Cavern of Pleasures Boxset: Georgian Regency Romance

by EM BROWN

  She remained silent. She wanted him to prove his point. And he did. Lowering one hand, he cupped the mound of her womanhood and inserted a finger into her slit. Her standing leg began to tremble. It had been some time since her nerves down there had been touched by a man. She felt almost virginal. Would he like the tight feel of her?

  Sliding his finger from her, he presented the evidence to her. She could smell herself upon him, and her head spun with how lewd, how wanton, how provocative she found it all.

  “Taste your desire,” he commanded.

  “Wh—”

  But she did not have time to protest. He slid his wet finger into her open mouth.

  “Suck it.”

  Her mind whirled, but she did as he bid, closing her lips about his finger. She had never tasted of her own fluids before, save for the occasional teardrop, and could not say she was enamored of the flavor that knew no epicurean likeness. She did not like his pressing his finger upon her tongue. It felt invasive. Humiliating.

  To add insult, he swirled his finger all over the inside of her mouth, then told her to suck harder. She felt like crying, but conceding his doubt of her would prove more humiliating. Thus, she sucked his finger with all her might, until her cheeks were sore. And gradually, her indignation turned provocative. She felt naughty and aroused. Using her tongue, she made love to his finger, and when he pulled from her, she felt satisfied.

  And craved more.

  VALE SILENTLY CURSED a dozen different ways in his head. This—she—was proving much more difficult than he had anticipated. He needed to frighten her or discomfort her into fleeing, to never want to set foot in the Cavern again, yet he could not bring himself to fully implement his strategy. Not when her flesh felt so desirable beneath his hands. Not when her soft sighs and whimpers intoxicated his ears. Not when her scent—like the clear freshness of the early spring, before the perfumed heaviness of flowers blooming later in the season—filled his nostrils.

  And the way her mouth suckled his finger—may God have mercy—for a moment he was lost. His blood raged in his loins and throbbed in his cock. He had allowed himself to wonder how it would feel to have her mouth wrapped about his erection—especially with the earnestness with which she sucked and tongued his finger. The desire to fuck flared in his body. He could take her so easily. He had but to pull his cock from his breeches and push it into her waiting quim from behind her.

  Cursing once more, he willed his mind to concentrate on the task at hand. Palming her breasts again, he rolled her nipples between his thumbs and fingers. He tugged them lightly.

  “Have you ever had clamps affixed to your nipples?” he asked.

  “My lord?”

  Not surprisingly, she had never heard of such a device. He explained, “They fasten onto your nipples. The pinching pain is excruciating.”

  He demonstrated with his fingers until she cried out.

  “And pales in comparison to what you have just experienced,” he continued. “A clamp may also be affixed here.”

  He flicked her clitoris and felt her shudder against him. He pinched the tender flesh of the inside of her thigh. “And here. On the wall to your right you can see a set with weights at the end. Beside it you will find the cat-o-nine tails. It delivers a more diffuse blow. I prefer the crop for its precision, but a good lashing is a nice diversion.”

  As he spoke, his right hand traveled down to her clitoris and stroked it languidly. Her head fell softly against his chest, and he caught the fragrance of her hair.

  “What did your friend tell you of Madame Botreaux’s? What was it that interested you to come here?” he asked.

  “She—she said that all forms of sensual pleasures are indulged here, my lord.”

  “Did she elaborate on those pleasures?”

  “Only that they ranged from playful to perverse, my lord.”

  Her breath was coming faster. He had heard the sharp inhale when he pressed upon a more sensitive spot on her clitoris, but he was not yet ready to have her spend.

  “What do you consider playful?”

  “A...a spanking—my lord.”

  “And perverse?”

  “The nipple clamps you described.”

  He withdrew his hand and waited.

  “My lord,” she added hastily.

  He returned his hand, dipping a finger into the clear nectar of her quim to lubricate his strokes.

  “Do you prefer playful or perverse?”

