Could she be Xenia Loveday?
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.”
Charlie recognized the warm, sultry voice immediately. ItwasMiss Loveday.
“I am Scheherazade, here to entertain you with a bedtime story. I have famously entranced a sultan, the passion of my tales unleashing inhibitions and making imaginations run wild. As you fall under my spell, you may begin to see the stories come to life on this screen. Now sit back, relax, and enjoy this rendition ofThe Fishwife’s TaleorA Lady in Need of Discipline.”
A hush came over the crowd as Scheherazade/Miss Loveday began to read. The plot was unabashedly silly and depraved: a headstrong lady leaves her tolerant husband in a fit of pique after their latest argument, seeking refuge at a convent. There, she finds she has jumped from the frying pan into the fire—or in her case, from her marital bed into an orgy. Forced to submit to the lascivious nuns and priests, she discovers her own true desires.
Nonetheless, Miss Loveday’s storytelling mesmerized the audience. Her voice brimmed with emotion, passion, and humor. As if she conjured them to life, figures materialized behind the screen, performing every lurid act she described. The shadows writhed and arched and thrust like a primal fever dream; the fact that they were silhouettes heightened the mystery and titillation.
“Lady Analise did not know how long she lay there, naked and strapped face-down to the punishment bench,”Scheherazade said in husky tones.“The abbess had stopped birching her, and she could feel the raised hot stripes upon the trembling hills of her bottom, exposed to the rapacious eyes of the novices and priests. To Lady Analise’s shock, it was no longer pain she felt but throbbing pleasure. Her nipples pulsed against the rough wood, and the place between her thighs wept with dew.
“‘You have a wanton cunny in need of correction,’ the abbess said.
“Lady Analise shuddered when the abbess ran the handle of the birch up between her thighs, teasing her opening until she quivered with need.
“Why did I run away from Robert? Lady Analise thought miserably. He was kind and loving, but I did not open my heart to him. I did not trust him.”
A spasm gripped Charlie’s throat at the authentic quiver in the narrator’s voice. As Lady Analise wriggled her shadowy rump in rhythm to the abbess’s stroking rod, Charlie berated herself for being affected by what was mediocre erotica at best. Yet it seemed like the universe was hell-bent on resurrecting the demons of her past. Even in this godforsaken brothel, she had to listen to a parable of a wife who wrestled with trust.
If you love me, then trust me.Sebastian’s gruff words, the desperation in his eyes reached out from the past and grabbed her by the throat.I did not betray you. I never would.
Yet how could she trust him when she’d caught him lying? From the day they met, he’d had secrets; she’d always known that he kept parts of himself hidden. She’d let herself be blinded by desire and the need to believe that her husband loved her above all else.
I left to protect you. And I am here now for the same reason.
Sebastian’s bleak resignation hadn’t seemed feigned. But after years of grieving and anger and pain, how could she possibly believe him? Moreover, why would she wish to? Before his reappearance, she’d been about to move on with a new lover, and a part of her believed that was still the wise choice. She was young enough to enjoy passion whilst having the maturity to not let it rule her.
Awareness stirred her nape. She trawled the room with an alert gaze. While several men leered back at her, none of them was Sebastian. She couldn’t shake the feeling that he was near. Perhaps it was her imagination or the bawdy story, but she would not put it past him to show up out of nowhere. Her gaze caught on a man entering the room, and her pulse quickened for a different reason.
Quinton.
He seemed ill at ease—and so he should, being here when he has a loving wife at home, Charlie thought indignantly. His big shoulders were hunched, his mask stretched awkwardly across his broad features. He remained close to the doorway, as if he wanted to bolt, but his gaze was trained upon the silk screen where Scheherazade/Miss Loveday appeared to be reaching the climax of the story.
“‘Do you need a good ramming, my dear?’she inquired in a cruel, throaty voice.
“The abbess came to stand beside Lady Analise’s head, stroking her cheek with a cold, hard object. Lady Analise let out a gasp when she saw her tormentor had traded the birch for an ebony phallus of enormous proportions.”
Even Charlie had to blink at the shadowy cock, roughly the size of a forearm.
“‘Is this what you want?’ the abbess said sternly.
“‘No.’ The protest came out as a moan, for the abbess had begun to rub the bulbous head against Lady Analise’s pulsing love-knot. ‘I know now that what I want…what I truly want…’
“‘Say it,’ the abbess commanded.
“‘My husband,’ Lady Analise sobbed. ‘I want Robert.’
“‘Then you shall have me,’ a familiar male voice declared.
“One of the priests threw off his cassock, revealing himself to be Robert. He stepped to his wife’s head, cupping her cheek with such gentleness that she sobbed harder. He was naked, his muscles gleaming, his instrument bigger and harder than she’d ever seen it. Never in her life had she been so glad to see another.
“‘Did you miss me, my love?’ her spouse said softly.
“‘Yes,’ she whispered.
“‘Then show me.’”
