Virgin Enchained (Virgin Series Book 4)

by Louisa Trent

  Not the romantic vision of my dreams. In fact, this was not going my way at all. I wanted heat. Lust! Not patience, as one would give a tantrum-throwing two-year old.

  I lashed out at him. Fought him. Twisted and turned, and kicked him. When those attempts failed to again my release, I tried trickery:

  “Who is that over there, behind you, sir?”

  In answer, he gave me a long-suffering sigh before one-handing a pair of leather suspenders hanging from a hook on the back of the WC’s door.

  How well I understood the alternate purpose of straps like those.

  Their appearance calmed me. Even after he tied my wrists together with them, I remained composed.

  “First call – scrubbing your face clean.”

  “Stage makeup,” I explained, slack-jawed.

  He moistened a soft linen cloth at the sink and gently removed the remains of melted grease paint. Next, he combed out the tangles from my loosened hair.

  “You were a beauty before and you are a beauty after,” he pronounced without sentimentally. “Next, into the tub with you.”

  “Like hell,” I slurred. “Just try it. I dare you.”

  Even to my own ears, I sounded petulant, a self-defeating method of achieving my objective, which was for him to see me as a desirable and mature woman.

  “On second thought, sir – I give up,” I said, much mollified. “Full surrender. Do with me what you will.”

  “Fine attitude.”

  Without a trace of rancor, he led a stumbling me to the porcelain tub.

  I balked. “No. Pee first.”

  “Forgive me. I neglected to ask. Go on.”

  Horrified at the implications, I cried. “You leave. Me stay. Door closed. Possibly locked.”

  The WC was on the first-floor. Luckily, the window was directly above the commode. I could stand on the commode’s closed lid, wiggle through, jump to the drive below, a short fall, landing with only a sprained ankle – hopefully – and then take off at a limp naked into the night.

  Completely doable.

  “We both stay.” He gave me a push toward the commode, then said once more, “Go on.”

  My bladder was full. With no choice left save a humiliating accident all over the tile floor, I sat on the seat, made water, and jumped back up with a bounce.

  “Good girl.” He patted the top of my head. “Feel better now?”

  I hated him then.

  He lifted me over the side of the tub, and the soles of my feet hit the bottom. Just like a man, he ignored my knee-high hose and garters. Not my place to remind him, I said nothing and so both remained ridiculously in place.

  “Stay,” he ordered.

  Really? Where would I go?

  So long he refrained from telling me to ‘Heel’ or some such overbearing nonsense, I was in it for the long haul, as in tonight.

  I hiccupped. “Will do, sir. You can count on me, sir.”

  With another long-suffering gesture, this time a shake of his head, he said, “Separate your feet. Your balance is off.”

  In utter dejection, I snapped, “How can you remain so woefully distant when I am burning up inside with lust?”

  “Once I get you sober, it will pass.”

  Evidently, he was trying for a speedy resolution. In short-order, he was dumping the icy-cold contents of a basin over my head. Again and again. Unconcerned over my chattering teeth, he then took his bloody sweet time over rubbing me down with a nubby drying cloth.

  Realizing his error in thinking, he made up for all his foot-dragging later. Of course, that may have been my sneeze. At any rate, my chafed flesh stung at the end of his brisk toweling.

  The entire episode boiled down to this:

  He saw my lust as a problem. Thus his feverish attempt to get me sober. And to deliberately try to see me as a child. I had bad news for him – my feelings for him remained as strong as ever. Then again, I was a glutton for pain.

  Literally.

  “These gold hoops have to go,” Mr. Simmons decided for me next.

  His knuckles brushed against my nipple as he worked a fastener open, and a single hoop dropped with a half-hearted splash into the water at the bottom of the tub.

  By this point, the fight had gone out of me. The alcohol had relaxed me into a dream-like stupor, where everything happened as quickly as cold honey poured from a masonry jar. At the same time, a peculiar state of tingling heightened my every sense. Both warred for supremacy within me.