  “Playful...but I am intrigued by the perverse, my lord.”

  “You will find many experiences less perverse when you understand the enjoyment of them. An experienced master will know how far to take you. He will sense and know your willingness, your deep-seated and unspoken desires. Of which, I believe, you have many, ma petite.”

  There was a pause before she responded, “I have a desire to spend, my lord.”

  “In good time, my dear.”

  At that, she strained against her bonds, but they would not allow her to push herself further into his hand.

  “As my submissive, you will spend when I allow you to spend, if I deem you worthy of spending.”

  A snort.

  “By coming here, by presenting, you have committed yourself, your body, into my keeping. Your body is mine to use as I please. I may pleasure it if I wish or I may punish you. I may even wish to share you.”

  He could not see, but he knew her eyes had widened. Building on her tension, he continued, “At my discretion, I may command you to give fellatio to another man. Or to pleasure another woman. Or impale your anus on another man’s cock.”

  “No!”

  Vale stopped his caress of her clitoris. The wetness from her quim now glistened on the thigh of her standing leg.

  “If you cannot relinquish control to me, then you are not ready for Madame Botreaux’s. I do not tolerate protests from my submissives. Do you comprehend?”

  She groaned in aggravation, then hung her head. She muttered, “Yes, my lord.”

  “Your pardon?”

  “Yes, my lord, I comprehend,” she spat.

  For a moment he wondered if she would come to loathe him, but the trust she was placing in his hands by uttering those words overwhelmed him. He resumed his stroking, this time with care to strum the spot that made her writhe the most. The feel of her body twisting against him drove him mad, and he thought his cock would burst through his breeches. He should reprove her for her defiance. If he were cruel, he would leave her in her binds without giving her the climax she so desired.

  But he couldn’t. He wanted to make her spend, wanted to see her spending. And she did. Quivers ruptured gloriously through her body. A beautiful cry escaped her lips. Her quim pulsed madly against his hand. His head spun. His cock tightened further.

  When her orgasm finally subsided, he quickly undid the ropes that held her arms and her leg. She slid toward the floor. He gathered her in his arms and held her, knowing the soreness in her limbs would now make itself known. Gently, he rubbed her arms and massaged her leg. His cock was still stiff and he contemplated who he might have to fuck tonight to relieve himself. His first thought, surprisingly, was of his wife. Harrietta. The woman he now held in his arms.

  But that would not be wise.

  Would it?

  Chapter Nine

  LANCE GRUNTED, BRACING himself against the settee, as Vale continued to pound him from behind. With beads of perspiration glistening on his face and back, Vale thrust vigorously into Lance. From another settee in her expansive boudoir, Penelope watched them with a hand between her thighs. She was the first to spend. Then Lance. And finally Vale.

  After Vale had discharged into Lance, he staggered back, taking in deep gulps of air. Lance collapsed onto the settee.

  “Damn me,” Lance said between gasps, “that were the best fuck I’ve had in years.”

  “An absolute vision,” murmured Penelope.

  Catching his breath, Vale sat down on a nearby wingchair and said nothing.

&
nbsp; “My body shall always be made available to you, Dunnesford, as a means to release your anguish,” Lance offered.

  Penelope raised her quizzing glass at Vale. “Indeed, I cannot fair remember when you have fucked with such vehemence. What, in God’s name, transpired between you and your wife?”

  “Nothing but my failure to dissuade her from returning,” Vale grumbled.

  “Why dissuade her if she enjoys it here?”

  Vale glanced sharply at Penelope. “She is merely a curious child. She does not understand the ways of the Cavern.”

  “Then why are you so troubled?” Lance asked, folding his arms beneath his head, his knees draped over the arms of the settee.

  “I think your little wife would make a fine member of our establishment,” Penelope declared.

  “That won’t happen, Penelope,” Vale informed her. He turned to Lance. “If I am troubled, it is because I have been incapable of doing that which I must do to discourage her future attendance here.”

