Clockwork Stalker: The Dirty Heroes Collection

by Silverwood, Cari

  “These have to go.” Swiftly, he wriggled them down her legs and past her shoes, ignoring her muffled grumbling. Now her ample derrière was revealed, as well as a garter belt. He cupped one cheek of her lush rear and ran his hand from the thigh crease to the cute spot where it first divided. At the base of her spine, he drew a few tiny circles on her skin, before slipping his fingers into the split of her ass.

  He left them there, despite her gasp and jerking attempt to raise her head.

  “Down.” He squeezed on her nape. “Now, what was the never? You said it after you made yourself climax.” He slipped his fingers lower, heading toward a very forbidden place.

  “Ummm.” She half-turned her head, and he spotted an eye peering up at him, with a pretty green pupil too.

  “Say it or I may be forced to violate you somewhere entirely novel. There are things people do that might surprise you, down here…” His fingers cruised further, though she squeaked and pressed her thighs together.

  “Do not dare. Do not!”

  The dirty demeaning purpose of this jarred into him. He knew what he was doing, and it was bad, even shocking. Sherlock tensed his hand and watched his fingers sink into the flesh of her bottom. Maybe he would care tomorrow and regret this, but not this day.

  Confess, and I won’t put on a glove and shove a digit into your asshole.

  “Ow! I know what you mean,” Willa whispered. “Don’t do it, please.”

  Such filthy words. Saying that to a woman was so daring he’d never even considered it before. This curse was twisting his world into knots.

  His cock throbbed in his trousers against her warm stomach, which moved as she breathed, or wriggled, or did anything. Staring down at this trapped girl, with his hand scrunched in the hair at her nape and his other hand covering her ass cheek, this time he was the one who said, “Damn.”

  “Thank you,” she added, “For not—”

  Something about the thank you made him growl, made anger rise, made him twist his hand in her hair until she squeaked, and he raised his hand. Ready to brand her with fingermarks.

  “Say it! What was the never?”

  She hissed and tried again to escape, eyed him balefully.

  “I… I’d never climaxed before, with a man watching.”

  Now that she’d said it, he found himself chuckling. “Never? Not your husband? Not another woman even?”

  “No! Especially not another woman. And my husband never tried to make me, never told me to do it.”

  “And so you didn’t,” Sherlock murmured. “Fascinating. Well… I plan to see it happen many times before I let you go.”

  There, he’d stated that he’d eventually let her go. Which seemed wrong somehow. Why? Because it thrilled him. Because…

  “Before you let me go?” she muttered. “I should not allow this.”

  Provocation enough. “Shush.” So he raised his hand again and began to spank her. He landed the blows hard enough to cause a loud slapping sound.

  Her first yelp was followed by a shocked gasp.

  When she kept up with the cries and whimpers, and squirmed too, he decided she needed gagging, and unbuckled his belt, slid it from the loops.

  Panting, she lay on him, waiting for him to act, though she must wonder what he was up to. Her hand clawed into the leather, as he wriggled the belt between her teeth and buckled it at the back.

  “Be quieter,” he said and resumed the spanking. The jiggle of her rear with each slam of his palm pleased him.

  Even more pleasing was the spreading redness, the marks from his fingers, and the ever-wilder, if quieter, noises she gave out—the squeaks, sobs, and gasps.

  After a while, he paused to examine the marks. His spanking hand rested in the divide of her ass, close to her slit—which was amazingly wet. His trousers were surely suffering. She’d already dampened his knee, at the basement.

  With that, in one fell moment, one revelation, he knew that toying with and punishing this woman had become a favorite activity.

  “Can I get up now?” she rasped out.

  “No.”

  “Oh.”

  And that was that. She remained motionless over his lap, with his hands on her, as if he owned her and she was a suitcase or his coat. He could do anything to her, now, here. He would not. He was the master of his emotions, no matter what his cock did in his trousers.

