, she took the paper and unfolded it.

With my apologies. Nothing more. No signature, no explanation, nothing. Angry fingers curled the note into a wad. Did he think to abandon her with three measly words? She threw the paper into the grate and swept up the bulging purse, opening it so roughly that half the contents fell and slid along the floor for nearly a foot. Bank notes. Dozens and dozens of bank notes were crammed into the purse, even without the handful that had fallen. More money than she’d ever seen, even when her father had been wealthy. Shock made her cold, but her pragmatic fingers counted as she rifled through the notes. Ten ones, four fivers, eight tenners…and good lord, there were four fifty-pound notes in here! He’d left her a small fortune, with naught but a terse apology in explanation.


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Dizzy, she clutched the purse tightly and sat on the side of the bed. With this kind of money, she could live well. Give up thieving and settle quietly somewhere peaceful. Somewhere without the noise and dirt of London. But where? Gaze fixed on the notes still on the floor, her thumb idly stroked the soft, worn leather. What could he mean by leaving her with such an enormous sum? Was this payment for her services? No whore made this much money in five years together, and surely an experienced man like her assassin knew it. Perhaps he meant to buy her silence. Damn him, leaving her with nothing but questions. Did he expect her to blithely go on her way, to never again experience his rough, commanding loving? When he’d taken her pearl between his teeth… A tremor shook her thighs, and her bud leapt in remembered pleasure. Surely he had other amazing things to teach her. And oh, what a willing pupil she would be. Already her body was warming, tingling, longing for more of his unique brand of passion. But he’d left her little choice. His note had been short, but clearly not an invitation to seek him out. Perhaps he’d had his fill; many men would never want to look at her in the light of day, knowing what a shameless wanton she became at night. Did he think she’d behave in such a manner with any man? She could hardly blame him for believing ill of her, after the way she’d welcomed his harsh treatment. Why, she’d begged him for it! She’d loved every bite, every slap, every hard stroke of the leather strap he’d wielded. And she’d take it all again, with equal pleasure. If not more, knowing the pleasure to come. Her gaze fell to the stuffed purse. He’d taken all but her soul, stripped away her pretensions, her pride, her modesty, and left her nothing but money. Clearly he was finished with her. Going after him would lead to nothing but rejection.

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No, best to focus on her future. A bright, wealthy future, courtesy of a nameless man she’d never forget. She bent to pick up the fallen bank notes. With this kind of money, no one would question any story she deigned to tell. Perhaps she’d even tell the truth for once. A French émigré would have to be rich to find herself welcome in most English towns, and thanks to her masked lover, she’d be very rich indeed. Rich, independent, and alone.


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Chapter Six

In the mirror, Marcus saw light glint off the razor, ricocheting onto the wall behind him and back to the mirror again. Odd how badly his hand shook. Granted, he hadn’t shaved his own face in many a month, but his hand had never been so unsteady. Lack of sleep must be affecting him more than usual. He’d arrived home too late to notice the odd quiet of the house and slept in fits and starts. He kept waking in a strange panic from disjointed dreams, vague imaginings of Tasha in various unspecified dangers. After a few hours of fitful rest, the rising sun had streamed into his window and woken him for good. Usually Tibbins drew the curtains closed to guard his slumber, but this morning the drapes were wide open. Only then did he realize the house was deserted. Stubbs must have been here last night, clearing out the servants and their belongings, no doubt telling them some story about the master leaving town unexpectedly. Tired as he was, he’d barely managed to put the pieces together. If Stubbs had cleared out the servants, he must be afraid they’d talk about their master. Someone must have seen him finish his business at the theatre yesterday…someone besides Tasha. Tasha. No wonder his hand was shaking this morning.

