Sensation

by Thea Devine

  Then he felt that hand on him, grasping his hip compellingly, shaking him a little. "Who are you?"

  Yes, that same accented voice, not unpleasant up close. Slurred and soft like a down feather pillow.

  And she was quite beautiful peering at him through the fog like that. Which of course she had to be, in his dream. All women were beautiful in men's dreams; otherwise, what was the point? Strange dream.

  He considered for a moment what to say. Why say anything important—it was a dream. "I'm the second son of an itinerant diamond miner who made a fortune in South Africa. Who are you?"

  "Excellent. Just what I want. Second sons always need money. I'll just pay you to do the deed, and we'll be done."

  He blinked. Levered himself onto his elbow so he could see her more clearly. "The deed . .. ?"

  "I need your help." Now her voice was urgent. "I need to lose my maidenhead. Today. Now. And you're going to do it. I'll pay you to do it."

  "Excuse me?" This was a fantasy in a million—a beautiful woman begging to be deflowered—? This was crazy . .. "Right this minute, tonight. Name your price ..."

  "I will not marry that man." "YES, YOU WILL!"

  Angilee Rosslyn crossed her arms and stamped across the commodious hotel sitting room and whirled to face her father. "I will NOT."

  Zabel Rosslyn reined in his temper. They sounded like a cou­ple of three-year-olds having at each other, he thought furiously, and this conversation, this argument, this battle, had been ongoing since day one of their arrival in London and his daughter's first meeting with the titled gentleman to whom he had engaged her to be married.

  Except she didn't want to be married altogether, not yet, and their shouting matches to and fro on the subject were already the talk of Claridge's, and they hadn't even been settled in there a week.

  Today was starting out to be no exception.

  "I will not discuss this any further. We've talked enough. Three days' worth. And I will not change the plan. You will marry Wroth, it's all arranged, and that is the end of it. I'm going out."

  Angilee leapt on his words. "With Wroth?" How like her fa­ther, to just lay down the law and then abandon her for his own pleasure. She felt strangled with fury.

  "Not your business, my dear. Men's business. Your business is to make yourself agreeable to Wroth tomorrow when he calls." She felt murderous. "I will NOT."

  Zabel grasped her shoulders. "Listen to me, you stubborn, un­grateful girl. A beautiful young virgin with a wealthy father is a hard commodity to come by these days. Wroth offers a title, an estate, entree into the highest society, and association with the most influential people in the land. It is not inconceivable you might be presented at court either. These are things that would have astronomical monetary value if one could even afford them. Things any father would want for his daughter."

  "You're selling my virginity for a title and a curtsey?" "Put it any way you wish, daughter, but this marriage will come off. We post the banns next week, irrespective of what you think you want, and you might just as well give in and give over, and let it happen."

  "Wroth is a pig."

  "Wroth is a gentleman. And you are not a lady. At minimum, your marriage will raise you that high."

  "I'd kill him as soon as marry him," AngiJee spat. "I don't care," Zabel said. "The thing is done." No, it wasn't, Angilee thought fiercely. The idea had been to come to England to find a husband, not have one handed to her on a silver salver. And it still wasn't clear to her just when her fa­ther had made this arrangement. It had been presented to her practically the moment they settled in at the hotel.

  She took a deep breath, trying to calm down. She had to try to make him understand one more time, although every conversa­tion for the past three days had deteriorated after about three minutes just like this into a shouting match.

  "Let me try to make you understand my position. I really, really don't want to get married right now," she said, enunciating her words as if she were speaking to a child.

  "Of course you want that," Zabel countered with the arro­gant assurance of a man who knew everything.

  Especially, apparently, what was right for her. Angilee grit her teeth, clenched her fists, and bit back her anger which came to the boil immediately with his next patronizing words.

  "Every woman wants that," Zabel went on, absolutely secure in his position. "If your mother had lived ... well, I've tried, by God, to be to you what your mother would have been. If she had lived, she'd be appalled, horrified, that you talk like this about a perfectly eligible gentleman and a most auspicious marriage."