  Then Sherlock studied her, slowly, her naked rear and thighs, the curve of her back all the way up her dress to her shoulders and her magnificent hair, and he nearly groaned.

  Her mouth on him. Lord.

  No.

  He remained very still. That neither of them said anything played havoc with him too.

  If he asked why she remained so, what would she answer? For once he was tongue-tied. He did however sense that she was shocked, and he rather liked that.

  Outside had grown dark, and the electric streetlights were coming on. Lamplighters still walked many of the streets of London.

  On their arrival at her flat and the driver’s announcement, he pulled down her skirt and made her sit up. Her face was flushed. She leaned over to pick up the discarded drawers.

  “Don’t put those on again.”

  Willa cleared her throat, looked him in the eye. “Mister Holmes, I—”

  Then he shook his head and exited before she could say more. The carriage lights and a streetlamp gifted them with a circle of brightness. Shadows and darkness reigned until the next light, many yards down the street.

  When he offered his hand, Willa took it and he helped her out, despite her glares. For a second, Sherlock found himself grinning. He did not grin. Still…

  “That was fun,” he said softly. “Gather everything you own while I pay your landlady. The next stop will be 221B Baker Street. There we will have more privacy. Once you have your machine and suitcase sorted out, I’ll carry them out. I wouldn’t like more damage to occur to the machine.”

  “Fun!” She huffed. “Insufferable man.”

  “Take care, if you wish to sit down again.”

  “You should take care, sir.”

  “Defiance, still?”

  She glared again but walked away. He watched the sway of her rear—a rear he knew was unclothed.

  Perhaps it was better that she complained. It made everything interesting.

  It should be making me doubt my ungentlemanly ways.

  There was that too.

  If only she hadn’t moaned and whimpered when he spanked her, in a way that made him suspect she was enjoying the violence. If only her cunt hadn’t been thoroughly wet. There was a distinct chance that Miss Moriarty liked his ungentlemanly ways.

  The carriage had stopped opposite the alley that ran down the side and cast enough light to see the entry and a little beyond. A yard in, high up on the mildewed brickwork of Mrs. Loaf’s Lodging House was a symbol, drawn with white chalk. It was the same star, halo and squiggle symbol he’d seen in the basement.

  Though his first inclination was to follow her into the lodgings house, he hung back.

  The alley called to him. Clues, remember? It was his job to find those. Things had slithered down there that first night. It was night again.

  Slowly he advanced further, very slowly, just in case he disturbed something. The paving stones beside a shoebox-sized rectangular grate in the middle of the alley held odd markings—a long if broad sweep of the pavers was scraped clean, with the only remaining marks being little waves of oily grime. It was as if a snake the size of an Amazonian python had disappeared into the grate.

  He kneeled to look closer. “Impossible.”

  Nothing that big could fit through the close-set metal of the grille.

  If that symbol on the walls meant something, was she responsible? He’d watched her for days and seen no signs of underhanded activity. Something unusual, perhaps supernatural in source, was associated with this area. Blood on floors beneath what could be a sacrificial table, a trade in women, symbols and strange serpent
s… And him with this mind-altering curse.

  He must ask her more questions, as well as discover more about her past by using other methods. Was it possible a Moriarty could be this deep into a deadly mystery, yet innocent and unaware?

  * * *

  The remainder of the journey to his Baker Street rooms was uneventful, and he let her be. She sat primly on the same seat as he did but closer to the opposite window. Her fingers clutched her handbag as if it might escape. She appeared brimming with energy but unsure what to do with it.

  Lugging her cases up the stairs to his rooms meant passing Mrs. Hudson on the landing. As was standard with his housekeeper, she nodded and asked what he’d like for supper. Though Willa looked surprised, she said nothing except for a brief hello.

  “We’ll both have whatever is in the offing, Mrs. Hudson, thank you. In an hour, on the dot, not before. We have some unpacking to do.” And other things. He drew out his pocket watch and noted the time.