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He carefully lowered the razor to his cheekbone and stroked the blade down to his chin, scraping soap and whiskers from his face. Despite his twitchy fingers, no lines of oozing blood appeared. He swished the blade in the basin, watching the water turn murky with soap and bits of whiskers. As murky as his soul. No, damn it. His soul could grow no blacker. Certainly the events of last night would soon fade from memory. The alternative didn’t bear thinking of. Now that he’d had a taste of those sordid pleasures, would he be tempted to relive the experience? Visit a brothel where poor women were forced to accept his torment? Paying a fishmonger for the obscene privilege of beating and bruising tender female flesh wouldn’t entice him in the least. Not now that he’d tasted a need that matched his own. But in time…oh, in time his will would break, leading him to a fishmonger by his randy, perverted cock. His stomach churned. Best finish his shave and find some food in the kitchen to call breakfast, assuming the servants had left anything. He shaved his other cheek with meticulous care, then wiped the dampness from his face with a small towel. At least the linens were still intact, though packed in a closet with lavender and cedar. He tossed the towel to the washstand. No servant would come to clean this mess, but what did that matter? He’d be far away before anyone saw that drops of water from a careless shave had ruined the mahogany around the basin. If he went to the country, a brothel that catered to his needs would be difficult to find. Perhaps he’d go to the Continent instead. Paris was full of vice. As was Spain. Spanish ladies had always caught his fancy. Those dark brows and flashing eyes… Tasha’s haunted eyes rose in his memory, and he scowled. He needed another woman to banish his pretty captive from his thoughts. As soon as possible, he’d find a prostitute with a bit of a slant to her eyes and ride her to oblivion. Perhaps even give her arse a slap or two if she cared to earn an extra shilling.


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He took a step toward the door, then turned back. No sense in ruining a fine piece of furniture. With the towel, he wiped the water from the cabinet top, then tossed the cloth to the floor. As he walked down the stairs, the knocker sounded from far below. His steps faltered. Tasha? Ridiculous. After what he’d done last night -- and the manner in which he’d left her -- she’d never want to set eyes on him again. Even if she did, she had no idea where he lived. Hell, he hadn’t even told her his name. A second knock, louder this time. It must be Stubbs with marching orders. Perhaps a lecturing note from His Majesty, berating him in that paternal way of his for letting yesterday’s business get out of hand. At least no one knew about Tasha. Forgetting her would be best. Would he find another woman to erase the memory? A woman who craved the same perversions as he? He could search the entire Continent and not find another woman so exquisitely beautiful, or so enticingly passionate. The memory of her little pink tongue lapping at his seed as it dribbled from her mouth had kept his cock twitching all morning. Damn, he was half tempted to go across town and find her before he left. It would be too risky to take her again, particularly if Stubbs had orders for him to leave, but he could at least ease his conscience and see that she was safe. The stairs were dark, the hallway only slightly less so, but he made his way to the front door without incident. He opened the door to see Stubbs leaning on the short banister, a bowler hat pulled down over his low forehead and only his beady eyes and bulbous nose visible above his turned-up collar. He spit to one side, then pushed his way past Marcus into the house. Marcus shut the door and turned. Stubbs pulled a packet from his pocket and handed it over. “There’s a bit o’ money fer ya.”

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The envelope was sealed with wax, but he didn’t open it. Stubbs had no business seeing how well murder paid. He didn’t trust the man not to blackmail him. “Thank you, Mr. Stubbs.” “You’re to get out of England as quick as can be. They wants ye to leave before noon.” So soon? He’d never have time to see Tasha now. The boarding house where he’d left her, with a full month paid in advance, was far across town. If he had to go find her, then double back to the coaching inn to hire a ride to the docks, he wouldn’t be gone before sunset. And His Majesty’s words were not to be gainsaid. “Very well.” Stubbs shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his coat, shrugging his shoulders up around his ears. “Ye made a sorry mess of that business last night, but I’m to tell ye that the War Secretary sends you ’is thanks.” He must have been seen, if the incident was casting him from England. This was what he’d wanted, what he’d hoped for only yesterday. But not quite so soon. “Have the servants been paid off?” “Aye. They’ve been told ye had to go to the country for a long spell. Sudden death in the family. They were given enough funds to make ’em comfortable, but not enough to make ’em brag.” “And letters of recommendation, I trust?” “Aye.” Stubbs sounded annoyed. “Leave off yer worryin’. Get yourself out of England and let me clean up after ye.” “Very well.” He pulled open the door and gave Stubbs a curt nod. “Good day, Mr. Stubbs.” Stubbs touched the brim of his hat in the briefest gesture of respect. “G’day, Fancy Gent.”