  She was Harold’s sister, Vale reminded himself as he recalled the first time he had met her. He had been waiting for Harold at the Delaney home so that the two of them could go out fishing. Harold’s two-year old sister had wandered into the parlor, carrying a children’s book and looking for someone to read to her.

  “Read it, this one,” she had instructed him, approaching a complete stranger with no hesitation.

  He had been caught quite off guard by the imp with her head of motley curls, but there had been such a complacency to her directive, as if it were the most natural order of things that he should read to her, as if his presence in the parlor had been Providence. There was no nursemaid in attendance—he later discovered the woman had wearied of chasing after her charge and left the child in the nursery, not foreseeing the child would open the door on her own—and when little Harrietta had spread the book on his lap, he felt he had no choice but to submit to the child’s order.

  In the following years, Harrietta was often, though not always, an adjunct to their escapades. She clearly worshipped Harold, who in turn, indulged his sister until they eventually matured beyond the point at which it was acceptable. Vale could tell Harrietta had been loath to conform to the expectations of a proper young woman in society when she had come of age.

  That was apparently still the case, Vale thought grimly.

  “I could take your place,” Lance proposed. “I have no prejudice with your wife.”

  “No,” Vale snapped, gripped with an insane possessiveness, though he knew his friend had only a generous motive behind the proposition.

  And even though he himself had suggested to Harrietta earlier that he might share her body, he would not have allowed another to touch his wife. Not in the Cavern. Not anywhere.

  Penelope raised her brows. “I think it rather hypocritical of you, Vale, to prohibit your wife from enjoying the pleasures of the Cavern when you have partaken for so long.”

  “You will take her side as well?” Vale asked as he rose to his feet. First Charlotte. Now Penelope.

  “I suspect she would make a natural submissive. She only needs the proper instruction, and you are clearly qualified.”

  “Ironically,” Lance drawled, “neither one of you would be committing adultery to boot.”

  “She doesn’t know that,” Vale said, his tone tinged with sarcasm—or was it bitterness?

  “Posh,” Penelope said, “since when do we care of such matters as adultery?”

  “True enough,” Lance conceded. “All the same, for myself, I am content to remain a bachelor.”

  Grabbing his clothes, Vale began to dress. The thread of their conversation rankled him, and he had no wish to tarry with Penelope and Lance. Not tonight.

  “Off to the Countess, are we?” Penelope inquired. “Beautiful woman. Wish she would make an appearance here.”

  “Daresay your wife knows about the Countess?” asked Lance.

  Vale stopped. He wasn’t sure and had made no assumptions. He had simply made it clear before they tied the knot that she had to respect the life that he led, and he in turn, would not question hers.

  “Why has my wife, of a sudden, become such a topic of interest?” Vale returned.

  “Because if it weren’t for her, I doubt you would have buggered me,” Lance replied flatly. “And I do hope to have an encore of our performance.”

  Vale did not reveal to his friend that their buggering had not done much to relieve his disquiet. After taking his leave of the Cavern, with the reins of his horse in hand, he was tempted to turn left toward his home in Grosvenor Square rather than right to where the Countess lived. There was no need for him to see her for Francis would usher her safely home. And the Countess was expecting him.

  Harrietta had departed from the Cavern with nary a glance back at him after he had finally assisted her to her feet.

  “Thank you, my lord,” she had said, but he could not read the emotion behind her words. What was she feeling? What was she thinking? Had she been disappointed? Overwhelmed?

  But what could he—her husband—possibly say or do? Vale sighed and turned his horse right.

  THE SOFA IN THE ANTEROOM to the bed chambers of the Countess D’Alessio had felt particularly unyielding to Vale last night, and he was glad when the morning put an end to his fitful slumber—if he had indeed slept. He studied the dust particles illuminated by what little sunlight had crept through the heavy drapery covering the windows. He wondered what Harrietta would have done had she not discovered the draperies in the spare bedroom. A small smile curled the corners of his mouth. No doubt she would have found a means.

