Just One Taste Part 37

"This library. This was my father's church. His monument to immortality. And you, my little librarian, are temptation incarnate." He looked at his watch. "It's 12:06, and I'm still here." He thrust up once again.

"You certainly are," said Alice.

There was a pounding on the front door.

"Oh, s.h.i.+t."

Alice leaped off Daniel's lap and hiked up her pants. "Coming!" she cried. "Do something," she said, pointing to his very erect, very exposed p.e.n.i.s.

She ran into the lobby. "Who is it?"

"It's Chief Osborne, Alice. Is everything all right in there? I was driving by and saw the lights."

Double s.h.i.+t. She smoothed her hair down and opened the door. "Hi. I...I just had a few things to do. Couldn't sleep. Thought I'd come in. Do some work."

"Now, Alice, I'm sure the selectmen don't expect you to spend your days and nights working in the library." He paused and sniffed. "Were you burning something?"

"Just books." Catching the alarm on his face, she quipped, "Librarian's joke. You know, like "'Librarians do it in the stacks.'" Shut up shut up shut up. "It's just the heat. The furnace is cantankerous."

"Well, if I were you, I'd let them know at the town office. Wouldn't want anything to happen to the building. Or you. Mind if I come in for a bit? I was on my way home anyhow."

"Uh-"

"h.e.l.lo, Chief." Daniel came out, perfectly zipped and b.u.t.toned, not a hair out of place. "I, like you, also was going by and saw the lights. I worry about my fiancee. She's so devoted to her job."

"Fiancee?" both the police chief and Alice chimed in together.

Daniel put an arm around Alice and held her upright. "I know you wanted to keep it a secret until we told your mother, honey, but I just can't resist spreading the word."

Osborne squinted. "You're that Merrill fellow, aren't you?"

"Yep. Actually, I'm a descendant of the old reprobate who named this town. Alice and I are going to renovate the old family estate."

"B-but Daniel-"

"I know, I know, it's going to take a lot of cash, but I have plenty. Enough to add a wing onto the library besides. I know how your heart is set on making this library the best in the state."

"Huh. Well, as long as you're all right, Alice." The chief turned to the door. "And congratulations."

Daniel locked up, looking mischievous. "Not the most romantic of proposals, I know, but I got rid of him. Do you want me to get down on bended knee?"

Alice wondered if anything would ever make sense again. "I only met you Monday."

"Technically, I wouldn't count those first days. I'd start with Thursday." He traced the curve of her cheek. "You forget. I used to be able to read minds. I know you, Alice, and know I want to spend the rest of my life with you, for however long that is."

His eyes were lit by silver and gold again. She could feel his relief. And his love. "What am I thinking?"

Daniel shook his head and grinned. "I don't know. I hope you're going to say yes."

So she did.

The Honeymoon

This is a Margaret Rowe novella. Before she "went into exile," Margaret wrote two erotic historicals, Tempting Eden and Any Wicked Thing, as well as a story in the anthology Agony/Ecstasy. Any Wicked Thing was a 2011 RT Reviewer's Choice nominee for best erotic fiction. The Honeymoon features a very imaginative submissive heroine, a tortured dominant hero and BDSM, and is not for the faint-hearted. If explicit s.e.x is not your thing, don't proceed!

Chapter 1.

Kerr House, London, Monday, June 1, 1818

Catherine Kerr woke from the same mortifying dream. Though she had been securely bound in it, naked and splayed wide, her own hand was now loose and between her legs in the gray dawn light.

No. She must not mince words, although she had such trouble articulating them to begin with. Her horrible stutter had left her on the shelf for seven long seasons. Her fingers were inside, her pa.s.sage drenched. She was hot and yearning and needy.

She would probably never marry, so she must learn to do for herself. But she couldn't very well tie her body up and still manage to touch the places that so needed to be touched. She closed her eyes and bit a lip, stroking hard.

It felt so b.l.o.o.d.y good. Too good. She was an unnatural woman. Proper women didn't dream of silken ropes and scarves, didn't dream of submission.

Of punishment.