  “It’s smoked kippers and mash, sir, and fresh young carrots from the market. The young lady also?” Hands clasped, she inclined her head, barely raising a disapproving brow. The woman was used to his eccentricities.

  “Of course.”

  “And Mr. Watson, sir?”

  His heart, he’d swear had twanged in alarm. He’d forgotten the man, again.

  “He’s off abroad, looking at some things. I don’t expect him back for ages.”

  Then he picked up the heavier case with Willa’s machine and the blue one with her clothes and gear, and shooed Willa ahead of him.

  Once her two cases were in the middle of his sitting room floor, on the recently imported golden Chinese rug, he reclined in his best armchair, eyeing her as she turned in a circle, looking at his mess and nonsense, the paintings and the stiffly floral wallpaper, the bookshelves, the stacked books, the gun collection, and his precious laboratory apparatus and other knick-knacks, and he decided that having her live here was ridiculous.

  She was too curious about his room and too distracting. Those pretty legs, her ballet-like pirouette when a bang from the window startled her, and that flick and swirl of skirt and red hair… He’d never get anything done, ever again.

  And what if she were a spy? What if she was clever enough to get past his defenses? A vague miasma of alarm was rising within. He felt as if he had an inkling of what people meant by panic, and panic was not a part of his persona.

  Willa eyed his other mismatched armchair and shot him a questioning look. He shook his head. “Why didn’t your housekeeper say anything about me?”

  Sherlock crossed his legs at the ankle. “She’s seen me practice shooting targets up here with a revolver, and worse. There is a patch in the wall.” He pointed.

  “Worse… Am I the worse?”

  “Probably.” Through steepled fingers, he regarded her. Already he was imagining her kept in a cage in the corner and only let out to play when he wanted her. It would be better than letting her touch his possessions.

  This was so very wrong, to let the enemy in close. He should keep records to remind himself of the end game. Where would he put her, if he didn’t keep her here?

  Reaching to the side, he fished a journal off the side table and opened it to a blank page, then he firmly wrote: The beginning of the malignant energy research.

  After a second of excruciating musing, he added: And of training Miss Willa to obey.

  In clear script beneath he added: Remember to release her from all obligations once the solution is found. That, he underlined.

  Yes. He’d pinpointed the cause of that vague panic. The thought of having another human being, apart from Watson, in proximity alarmed him. Sherlock tucked the pen into the central gutter of the opened journal.

  “Come here.” He beckoned with one finger. The sight of her coming to him on command filled a void in his soul he’d never known existed. If it wasn’t for that jittery flightiness she exhibited, he’d be happier than a rabbit in a burrow. “Bring the suitcase with your machine too. Open it, then you’re to undress for me and kneel between my legs.”

  10

  His Rooms

  Willa blinked then came to a halt. At first his words hadn’t quite made sense. If ever one could be dumbfounded by events, this day took the prize and the cake, and ran off with it. She wanted to go hide, and could still remember the sting of his hand on her rear, while he’d held her down in the carriage, with her partially unclothed.

  There, in that knife-edge moment had come an epiphany of what she wanted sexually, and it was scary, confronting, and crazy.

  He was not something she should want.

  Her brow wrinkled between her eyes—she could always feel when it did that—and she forced it to smooth and herself to be calm. Okay, to try to be calm. Calmness was not forthcoming.

  After what had happened in the basement and the carriage, was it any wonder?

  “Mister Holmes, your housekeeper will return any second, surely?”

  “No. She will not. I am keeping note of the time, and she won’t return until the hour is up, as I told her to. She obeys.” He smiled his grim smile. “As will you.”

  Such presumption. She’d given in before, so why not now?

  Because she was constantly hoping that he’d stop and forget. Which was contrary to what the other half of her mind wanted to happen.

  Willa knitted her fingers together and stared at them, then at Sherlock, then around the room, feeling the nervousness build that sometimes overcame her when things had piled up too high. Once she got going, she couldn’t stop, unless she talked at people and that would be a dangerous thing to do with him. He read people, or so she’d heard.