  “She must be delightful.”

  Vale looked up to see Isabella D’Alessio, looking as radiant as she always did in the morning. Not many women woke up as lovely as they appeared after their toilette, but the Countess, with her striking black hair, wide defined lips, and full dark lashes, wanted very little cosmetic adornments. She was wearing an elegant negligee over an ivory laced nightgown.

  “Your pardon?” Vale asked, stretching as he sat up.

  Isabella took a seat next to him. “The woman who made you smile ere now.”

  “M’dear, there is no woman but you present in my view, and you are indeed a vision worth smiling about.”

  After raising her hand to his lips, he reached over and took his waistcoat from the back of the sofa.

  “Before I came into your line of sight,” Isabella pursued. “Will you not tell me her name? Or—I am remiss—there are no names at Madame Botreaux’s.”

  Vale paused before sliding his feet into his buckled shoes. “I know her name.”

  Isabella raised two perfectly arched brows. “How splendid!”

  He shook his head, and the Countess frowned in sympathy.

  “Ah, she is a married woman then?”

  His mouth curled in an ironic smile. “Yes, she is married. Have you rung for breakfast? I am in sore need of a cup of coffee this morning.”

  “Yes.”

  “Is Miss Trinidad asleep still?” He glanced toward the closed door of her bed chamber.

  “My sleeping beauty loathes rising with the sun.”

  He made no comment. The Countess and her lover had not gone to sleep for some time. Despite the closed doors, he had heard the two women all too well last night.

  “Your nights may be numbered,” Isabella assured him as he worked out the soreness in his neck. “My aunt has of late expressed an interest in returning home. I pray for it nightly that I will no longer have to live under her prying eyes.”

  “Worry not, Isabella. A night on your sofa is of no great inconvenience.”

  “Or perhaps my father will finally succumb to old age and poor health. I do not think I will miss him much.”

  “He is a brute, and I wish him as much pain in his death as he has given to you,” Vale said, remembering how the man had struck her upon hearing rumors that his daughter had a female lover.

  She looked at him with large grateful ey
es. “You are a good friend, Vale. I would that you find a love as fulfilling as that betwixt Honora and me. If you will forgive my prejudice, I do not think you will happen upon it at Madame Botreaux’s.”

  “But I am not in search of it, Countess. I am, after all, a married man,” he reminded her as a servant knocked on the door and entered with the breakfast tray.

  “Of course,” Isabella said after the servant had left. “I saw her from across the amphitheatre during the opera. She is charming. I should like to meet her someday, though I suspect she has no interest in meeting me.”

  “I would not underestimate Harrietta,” he murmured and proceeded to finish his cup of coffee in two gulps.

  Unfortunately, it was weak coffee and Vale felt in need of a second dose when he arrived home and dragged himself up the stairs to his chambers. Harrietta was still in hers.

  “Her ladyship has not yet risen,” his valet, Jacobs, informed him upon seeing the direction of his gaze.

  “Have the breakfast table set for two then,” Vale told Jacobs.

  After a shave and change of clothes, Vale felt much better. Harrietta, however, seemed less than refreshed during breakfast. She seemed to avoid his gaze and asked for the paper but did not seem to read it. He wondered what had kept her from sleeping.

  “What diversion has my lady arranged for herself today?” Vale asked after some silence.

  “Hm? Oh. I had thought to visit a mantua maker on Ludgate Hill to shorten the hem of a gown I wish to wear to Lord and Lady Granview’s ball,” Harrietta replied. “And I have accepted an invitation from a Mr. Winters to visit a new orphanage for girls that has been erected in the parish of St. Giles.”

  “And who is accompanying you? St. Giles is safe neither night nor day.”

  “I have Sarah to keep me company.”

  Vale was quiet, and from her lifted chin he could tell she was about to protest whatever he meant to say.

  “Allow me to keep you company,” he offered.

  It was not what she expected to hear. She blinked several times before saying, “If you have the time...”