If her master found her doing this, he wouldn't be pleased. He'd tie her back up and leave her gasping of want. He might take the lash and- Oh, G.o.d yes. Catherine bit her lip hard enough to draw blood as the spasms wracked her body, her legs so rigid that her thigh muscles ached. One hand jerked towards a peaked nipple, the other continuing the a.s.sault on the cunning bundle of flesh above her slit.

She should stop. Cover up. But she couldn't. Not when the more she rubbed, the higher she flew. Again and again until she tasted the trickle of blood on her lips.

She was doing damage to herself in all ways. Giving in to her fevered imagination, whether she was awake or asleep. Chafing at the restricting clothes as she made her miserable social rounds, wanting to escape to her locked room where she was free of inane conversation she couldn't manage and the resultant false sympathy she received.

She didn't need those people. She had this. Bliss all on her own, as often as she could.

No. Her maid Minton would be coming in with hot chocolate and a roll soon. Catherine took a strangled breath and reached for her crumpled night rail. Her fingers shook as she attacked each devilish tiny b.u.t.ton. Her heart raced beneath the fine lawn fabric. She must compose herself, retreat to being a poor spinster, tongue-tied and dull.

Catherine didn't have to wait long. Minton bustled in, setting the tray on a table near the bedside and pulling the curtains open.

"It's going to be a fine day, Miss Catherine. Much too nice for a fire. Unless you're cold?"

Catherine shook her head. Minton was good at watching for her physical responses, so she could save her bottled-up words for later. She nodded as Minton took a dress and kid slippers from the armoire and unmentionables from the drawers. "You have a quiet day ahead, yes? But then it's the Calverleigh ball tonight. Have you a gown in mind?"

What difference would it make what Catherine wore? She'd be in a darkened corner with the other awkward wallflowers and chaperones.

"N-n-not yet. Y-you choose. But l-l-later."

Minton bobbed a curtsey. "Certainly, Miss Catherine. Do you have everything you need?"

Catherine nodded in the affirmative. Once the door was shut again, she took a bite of the dry roll. Her father's cook should be sacked, but Catherine was incapable of doing it. Mr. Kerr was indifferent to food anyway-the only thing that interested him were the moldering pile of books in his library. He fancied himself a gentleman scholar, and had avoided his wife before she died and now barely knew Catherine existed outside the walls of his haven.

He thought her stupid, and perhaps she was. But he wanted her finally off his hands, so he'd hired ancient Mrs. Gunnison to chaperone Catherine through the various amus.e.m.e.nts this seventh Season had to offer.

They would all be over soon. Parliament would shut for the summer and Catherine would be left in peace.

No, not peace. She'd be in frenzied privacy, her fantasies and fingers driving her to o.r.g.a.s.m.

A year ago, she had found one of her father's books. It had been very informative. There had been ill.u.s.trations in lurid colors. Women bound. Vulnerable. Gagged. Hanging from hooks on a beam. Cane marks on their thighs. Naked men with their c.o.c.ks engorged and gorgeous raising whips to helpless females. The images had excited her so much, Catherine had forgotten to breathe. But the book had disappeared when she went back for it, and she'd had to make do with her own imprecise fantasies.

She remembered the t.i.tle, however, and after months of agony, detective work and saving every bit of her pin money, discovered where such a book might be purchased. But she'd lost her nerve at the last minute and had bolted from the shop just days ago.

An unmarried young woman couldn't ask anyone about s.e.xual congress, not even the ordinary kind. Catherine's mother had died when she was a little girl, and a series of indifferent governesses had never included such information in her lessons. Doddering Mrs. Gunnison would drop dead if Catherine could even have formed the words to discuss the machinations between a man and a woman.

The chocolate was too bitter. Catherine pushed the tray away. It would hardly harm her to go without breakfast-she was too fat as it was, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s overly full, even when she wasn't tormenting them with self-pleasure. The fas.h.i.+on for slender elegant young ladies had certainly pa.s.sed her by. Her skin might be creamy, but there was far too much of it everywhere.

No man would marry a plump, stuttering woman whose inner waywardness might spill out at any moment. Catherine wanted. Burned. Needed something a normal man would be horrified by.