  His voice rose. "You don't even know what you want. What do you want? It isn't as if you needed to work in a factory or ... or—" His imagination could not go beyond that; his control was sadly slipping to the side of belligerence at her stubbornness. "Why do I need to do anything?" "Everyone has to do something. Babies. Running a house,

  keeping a husband happy—that's what women do. You need a husband. I've found you a husband."

  No, he wanted her to marry his choice of a husband. His ver­sion of the kind of man she wanted. And Angilee hated that man. Despised him. Choked every time she uttered his name. The pig name.

  "No, you haven't."

  "Yes, I have. I've committed you—us—to this marriage." Zabel stamped his foot.

  "I won't."

  "You will"

  "You can't make me." The whole thing was degenerating again. It always came down to this fine line of who had power over whom. Always in the past, Zabel had given in, because nothing had ever been so important that he wanted to test the limits of what his spoiled Angilee might do if he put his foot down on an issue.

  But this was different. This terrified him, but this was the one thing he had ever wanted of her, and this was what she must do.

  "You think not, my girl?" He sounded so confident, but deep inside, Zabel knew that he couldn't issue threats—and the mo­ment all the wrangling came down to this, he felt helpless to make her conform, and furious that he, her father, and a man, couldn't.

  "You will find yourself walking willingly down the aisle in the end, I promise you that," he said, finally out of patience, and there was something in his tone that made Angilee look at him warily.

  "You are a prize—a virgin, an acknowledged beauty, from a wealthy Southern family who is as eligible as any of those heiresses from questionable money and the merchant class. Believe me, their antecedents aren't as important as their assets. American money is the magic incentive, I'll tell you that. They have ancestry enough for everyone here, and I swear, there's a ti­tled aristocrat for every last heiress who desires one. And I have found the one for you."

  And that he had, after a fruitless foray to New York, trying to crack the Four Hundred, all of whom had known each other from the cradle, had gone to the same schools, parties, churches

  since they were born; and all of whom were inbred, insular, and, as he'd discovered, habitually married their own.

  The doors had been locked to anyone from Outside long be­fore they even rang the bell.

  No wonder England seemed like the gates of heaven opened. All one had to do was throw enough incentive at an impoverished aristocrat, offer him an exquisite virgin, an open purse, and he immediately came to point.

  It had taken no time at all to come to terms with Wroth. And now Angilee must come to terms with this marriage. She was too quiet. Zabel was too tired; he wanted to leave. These arguments drained him beyond all measure, and nothing ever got accomplished anyway.

  "You're selling rne," she accused suddenly. "You're selling my purity—and I can't even figure out for what."

  Her perception stunned him. "It doesn't matter," he said bluntly, bluffing through his teeth. "It's men's business, my business. Besides, I know what's best. It's my God-given duty to make sure you marry well, I want you to be happy, and I want you to have every com­fort and nicety in life ..."

  He had said that all before; it still sounded practic
ed, false.

  "And you think that man—?" That cold, ascetic pig. She shuddered even thinking of him. It was all in his eyes—the greedy glitter of a man who wanted a living doll that he could manipu­late and maneuver any which way he would, with no one to stop him. There was a cruelty in him, in the thin line of his mouth, and in the slightly porcine appearance of his body. This man—this pig—would mount her and give her babies while he ramped through her father's money like a raging bull. NEVER.

  "I will walk you down the aisle," Zabel said, and his voice was deadly quiet. No shouting now. He meant it. Nothing would stop it.

  Angilee felt a coldness seeping right down to her toes. "And you won't walk anywhere outside this room until you come to your senses."

  It was pretty much the best Zabel could do with her right now. The thing was done: Viscount Wroth was willing to marry her

  and take the money that came wrapped up with her purity and give as good as he got in return.