  My eye lids lowering, my heart pounding fitfully, I rasped, “Why remove the hoops, sir?”

  “Too risky to leave in place.”

  “Risky how, sir?”

  “Allow me to demonstrate.”

  He pulled on the remaining ring, still in place through my distended nipple, and I cried out. In pain? In pleasure?

  As always, the difference was indiscernible to me.

  “Some pain is good,” he said, working on the second hoop clasp now. “Some is not. I can see you are a woman who appreciates the former. So long as the foreplay is not carried to the extreme.”

  Poor deluded male. Extreme? What was that? There was no such thing as far as I was concerned, not if I was with him.

  The WC was pleasantly humid. Yet, I sweated as if in the Amazon Rainforest. To carry that thought through to its natural conclusion, I panted as if I had run a race through a tropical grove of rubber trees – all due to my naked closeness to him.

  “There are those who would deliberately hurt you. With that said, we rarely have a problem with deviants here,” he told me, letting the second hoop fall to the bottom of the tub too. “Our clientele is thoroughly screened before being admitted to the club. We also contact the police in advance. For a fee, they generally cooperate with our private inquires about the membership.”

  He stopped working at my bosom. “There. All done. Both hoops are out.”

  “I miss them already.”

  He seemed to shake his head a great deal when with me. He did so again then. A habit? Or the company he kept?

  Next, he placed his hand over my mons. “Had you a hoop here, I would have removed that as well. Too dangerous. ”

  My, but for a person so intent on keeping his emotional distance, he was being awfully familiar with my person. Did all his touching bespeak a growing passion for me?

  No! I was only a damsel in distress to him. His guards were raised, his virile manhood locked safely away. At least, it was so with me.

  I remained silent, my brain occupied with breaking down his defensive barriers. When they were gone, I was sure he would fall madly in love with me, completely head over heels in love with me.

  Preferably before morning arrived. I was the impatient sort.

  And what was he waiting for?

  Already he had done divinely intimate things to me, including reaching his monstrous hand into that most private part of me and splitting my pubic lips wide with a thick finger, a shallow penetration. No by-your-leave asked of me. Naturally. And I could hardly have pretended outrage, after telling him I was no virgin.

  Subtle, I was not.

  I wanted him. And if he remained oblivious to that fact, I was doing this seducing thing all wrong. And perhaps I was indeed doing it all wrong. Who would have explained the right way to me?

  Not the mother I never had. Not Madame, my mentor in French style and decorum and cooking. Not anyone at Milton’s, from whom I held myself aloof.

  If not for the false courage of the Green Fairy, I would be standing metaphysically at the ballroom all alone on the sidelines, my dance card unfilled. And I very much longed to get out on the floor.

  Not that I was complaining but – so far, this had not been the passion-driven ravishment of my fantasies, and that was for sure.

  His infuriating distancing had me clenching my teeth. He had yet to even get me completely naked. I still wore my black silk hose and crimson garters!

  Where was his greed? His enthusiasm to get at me?

  Instead
of unrestrained desire, he talked about rules and regulations and limits.

  Hardly romantic.

  As if I believed for even a minute those silly rules and regulations applied to me. To us. He was just playing hard-to-get.

  And still, despite his impersonal attitude, my bosom rose and fell with shivery excitement. His icy-cold bath had failed. I felt more lustful now than before, more willing to go to any lengths to have him, drunk on him as well as on a Green Fairy.

  “You struck me as the practical sort before all this,” he said conversationally. “Your stay here is up to you.”

  Up to me?

  Either one or both my parents had abandoned me. Legal authorities sent me to an orphanage, another word for prison. At eighteen, I was released to a gentleman’s farm where I learned to bake. From there, Madame Madeline referred me to a dance coach friend of hers and he had taught me classical ballet. Afterwards, the instructor sent me with a referral in hand to Milton’s dancehall…

  None of that had been me up to me. I had fallen into everything. And now I had fallen in love with Mr. Simmons. Deciding on red roses for our wedding was the only serious plan I had ever made.