Not that she had any suitors despite Mrs. Gunnison's numerous introductions. The woman might be a bit dotty, but she was related to half the ton and knew the other half intimately. There had been a parade of eligible gentlemen led before Catherine who had neither been impressed with her voluptuous figure, modest dowry or her inability to string three words together without stumbling.

Catherine reached under her mattress for her sketch book. Her one ladylike accomplishment, and she'd never be able to show it to anyone. Pages and pages of self-portraits.

Catherine in chains, on her knees.

Catherine bent over, her bottom hatchmarked.

Catherine in a thick leather collar, led about on a leash by a faceless man.

She s.h.i.+vered with the yearning of it-to be owned and used. To give up all control. To not have to think or talk. To simply be someone's object of forbidden desire.

She would do everything that was asked.

And more.

Chapter 2.

The Calverleigh ball was not a usual sort of haunt for Viscount Nicholas Harland. He was far more apt to be found in a seedy gambling den trying in vain to recoup his family fortune.

Or at his private club-not to be confused with Brooks's or White's-where men like him-and women too-indulged their deepest, most depraved impulses.

He wasn't at all sure why Sheffield wanted to meet him here-they may as well be at Almack's for all the divertiss.e.m.e.nt they'd find within these gilded rooms. Simpering virgins in white were not Nicholas's style at all.

He'd long ago given up the idea of a society marriage. His needs were peculiar and p.r.o.ne to scandalize a properly brought up girl. Best to get his pleasure anonymously, or within the agreed-upon rules of his club. He couldn't afford to have his conquests running off to a magistrate now, could he? He was close enough to debtor's prison as it was.

Harlands had not fared well financially for three generations. Nicholas couldn't blame his father for using up the last of the Harland money to search for his youngest child. Diana had simply disappeared on a walk with her governess, breaking his parents' hearts and leading them to an early grave. Each time a report brought false hope that was quickly dashed, Lady Harland had faded before his eyes.

After her death, Nicholas's father simply gave up and had a 'hunting accident.' Nicholas had hushed up the suicide, so his father lay beside his mother and Diana's empty plot in the churchyard.

Suffering so much loss he couldn't control made him seek ways to always prevail. He'd discovered the binding power of the rope and the whip, the blindfold and the gag. There was an emptiness in him that could only be filled by a woman's subjugation. He wasn't proud of himself, but at least he never took advantage of innocents. Those with whom he sported knew the risks and the rewards.

Glancing around, he saw none of his playmates tonight. A few women attempted to catch his eye, but he studiously avoided them and held up his pillar. Where in h.e.l.l was Sheffield? Any longer waiting and he might be forced to ask some mindless little nitwit to dance.

Nicholas knew he was still popular despite his lack of money. He had a t.i.tle; he was handsome-no point in denying that his black hair and blue eyes had made females swoon since he was in short pants. The Harland viscountcy was as old as England itself. Yes, Nicholas was a good catch if one didn't know his very substantial faults.

He startled at the tap on his shoulder. "What kept you?" he asked, turning to Anthony Sheffield.

"I had a few loose ends to tie up, if you know what I mean." The older man gave him a boyish grin, quite at odds with his silver hair. Nicholas and Sheffield were friends of a sort. Mentor and mentee. It was Sheffield who had introduced Nicholas to those dark pleasures that he could no longer do without.

"Anyone I'd be interested in?"

"Oh, yes. I believe you'd be very interested. Later, my boy. The night is young, and I thought I'd bring another young lady to your attention."

"Here?"

"Do not doubt me. What do you think of that fat little redhead in the wallflower corner?"

Nicholas squinted through the candle smoke. "Am I to expire with l.u.s.t at your description?"

"I know you prefer fleshy women. Don't deny it. She's Kerr's only daughter. You know, the town bookworm. Dull as dirt, but he does have a valuable collection of oddities that will be hers someday. The girl has had seven seasons and not an offer. I imagine she'd snap you up in a heartbeat."

"I'm not marrying anyone, Tony," Nicholas said firmly. How could he bring some gently-reared girl into his darkness?

"She's not a great heiress, I grant you. But I think she would be suitable." Sheffield gave him a knowing look.