  “Miss Willa!”

  She flinched and looked at him.

  “Now. Unless you prefer to be naked when the meal arrives?”

  Damn him. Again. Put on the spot like this…

  She dragged the case over to him, laid it flat and opened it, then reached for the front fastenings of her bodice with a shaking hand, shaking because of that nervousness and not from fear. She wasn’t scared of him. Was she?

  The buttons and little bows came undone. The corset popped open, she unhooked the stockings, let the dress slip to the floor, and slowly divested herself of all her clothes, her shoes, everything.

  In the carriage it hadn’t been so bad in spite of, or perhaps because of, his hands on her and the violence. Everything had happened quickly, and she’d been forced to do it, sort of, which she’d liked, stupidly, and as before her thoughts and emotions churned into a treacherous jumble.

  At some Neanderthal level of her consciousness, she liked his orders and forcible handling of her.

  Who was she? Not the Willa she should be. She’d failed today and should have stood her ground more.

  Except… he was Sherlock.

  He was studying her with that slight curl of lip and those somewhat cruel eyes.

  He wasn’t leering, for he never did that; it was a barely detectable amusement, along with desire, perhaps? From the first time she met him, Willa had been struck by his intensity and was never sure what emotions he hid from her. He was a secret, unyielding, and unreachable man, and he drew her as surely as a moth to a candle flame.

  Simultaneously, she loathed how he had blackmailed her.

  She nudged away her shoe with the toe of her foot. The floor was cold.

  The room itself was cool enough to turn her nipples into rigid buttons and to make her acutely aware of her bare belly. It exacerbated her trembling and reminded her of how unladylike it was to let a stranger see what was between her legs.

  Except, he had already seen there.

  As she stood before him, her face flared hot from embarrassment. Barely a second later, she lowered herself and kneeled, to make herself less a target.

  It didn’t help. That alarming, stern gaze never left her, and he dwelled on her breasts for several seconds.

  “Come closer and turn.” He drew a circle in the air with his ha
nd, and she turned using her hands and knees. “Slide back toward me.”

  With her knees feeling the slight imperfections in the timber flooring beneath the rug, she obeyed until her foot bumped into a chair leg. The chair creaked as he leaned in.

  “Now I can touch you.” His breath stirred the fine hairs of her nape, raising a flurry of goose bumps. “Now you’re being good.”

  His long fingers threaded into her hair then he drew back her head—in a gentler fashion than she expected. “You’re very pretty, Miss Moriarty, I will give you that.” He slid forward and closed his thighs on her shoulders, trapping her. The wool fabric of his clothes was scratchy on her skin. More goose bumps prickled along her buttocks, then up her spine. Lower down, a sexual warmth spread.

  A haze fell over her, and her perceptions narrowed down to an awareness of him and her and little else.

  Her eyelids lowered. She registered the rise and fall of her breasts. How heavy they’d become. The harsh feel of his trousers was symbolic of this man making her do bad things which was strangely exquisite. A shiver ran through her. Her nipples ached. Her lips parted.

  “Thank you, Miss Willa. We can have a proper talk while I fondle you. You’re not allowed to move away. Just answer my questions.

  He slipped one hand to her breast and squeezed the fullness of it, weighed it, then he placed finger and thumb over her nipple and played there. Her body flooded with sensations and minor chaos that made it difficult to breathe. “Hear me?”

  “Oh. Um. Yes.” She inhaled sharply then tried to gather her thoughts. “The questions? First ones?” Willa found her tongue tip was dawdling on her lip, her eyelids fluttering. He was massaging that nipple and his thighs were close. His scent was roughly overpowering her ability to reason.

  She arched a little, into his hand.

  “Tell me of your past.”

  “Which part?”

  “All you want to tell me will do for a beginning. Your father? Your marriage? The machine?”

  “I…” The prickles from where his fingers tugged on the base of her hair, suffused into her scalp and unraveled her. She began to say it all, the facts spilling with little interference from her brain.