  And I intended to see that plan through. Seriously.

  Someday, I would carry a dozen roses, not one blossom short of twelve, down the aisle. No compromising. Long-stemmed beauties, thorns removed, done up in a lovely scented bouquet.

  “I made you my proposal. Make up your mind, Emma. What will it be – yes or no?”

  Proposal?

  I must have missed it.

  “Yes.” I barely refrained from clapping my hands together with glee.

  “Sure about that? You seemed undecided before…”

  “Absolutely. Positively. Yes, yes, sir, a thousand times yes!”

  “Good. When would you like to start?”

  He was such an odd man at times. An unofficial engagement began with the acceptance by the woman, did it not? The official end of things coming later, with the placement of a ring on the woman’s finger…

  I sought to clarify. “Start?”

  “Your hostess duties at the gambling den.”

  Not exactly the marriage proposal I had expected.

  Chapter Eight

  After depositing me in the tub, Mr. Simmons had gone to a crouch on the floor. Now, he towered over me, still fully dressed, of course, hands on hips. His attitude was one of caring, not one of intimidation or ultimatum.

  Too bad, really. I could have dealt with bullying, with coercion. Not this, though. I could not deal with this. His kindness was just another way of distancing himself from me. His body was close, but that physical proximity meant nothing. In this battle for his heart, his mistress, the married lady he respected, was my competition. How could I fight back against an opponent like that? If not for her husband, I knew he would drop me like a hot spud and go to her this very minute.

  He thought me a possible whore in-training– how could he possibly respect a woman like that?

  “When do you need me to start?” I asked, willing myself to sound perky, or minimally upbeat. Though brokenhearted, I refused to give my sadness away. Pity was not part of my strategy to gain his love.

  “How about…as soon as you feel up to it? You have had a rough time of it lately, and it may take awhile for you to bounce back. All the same, I know you will enjoy the hostessing position,” he told me, winding a fluffy white towel around me, sarong fashion, all my womanly parts demurely hidden from view.

  I could have wept. His honor was a glorious and shiny thing. At the moment, though, both interfered with my plans. If I had a say in any of this, his honor was in for a tarnishing.

  “I wish you to know, sir, I really do admire you,” I blubbered. The sentiment was true. The sniff was not improvised. The blubbering?

  Unavoidable. I loved him so.

  He clucked his tongue. “Oh, that Green Fairy! Her and her magical pixie dust! Sprinkle. Sprinkle.”

  Here, I crossed my eyes. “Huh?”

  “The drink tends to enhance a man’s character, making whatever good qualities he possesses look astounding and the bad less so. Which is why I held Gill off until you sober up. His interest in you will not survive long, so best inform him of your intentions soon. Gil buzzes around all the new girls until something else comes along. Fickle is his middle name.”

  I wagered Mr. Simmons’s middle name was Constant. I had no middle name. But if I did, it would have been Scheming.

  Those red roses would be mine yet.

  “Here is a suggestion – take your time deciding about your Gil.”

  A calming breath, and I let most of my irritation go. But those last two words. Good heavens, buy they were doozies:

  Your Gil.

  Gilbert was not mine and never would be mine. For a multitude of reasons. For starters, I recognized him for what he was – an exhibitionist.

  When I first started dancing the cancan in the Red-light District, Milton took me aside to explain a few things about men and their carnal habits, as it applied to his dancehall. For the sake of simplicity, he divided men into two groups – those who enjoyed showing off their manly prowess to others and those who preferred watching. The front row, he said, consistently preferred watching to doing. Those to tag for a rendezvous out back in the crowed alley were the show-offs.

  Neither group was to my taste.