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Marcus closed the door and pushed his hair back. He’d have to move quickly to be out of town by noon. Blast it, there was no way he could see Tasha before leaving. Merely setting eyes on her would not be enough to reassure him… Not nearly enough. Somehow he knew, deep in his bones, that he’d worry about his pretty captive every minute of every day for years to come. The knocker sounded again. What the devil had Stubbs forgotten? All these delays made it more difficult for him to leave before the deadline. He pulled open the door and felt every muscle in his body freeze. Tasha stood there, glorious in her serviceable brown cloak, her lovely face shockingly pale against her dark bonnet. Those compelling full lips parted. “Good morning, sir.”

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Chapter Seven

His voice would not come, though he opened his mouth to speak. Instead he stood back, pulling the door wide. She walked in like any lady making a morning call, though the hour was far too early for polite conversation. When she spun to face him, her eyes were suddenly ferocious. “Did you think to leave me without a word?” She withdrew a leather packet and tossed it at his feet. The purse he’d left with her in the rooming house, enough to give her food and shelter for more than a year. “How dare you insult me with money?” If he lived to be a hundred years old, he would never understand the female of the species. Any other woman would have thanked her lucky stars to be paid so well for a night of unconventional bed sport. “I owe you a great deal more than I can compensate for with money.” Without a word, she unfastened her cloak and tossed it onto a nearby chair, then untied the strings of her bonnet. His gaze swept her body from head to toe, every curve lovingly outlined in a thin chemise. Had she come across town with nothing under her cloak save this thin garment? Why, he could even see her nipples underneath, peaked and dark against the fine white lawn. His mouth watered, forcing him to swallow.


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In a moment her hair fell free, shockingly long and completely unbound. It was as though a lady of ill repute had swept into his foyer and made herself quite at home…then disrobed and invited him to bend her over the marble banister and spank her pert backside before fucking her to kingdom come. His cock rose in the narrow confines of his trousers. She playfully tossed her bonnet onto the chair. “You look surprised.” The blood seemed to have left his befuddled brain and pooled in his throbbing cock. “Indeed, I am.” Her smile was secretive, almost shy -- a charming contrast to her brazen appearance. In nothing but boots and a shift, she looked perfectly delicious. “I’m relieved to find you at home -- and quite alone, it seems, if you answered the door yourself.” “The servants are gone.” His voice sounded more like a croak. Gaze fixed on her swaying breasts, he cleared his throat. “How did you find me?” She tossed her head, sending her hair swaying in shimmering waves over her barely clothed shoulders. “I followed you home night before last.” The night when he hadn’t found his quarry. With a relatively free conscience, he hadn’t been paying particular attention that night. Forcing himself to look higher than her breasts, he saw light shadows marring the front of her neck. “I hurt you.” Her wickedly pursed lips made his cock pang. “Yes, indeed you did, monsieur.” She appeared to have suffered no serious ill effects, at least. “Why have you come here, Tasha?” Surely she knew there was no point in repeating the experience. A lady so young and beautiful would quickly tire of his sordid treatment. Better to end it now. “We have unfinished business between us.” He shook his head. “There is nothing between us but lies.” One brow went up. “Then we should begin with the truth. May I sit down while we discuss the matter?” She took a step closer.

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He resisted the urge to back away. “We might as well be comfortable,” he muttered. His image of comfort was Tasha spread out on the carpet with him thrusting madly between her thighs, his hands wound tight in that glorious hair, her mouth contorted with pain and pleasure. With his cock at full readiness, he walked stiffly into the nearest drawing room and waited for her to sit gracefully on the settee. Impossible to resist, with her so close. He sat next to her on the settee and turned to face her. She met his gaze unblinkingly, more sincere than he had ever seen her. “I told you the truth,” she began. “My name is Natasha Petrova. I was born in Russia, but my father was an ambassador and we soon moved to France. My parents were killed in The Terror, but I was able to escape detection.” Her expression was open and honest, without a trace of self-pity. “I married a British lieutenant who brought me here and died not long after, leaving me with nothing but a very small widow’s pension.” Her life story was concise and direct. His own would not bear sharing. She tilted her head to one side quizzically. “Do you despise me for being a foreigner?” He’d have laughed if she hadn’t sounded so serious. “Of course not.” Silence fell between them. Finally she reached out and laid a hand on his thigh. His muscles turned to rock underneath her touch. “May I know your name, at least?” Why not give her one truth? “I’ve been Marcus Owens for so long, I barely remember my true name.” He covered her hand with his own. “I can’t be as forthcoming about my own history as you have been. Sordid tales of being forced to join the army as a boy and learning the amoral art of assassination are not for female ears. Being privy to the details would endanger your life.” Her hand turned over under his, fingers grasping at his own. “I don’t want to know your secrets, Marcus. I want the passion we shared on that musty pallet last night.”