  Blood money. Coffers full of money. After all, what had he worked for all his life? This was a synchronistic fusing of need and greed. And it was no small bargain he'd made either, and not one to be reneged upon. There were some benefits to this union that just weren't quantifiable in dollars.

  Everyone horse-traded something, Zabel thought irritably. But Angilee refused even to barter. Well, everyone did at some point.

  So if he had to lock Rapunzel in the tower for yet another night, with a guard stationed right outside as usual, and another in the lobby as a precaution ... so be it. It was getting damned expensive to teach his daughter her place, but as far as he was concerned, it would be worth it in the end.

  Out with Wroth, was he? Selling her virginity, to that pig, was he?

  Telling her it was none of her business .. .

  Oh, her father had sadly underestimated her, Angilee thought venomously. He always had; he always regarded her as his prize investment. And now someone wanted in on that investment, wanted to run the venture for him, and for some reason, he was perfectly willing to hand over that much power to a perfect stranger, with tangible assets exchanged in return.

  Her fury knew no bounds, nor her desire to thwart his stub­born decision to give her to Wroth no matter what her feelings.

  Well, she had had lots of time to think about what to do about that—and she had come up with the perfect solution ... it didn't take five minutes to conceive the plan—but it was so bold and so destructive in a far-reaching way that she had to be firm in her convictions.

  The stunning thing was how easy it had been.

  Money could buy you anything, and Zabel had always made sure she had plenty of money. It bought the waitress's uniform who delivered her evening meal which enabled her easy escape from her guards.

  It bought information. Transportation.

  It shocked her, it sent her every preconception of what wealth

  and influence couJd buy reeling, but it didn't deter her from her course: she had fury, determination and the driving need to outma-neuver her father propelling her, and the deed was going to be done. Her plan was buck simple: if she wasn't a virgin, she wouldn't have to marry the pig. It seemed a crystal clear equation to her. And she didn't care what she had to do to accomplish that. And so the only remaining question was, where did a woman go to have mindless, emotionless sex.

  Money had bought that information, too, and entree to the most famous whorehouse in the whole of London. And a well-muscled, well-hung man for the night. And so now here she was, deep in the hushed, thickly car­peted, dimly lit hallways of the notorious Bullhead Manor, with a menu of penises laid out before her like a banquet, and she had chosen one.

  And he was quite a one. She had taken a very long time—too long given she had such limited time—to settle on him, as the enormity of what she had done and what she had yet to do sud­denly shook her to her bones.

  She would literally be asking a stranger to ram his penis through her maidenhead. A mindless, naked body would punch away at the barrier until he had penetrated, taken his pleasure, and he'd be gone. Someone she'd never see again. A faceless, nameless penis, occupying the most private, most intimate part of her body . ..

  And suddenly it seemed much more important than that, and that whoever she chose to do it would have to at least seem to have some humanity.

  But the men—or women, for that matter—who frequented the Bullhead didn't offer themselves up to be genteel lovers. They wanted sex, unlimited, unfettered, undiluted, unadulterated, fast, hard fucking; they were machines, pumping away, and the game was gratification, any which way they could get it. It would be a sorry way to lose her virginity. There wasn't a man among them, a penis that she was shown that looked remotely as though she could stand to have it within a foot of her body.

  Her naked body. She knew what the thing entailed. Her father had been a dirt farmer, before he'd begun buying up the deci-

  mated plantations of her childhood for pennies on the dollar and selling off the land for profit. She knew how animals mated. She knew what that part of a man's body was.

  "Madam ..." The hushed voice of her guide wafted through the silence. "Is there no choice that would satisfy you?"

  "Not yet," she said imperiously. What did women who pa­tronized this place do? Say?

  Feeling desperate, she thrust open the next nearest door, and she saw him. He was lying flat on his back on a fur-covered plat­form, his arms and legs splayed, his penis poking out and angled downward from his thick thatch of pubic hair.