  Unfortunately, Milton had not touched on the subject of men who were unapproachable. Matthew Simmons sprang to mind.

  “You will do fine with Gil,” he advised.

  “Oh, really?” I said incredulously. “Ever so nice to hear.”

  “No, seriously. You two should rub along well enough together.”

  “An outstanding testimony.”

  “Beneath the bravado, he is an upstanding gent.”

  “How so?” I questioned. “Provide a credible example of his outstandingness.”

  “He is not given to anything too extreme.”

  “So – from amongst his vast number of female conquests – he has received no complaints? Is that it?”

  “No complaints.” He nodded. “As to the other – variety is just his way. The spice of life, as they say.”

  “Lovely,” I muttered. “Though, personally, I am not part of the ‘they’ who says that sort of thing. Nor have I heard the remark ever said of a woman. I daresay, only a man gets that sort of moral leeway. Women are called promiscuous sluts if they flit about.”

  He looked away, then back again. “The dual standard, I guess. No. No guessing. I know it is the dual standard. I want you to know – I would never permit him to meet with you if he were a complete cad.”

  “Not terribly reassuring. That ‘complete’ would have me reaching for my trusty skinning knife.”

  “I was trying to be helpful. You are a very responsive girl, Emma. That was all I was trying to say. After all you have been through today, you could use a carnal outlet for your…I guess you could call it…extra energy. You are strumming with it.”

  I took that to mean I needed a man. True, but I was picky. I only wanted him.

  But no. He filled me in on his meaning. “Have you tried self-pleasuring?”

  Restraint prevented me from doing anything mad, like throwing myself bodily at Mr. Simmons. Either to kiss the idiot or to throttle him, I knew not which. Definitely, he was a work in progress.

  “If I strum for anything it is for you, sir,”

  “Nonsense. We have only just met. You know nothing about me. Come morn, you will see more clearly and realize I am not the right man for you. If you need a reminder, go over in your head the ass I just now made of myself during this conversation.”

  “Ass. Ha! For your information, sir, you happen to be the most enlightened male I know. Indeed, you are so enlightened, you might have attended a few women’s suffrage meetings.”

  He looked this way. He looked that way. He rubbed the back of his neck, then whispered, “I have.”

  “Have what,
sir?”

  “Attended a few suffrage meetings. I would have gone to more, but they meet at night and I work nights. I do what I can to support the movement and plan to march in solidarity the next time a demonstration is held.”

  He was simpatico with women’s rights?

  My heart skipped a beat. And to think, if not for schedule conflicts, we might have met at a meeting and, under ordinary circumstances, fallen in love, as other people did.

  And so my fantasy of red roses was reclaimed. Indeed, it was alive and well, and just waiting in the wings to happen. All it needed was a little push in the right direction.

  Not even when he said soulfully, “Forget about me, Emma. Find yourself someone in a different line of work, something legal,” did I relinquish my dream.

  “You could always sell out and leave, sir.”

  “Sell out is right. Nothing doing. This is where I belong.”

  Belongingness. What a nice cozy feeling to carry around inside. Just hearing the expression warmed the cockles of my heart. I had never belonged anywhere. And now he was trying to convince me I did not belong with him.

  That argument did not hold water.

  Refusing to be thwarted in my goal, I deliberately placed his hand atop my breast, and the tip beneath the girded towel I wore hardened.

  For him.

  But no. He refused my invitation to look, to know, to feel. Indeed, he tried to escape my clutches. Nothing rude. He endeavored to let me down easily by gently persuading me to release his hand.

  I let him go with an angelic pout.

  Useless to detain him. He had already seen all there was to see of me and then some. None had stirred his animal spirits.

  I was not without my own contrariness. Wanting to have it both ways, I claimed to want an enlightened man and then felt disappointment when he refrained from going all-animal on me. I said I wished to be my own person, then dreamt of a knight in shining armor to take care of me.

  “You were born to dance, Emma.”