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His heart hammered in his throat. Did he dare take the chance? He could take her to the Continent… They could live abroad, posing as man and wife. Live in glorious, wicked sin, sharing depraved pleasures for days and nights on end. No. In no time at all, he would corrupt her even more than he had already. She’d grow to hate him, and to hate herself. He took her hand from his leg and thrust it into her own lap. “Tasha, this is madness. What we did was a perversion. A sin. Possibly a crime.” Her shoulder lifted in a Gallic shrug, causing her chemise to gape in front. His gaze fell to the enticing shadow between her breasts. He nearly missed hearing her next words. “Perhaps it’s unusual, but nothing has ever felt so right. I never…” Her blush covered her cheeks and most of her neck, obscuring the small bruises he’d left there. “He was a good and decent man, but I never felt half as much passion with my late husband as I did with you.” Guilt coiled in his stomach. He was as far from decent as a man could be.

Tsk. The little noise drew his gaze back to her face. “Marcus, you look as though you think you’ve corrupted an innocent, young girl.” The notion made him smile. He reached out and lifted her hand back onto his thigh. “Haven’t I corrupted you? Perhaps I must try more thoroughly.” Despite the light words, anxiety had his senses on alert. Dare he trust a woman he’d only met yesterday? She tilted her head in a coy gesture. “I was once an innocent girl, monsieur. A girl of fifteen, to be precise.” Her voice had shifted into a lilting French accent. “And do you know what happened one day?” Impossible to resist her playfulness. “No, indeed. Pray tell me.” She glanced around, as though looking for onlookers before sharing a grave secret, then leaned close to whisper in his ear -- giving him a lovely view down the gaping front of her chemise. “I was caught throwing my tutor’s books down a well,” she whispered. “Was that not wicked? My friend Lisette’s father, he punished me.”

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As the vision of an older man fucking a young Tasha came to mind, his free hand tightened to a fist. “How did he punish you, mon cher?” Her giggle might have been that young girl’s. “He spanked me like a naughty child!” Even after all these years, she sounded quite indignant. “Is that all?” “Is it not humiliating enough?” Her lips brushed the tip of his ear as she continued. “He turned me over his lap and pulled up my dress and chemise.” His cock was stiff as an iron pike at the images playing in his brain. “Did he spank your bare bottom, sweeting?” He felt her nod, a brush of soft lips against his neck. “Oui, monsieur, he did. His hand was so big and strong…” She gave a melodramatic sigh. “He grunted with every stinging blow, and my bottom was sore for a week. But the worst secret…” She trailed off. After a moment’s silence broken only by his thumping heart and rushing blood, he squeezed her fingers tight. “Yes, Natasha? What was the worst secret?” She giggled again. “I enjoyed it, monsieur. I wanted…oh, I was far too young to know what I wanted. But as he spanked me, I grew damp in my private place. And I wanted his big hand to reach down there. To pet and fondle me where no one had ever touched me.” Her body would have been budding with young womanhood. As glorious as her bush was now, she must have been well-furred even as a teenager. “Did he touch you, ma cherie?” She sighed with melodramatic disappointment. “No, monsieur. Lisette was watching, else who knows what might have happened. But after he finished administering the punishment, he did stroke my bottom quite soothingly for a moment, touching the places he’d made sore.” A dreamy little moan came from her throat. “I felt his manhood in his trousers, pressing hard against my hip.” “What did you do?” His voice sounded like he’d been chewing on cobblestones.


