Clockwork Captive by Anh Leod Page A

toothsome breasts he’d admired in her portrait.
    The feel of her warm, barely-covered flesh under his hands pleased him. When her eyes widened, only a few inches from his own gaze, he realized she was older than he’d expected, close to his own age of twenty-two, and her amber-brown eyes looked familiar somehow.
    That cat’s gaze narrowed on his as he squeezed her breasts, testing the firm warmth, before releasing her. His cock jerked as her flesh slid from his fingers.
    “My apologies,” he said quickly.
    “No need for that. You’ve paid for the privilege.” Her expression softened.
    He was hard as an oak tree already, but with the hour ticking away at her throat, he had time to taste the alluring female scent drifting up from her spicy cunny. Why spend himself quickly when he had time to anticipate? And he’d enjoy it more if he could entice his partner to take her pleasure as well.
    With a challenging stare of his own, he slid to his knees in front of Liza as the door closed behind him. He grasped the hem of Liza’s plain, floor length gown and rucked it up to her knees.
    “You needn’t be a supplicant. You’ve paid for your time,” she said, lifting her chin toward the narrow cot on the right side of the room. Her voice held no hint of common origins, yet he wasn’t quite able to place the accent. She’d moved about, most likely.
    He exposed her knees. “Does this offend you? I’m not used to paying for a woman’s time.”
    “Of course it doesn’t offend me. And a woman is a woman whether she’s paid for or not, Mr. Howell.” Her eyes widened slightly as she said his name.
    He liked the sound of it on her lips and for some curious reason she smiled as if she liked it too. “Then I’ll do what I please. As you said, I’ve paid for the hour.”
    She touched the medallion at her throat.
    As he lifted her shift to mid-thigh, he asked, “Am I your first customer this evening?”
    “It’s early yet,” she said noncommittally.
    “Do you service the male staff before the guests arrive?” He knew how she earned her living, but he’d at least like to know he was her first of the evening. Strange that he cared. The shift was at the top of her thighs now and he could see a hint of black curly hair between her legs.
    She shifted, as if made uncomfortable by his question. He noted faint marks striping the insides of her thighs.
    “You’ve been whipped, and often. Is Mrs. Teagarden a harsh mistress?”
    “My patrons enjoy such things,” she said, her mouth pulling to one side.
    “Really? I’ve found it is the men who enjoy being beaten. All those brutal schoolmasters from our youths, I imagine.”
    Her eyes sharpened for a moment as if waiting for him to continue, but he couldn’t make polite conversation when he was staring at the treasure between her legs.
    “A certain class of men enjoys aggression,” she said. “They like striping my inner thighs, then listening to me cry out as their skin slides against mine while we fuck.”
    He swallowed hard at her crude language. Her inner fire attracted him. He put his hand to his trouser-front and adjusted himself. “Do you like the pain?”
    She smiled, though he didn’t think emotion reached her eyes. “I tolerate it well. See?” Bending her head toward his, while still holding his gaze, she let out a low moan of pain.
    An erotic thrill coursed through him at that musical moan, even if it was mere artifice. The dark, sexual tone heated his blood and his hand shook where it held cloth against her upper thigh. No wonder she specialized in the perversion.
    “One would almost think you craved it,” he said.
    Her breasts rose as she inhaled deeply before her head turned to a small highboy in the corner.
    The room was so small she could open the top drawer without moving closer to it. A small selection of crops of varying widths rested inside.
     “What excites you?” she asked. “Any of these?”
    He couldn’t suppress the slight shudder.