  His face in repose was impassive, his cheekbones high, his mouth carved, his hair just this side of too long, his eyebrows beautifully shaped, his eyes closed. His hands were large, his chest broad and overlaid with just enough hair. His belly was flat, and his legs long, and his penis and scrotum of more than ample size. The line of his body was arresting, powerful; she couldn't stop looking at him.

  Even though his wasn't a kind face. Rather, it was remote, re­moved, austere, even in repose. It did not look like the face of a man who was profligate—in his emotions—or his appetites.

  Really? You can tell all that about a naked man sprawled out in an exclusive brothel bedroom? Are you crazy?

  She was crazy. This was a bad idea. And she felt trapped. The guide waited, judging her, she thought. She had either to go through with it or leave, and she didn't know which was the lesser of the evils: giving her precious virginity to a stranger or giving it to the pig.

  Not the pig. Never the pig. She made a quick decision. "I want that one." "But madam—he's not..."

  "Ask him." She didn't know where she got the nerve; she was shaking so much.

  "As madam wishes..."

  Everything was for sale at the Bullhead. Everything was for .sale everywhere. She'd learned that lesson at her father's knee.

  And time was flying, and soon it might be too late. She felt the press of time in her bones as she divested herself of her cloak.

  The guide returned. The man had agreed—the penis—had agreed. A weight fell on her shoulders. Oh, God... She had to go through with it now. She had to walk into that room and get on that platform naked and just let him do the deed. With that— you wouldn't think an appendage of muscle, veins and blood could be so big and thick and be able to ...

  She had to stop this. Make it business. Make it as remote and removed as he seemed to be. A second son. Diamond mines. A nobody, really, just like her.

  So get out of the dress—entice him a little. Make him give her a monetary amount so she had the power.

  "How much?" she demanded again, her voice harsh to subdue the tremor. Awake, groggy, and close-up, he was even more strik­ing.

  What on earth was a man like this doing here?

  The same thing a woman like her was doing here .. .

  Forget that. Maybe this wouldn't be as bad as she feared. "Time is short. We have to get going." She pulled at the bows and hooks of her corset,

  Kyger shook his head as if he weren't hearing right. It was the
accent. That was how he knew it was a dream. Hao much ... that odd pronunciation—how much ought he sell himself for? In the dream?

  Surely a thick, hard penis with an hour's worth of stamina was worth more than a high-priced whore ...

  "Two thousand." That seemed over the moon, but it was his dream. He could ask what he wanted. "Dollars or pounds?" she asked briskly. His head snapped up. "I have dollars ..." Ah have dollahs . . . What the hell... ?

  "Here—" She took a fistful out of a pocketbook she had gir­dled around her waist and unfastened that and tossed it on the floor. "Now..."

  Naow...

  "Wait a minute..."

  "Now..."

  Jesus . .. what the hell kind of dream—

  Off came the corset. Down went the delicate stockings, the

  lacy drawers divested with a kick. Her camisole gone with the shrug of her shoulders.

  She was luscious, a bonbon of femininity, all creamy skin, chocolaty hair, and hard pointed raspberry nipples, a body full of fascinating peaks and valleys limned in the soft sensual light. Edible. All of her. Where did a man start? She sat back down on the platform, wholly naked, feeling cold, bereft and stupid. "How do we start?"

  Good God. How do we start???? Just how innocent was she? This was an act; it had to be. He pushed himself into a sitting po­sition. "Now, just wait a minute . .."

  "Are you going to help me or not?" Bravado always worked. Another lesson from her esteemed father.

  She had a slurred accent, American, Southern perhaps?... and her dark eyes were fierce, determined—and nakedly afraid, her body shimmering with apprehension in the dim light.

  Shit. No one came to a brothel and paid this kind of money without meaning to get fucked. She meant to get fucked—or some­one would fuck her over. She was such an innocent. Such a princess. Such perfection.

  And for some incomprehensible reason, she wanted to lose her maidenhead—now, tonight. With just any random person. Except for some reason, she'd chosen him.