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She giggled. “I had no idea what to do. I wriggled a little, trying to entice him to do something. I knew not what. Before I could say a word, he set me on my feet and sent me away.” The letch, taking advantage of a girl’s helplessness. The young woman she now was pressed her breasts to his arm, rubbing herself against his bicep. “I feel quite daring for confessing my secret to you.” And she wanted him to repeat the experience, obviously. To slap her tender bottom, toy with her quim, and fuck her with rough heat. Clear thinking was impossible with her breath whistling in his ear. How could he resist her? “How naughty you are, sweeting. Coming to my house unescorted this morning, dressed in nothing but a chemise. Telling me a story that should make you blush with shame. Begging me to spank you like a naughty schoolgirl.” He made his voice stern. “You deserve to be punished for such wickedness.” She pulled back enough for him to see her wide eyes, glittering with pretend fear and real excitement. Suddenly she dropped her chin, the image of a disobedient child -- one with full breasts and a wicked imagination. “Oui, monsieur. I deserve the harshest punishment you can think of.” The little temptress. “Do you know how Lisette’s father should have punished you?” Her bowed head moved from side to side, sending her long hair swaying. He pulled her torso over his lap, and she willingly spread herself across his thighs, bracing her hands on the arm of the settee for more leverage. With one hand, he swept her chemise up to her waist, baring the globes of her pert bottom. Tiny goose bumps raised on her flesh in the cool air. He stroked up the back of her thighs, savoring the anticipation. Such a sweet ass. Ripe for another perversion he’d never dared to try. If Tasha accepted this last sordid pleasure, he’d never let her go. But first…

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Thwap! His hand swung hard, meeting her bottom with stinging heat. She whimpered and moaned, clearly loving every moment. How fortunate he was, to have her wriggling against his hard cock as he spanked her tender ass. Again and again, slapping her until his palm felt raw and her bottom glowed red. And still she squirmed and moaned, calling out to him in French, her voice high and breathless as a young girl’s. He could barely make out the words, but her passion was evident. His Tasha was a marvel…a woman who could match his wicked imagination, and play the coquettish virgin for him over and over again. Would he ever tire of her? “Naughty girl,” he muttered, and her bottom lifted in answer, urging him on. Her squeals grew louder, her bottom shifting back and forth on his lap. When his breath grew labored, he stopped and slid a finger down between her legs, teasing and testing. She gasped and thrust her bottom higher. “Oh, monsieur, what are you doing?” Her quim was soaking wet, coating his fingers with sticky juices. “Has no one done this to you, sweeting?” “Of course not!” He dragged his fingers in slow circles, dipping low to brush her clitoris for a second. “No one? No young lad has put a hand up your skirts to feel this pretty slit? I find that hard to believe.” She gasped. “I swear it. No one but you, monsieur.” “How very wicked of you to let me play in your privities like this. Do you know what happens to wicked girls?” She shook her head. “Oh, what will you do to me?” Her voice was so eager, he grinned despite the lust pounding in his cock.


59

He pressed two fingers inside and spread them wide. “I’m stretching your maidenhead, naughty Tasha. If you promise to be a proper young lady, I’ll teach you how to pleasure a gentleman like a strumpet.” “Please, monsieur, teach me. I promise to be proper.” “If you pleasure me, that would be most improper.” Her low moan fired his blood. “You can’t do both, Tasha.” His fingers scissored apart, stretching her wet walls open. “Would you rather be proper or learn to fuck?” “I…I…” She writhed against his intruding fingers, taking him deeper. With his thumb, he found her long bud and gave it a flick. She cried out. “Please…please, fuck me.” He smiled. “Are you certain? If you fuck me, I’ll have to punish you again.” A little whimper was her reply. “I am certain, monsieur.” He curled his fingers to capture the lush wetness of her quim and pulled them out, coated liberally with her lubrication. “Lisette’s father would have taken your maidenhead, sweeting.” Her murmur was impossible to understand. “But I have something more wicked in mind, dusha.” Surely after this, she’d run screaming from his house. If not…his heart hammered. If not, he’d fuck her until he went mad…although he seemed to be half mad already. She turned her head to look up at him, and the tender pink tongue that had haunted his dreams slid along her lower lip. “I will do anything for you, Marcus.” Her voice had lost the French accent. Somehow her promise sounded far too sincere for their wicked game.

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He ran his wet fingers along the crack of her bottom, then paused at her rear entrance. “I’m going to leave my seed in all your portals, Tasha.” Her mouth fell open for a moment. He held his breath, waiting for the rejection sure to come. No lady on earth would -She smiled, and his heart started beating again. “Oh, monsieur.” The French schoolgirl accent returned. “Surely that will hurt me terribly.” No resistance? Impossible. “It might.” “Show me. Hurt me.” The pink tongue coated her upper lip. “I love it when you hurt me.” An offer he could never refuse. Trembling fingers found the rear entrance to her body and probed. Gently, gently…if she balked, he’d simply fuck her and leave this darkest of desires for his shameful dreams. Wet from her cunny, his forefinger slid easily past the tight ring of muscles. She whimpered. “Oh, Marcus.” The heat and pressure of her bottom hole were excruciating. How much better would this tightness feel wrapped around his cock? Sweat popped out on his forehead as he toyed with her forbidden entrance, probing a mere inch, twisting his finger gently, then pressing forward another inch. Before a minute had passed, she’d taken his forefinger all the way, and her hips were lifting as he eased the digit out, then in again. The fluid from her cunny had lubricated her rear passage nicely. She moaned. “I never…” Her breath came in shallow pants. “Oh, I never imagined such a thing.” He grunted. “Only the wickedest of women would enjoy this perversion. Do you enjoy it, my wicked Tasha?” She whimpered. He twisted his finger quickly, rubbing his knuckles against her sensitive inner flesh.


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Her bottom thrust upward, pushing his finger in tighter. “Oh, yes! I enjoy it far too much.” His teeth clenched. If she kept up this squirming, he’d spend in his trousers. He pulled his finger from her body and gripped her hips with his hands, lifting her and easing her onto the floor. “On your hands and knees, naughty girl.” She scurried to obey, turning to rest her folded arms on the edge of the settee. He fumbled with his trousers as he slid to his knees, tearing buttons loose in his urgency, freeing his rampaging cock without disrobing by half. The view from behind her bared bottom was incredible. Her delicate white chemise was rucked up to her waist, exposing a pert arse well-marked from his spanking, her rear portal reddened and stretched open a little, inviting him to plunder her in the randiest way. He gritted his teeth and put his cockhead to the puckered hole. She panted and arched her back, a vision of wantonness. He grasped her hips in his hands to steady her, but not so tightly that she couldn’t pull away if she wished to. Slowly pushing forward, savoring every delectable sensation, he pressed his cock into her arse. The tightness was exquisite, like an iron hand in a silken glove squeezing him with a pleasure so potent it was nearly pain. She bore down, opening herself to him in a way he’d never dared to hope a woman might, and he thrust forward, pressing his cock to the hilt. Then he paused for a moment, panting, as his balls throbbed. His cock wasn’t small, but she took him as though born to have his shaft up her bottom, her back lifting with each rapid breath she took. The urge to move was fierce, but he wanted to savor this exquisite pleasure. Buried balls deep in the arse of a lovely young woman…what had he ever done in his sorry life to deserve this? She wriggled and moaned, thrusting herself back at him. More encouragement than he needed. Breathing deeply, he tupped her bottom with swift, urgent strokes, gripping her hips

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for leverage, pulling her back to meet his thrusts with abandon, grunting rhythmically with each downstroke. Her head tossed as he pounded her, sending silken waves of hair pooling down her back. Demme, he’d spend in a minute. He gritted his teeth and reached low between her legs, finding her cunny wet and warm. She cried out as he pushed one finger inside. Oh, sweet mercy -- his invading finger could feel his cock thrusting in her bottom hole through the thin barrier separating her portals. The sensation of taking her in both of her luscious holes at once drove him to the brink. Seed churned in his balls. He gritted his teeth until his jaw ached, but the climax rushed up his shaft with a ferocity that couldn’t be denied. Quickly, before he spent, he pressed his palm hard against her clitoris. She screamed in pleasure as her body convulsed around his invading fingers, climaxing like the most wanton woman it would ever be his pleasure to debauch. The contractions pulled at his cock, wringing the climax from him like the tide pulled at the shore. He nearly lost consciousness as the thrill of spending deep inside her arse shook him to the core.


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Chapter Eight

Perhaps he did lose his senses for a moment. The next thing he knew, he was laying hard against her back, pressing her into the settee. She must be deuced uncomfortable, but she lay quietly. He pulled back, his softening cock slipping from the dark recesses of her body with a soft slurping noise. Mmm. Did she know what exquisite fulfillment she’d given him? She’d climaxed, but surely this act was too perverse for even the randiest of women to want to relive. She turned and flung herself against his chest, wrapping her arms around him. What the -He stroked her hair from her face with one hand and pulled back to look into her mysterious eyes. She smiled up at him and ran her fingers through his hair. “I wanted to touch you like this last night. Afterwards.” No recriminations for his wicked deeds? A decent woman would ring a peal over his head, if not take fists to him. But Tasha wasn’t precisely a decent lady. No, she was his match, his mate in every way -- the light half to his exceedingly dark soul.

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She sighed and settled against him. Holding a near-naked woman against his partially clothed body felt rather salacious. He’d never imagined such a simple thing would make his heart beat faster, but there it was. Her hair smelled like clover, and the top of her head fit perfectly under his chin -- another unexpected pleasure. In a minute he’d want her again. They sat in silence for a long moment. Surely he should say something. Compliment her, thank her, tell her how very glad he was that she’d found him this morning. Though he knew now that he never could have left London without her. He’d already been building an excuse to go to her before she’d come through his door. He leaned back against the settee, pulling her with him, and spoke into her hair. “I’m going to the Continent.” Not what he’d planned to say, not at all, but lover’s words had never been his strong suit. Her back went stiff. “When?” “Today.” He moved away slightly to see her face, gauge her expression. Her teeth worried at her lower lip. “When will you return?” “I’m not certain. Most likely I never will.” Her chin dropped, shielding her eyes. “I see.” No, she didn’t. “Tasha…” He seemed unable to find the words, any words, to explain how he felt about her. Perhaps because he didn’t understand it himself. She’d given him more fulfillment than he’d imagined possible, and yet…how could he ask her to continue to accept his rough play? “This is madness. We can’t go on having relations in such a sordid manner.” “I don’t see why not.” Her chin came up then, but only to show him wounded eyes. “You seem to enjoy them.” She sounded near tears. He cupped her cheek. “I do enjoy them, sweeting. But surely you see that it’s not precisely…normal.”


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She shrugged. “I have never enjoyed normal relations.” Nor had he. “But I won’t throw myself at your head, Marcus. You’re leaving, and I’m staying in London. That puts quite a different stamp on this conversation, does it not?” Her air of finality, of indifference, frightened him more than any adversary he’d ever faced. He gripped her shoulders. “Tasha, I want you to come with me.” Amazingly, lightning didn’t strike him after that terrifying admission. “I won’t sleep soundly unless you are safe in my bed every night. I want…” God help me. “I want to marry you.” She made no response other than to lower her gaze to the carpet. He couldn’t read her expression; her posture gave no clue to her feelings. Fear clenched his stomach. “I know you have no reason in the world to trust me. I’m a murderer, a rogue, and worse. But I swear I’ll do my best to earn your trust, if you’ll give me the chance.” Her head came up, and the tears in her eyes ripped through his gut. He opened his mouth to speak, but she pressed trembling fingertips against his lips. “It may be insane, sir, but I do trust you.” He took her fingers in his and squeezed them gently. “Are you saying yes?” She pressed her lips to his in the sweetest of kisses. “I will accept your invitation, sir, on one condition.” Expanding warmth filled his chest, a feeling he didn’t dare name. “My young bride-tobe is already making demands?” She swatted his shoulder with a playful hand. “Oui, monsieur, but you will like this demand.” He arched one eyebrow and waited expectantly.

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Her cheeks grew pink. “You must promise to heat my bottom whenever I am naughty.” He threw his head back and laughed. “I promise, sweeting.” She smiled back at him. “And I promise to be very, very naughty, monsieur.”

Doreen DeSalvo A lifelong daydreamer, Doreen DeSalvo sold her first short story at the age of eight. Her payment was a candy bar. Over thirty years later, her passion for writing -- and chocolate -- remain. Her work has received the National Association of Independent Publishers’ Fallot Literary Award and the Doubleday Venus Book Club’s Best Book of the

Year award. She currently lives in a Victorian house in San Francisco with her husband of over 20 years, and considers herself fortunate to be writing stories that always have happy endings. Visit Doreen on the web at http://www.doreendesalvo.com/ or email her at [email protected].

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