A Regency BDSM Novella
Date Published: August 9, 2024
Publisher: Changeling Press
Pickpocket Tasha picked the wrong man to follow. After she witnesses an assassination, the sexy killer ties her to his bed. Marcus wants answers -- who is she? Why was she following him? To his surprise, his pretty captive enjoys all the sensual torment he metes out, and begs him for more. He'd never dared to dream of finding a woman who matched his craving to inflict a little pain on tender female flesh.
Tasha will do anything to save her skin. She'll even let the masked man holding her captive take her in ways she's never imagined. She's always wanted a man to take command of her in bed. Tied up and helpless, she'll give Marcus everything he demands physically, but she can't tell him all the secrets of her sordid past.
Marcus demands more than answers -- he wants her total submission. But can Tasha trust the spy who spanked her?
Excerpt
Copyright ©2024 Gemma Woods
The gentleman did nothing in particular to distinguish himself, but Tasha found her gaze arrested by him nonetheless. Certainly tall, brown-haired gentlemen in somber evening clothes were a ha’penny a dozen at King’s Theatre, but this man would draw her eye in any crowd. Not exactly handsome, not with those arched black brows and slightly crooked nose. Still, he looked as regal as a lord, standing proudly behind a buxom lady with an elaborate coiffure. Purple feathers adorned her bonnet, the frothy concoction all but obscuring his firm chin.
A military man? Probably not, although he did have the bearing of an officer, with his shoulders back and his chest thrust proudly forward. In the chattering, whirling crowd leaving the theatre, this man stood apart like an obelisk. His stance was both proprietary and defiant, hawkish features seeming to challenge anyone who dared encroach upon his property. Property? Ah, he must be the woman’s protector.
The feathers fluttered away, and his stark blue eyes locked on Tasha. Goodness, what a riveting look. She nearly put a hand to her chest in shock. Did he know her for a thief? Those piercing eyes seemed to peer into the deepest secrets of her soul.
Almost, she almost turned to run. But then his gaze slid away as though he hadn’t noticed her at all. He inclined his head slightly to the right, no doubt acknowledging a passing acquaintance in the crowd. The frothy ivory cravat at his throat seemed incongruous, a touch of civility on a man more predatory than polite. When he smiled, the flash of even white teeth reminded her of the lion she’d seen at Astleys, restless animal energy threatening from behind the bars of its iron cage. She could easily imagine him snarling deep in his throat like that great jungle cat.
A sudden image of him growling against her bared breast made her knees go weak. When he raised a long-fingered hand to lift the brim of his hat… oh yes, she pictured those masculine fingers on her belly, sliding teasingly lower…
Mouth suddenly dry, Tasha swallowed. The warm, stifling air could not be blamed for the prickling flush of heat on the back of her neck. Bouncing feather fronds obscured his face again, and Tasha leaned to the side to keep his face in view. From this angle, only his mouth and jaw were visible.
She glared at the giggling courtesan. Silly widgeon.
Ridiculous to envy a woman who earned her bread on her back, but sharing her handsome protector’s bed could be no hardship. Watching his expressive mouth quirk at some private joke, Tasha sighed. ’Twould be a rare pleasure to lie with a man so confident and quixotic. It had been long, far too long, since she’d bedded down with a man… and longer still since one had cared to make the experience a pleasure for her.
Another gentleman approached, a thin-shouldered, thin-lipped dandy with a purple waistcoat to match the harlot’s bonnet. As the dark gentleman stepped back, the newcomer took the courtesan’s arm. Ah, this was the feathered widgeon’s protector. The hawkish man melted away as though he’d never been near, moving back until he stood next to a circle of young bucks. As Tasha stared, he somehow transformed into a gentleman of the sporting set. Despite the wings of gray hair marking his temples, he gave himself a much more youthful air, his shoulders slanting in a casual pose, one hip slightly higher than the other. An insouciant smile curved his full lips, and his stormy blue eyes narrowed in sarcastic delight as though he’d been privy to the jest that had set the others chortling.
Tasha didn’t know him, but she recognized a person trying to blend in where he didn’t belong. A kindred spirit. But oh, this man was a master of the art. She could learn much from observing a chameleon of his caliber.
She slowly worked her way in a circle around him, keeping her distance, watching him transform time and again. Now a country squire, somehow appearing portly despite his impeccably flat torso; now a weary veteran, shoulders stooped, expression blank, eyes hollow. Never quite handsome, but always fascinating. She could scarce look away. He moved through the crowd until he’d scoured the entire throng, subtly altering his posture and demeanor to blend in with different groups. And then, with an expression of pure annoyance, he left through a narrow side door that led to the alley behind the theatre.
Somehow, she knew that fierce scowl, that flash of anger, was the only truth of the evening. The real man behind the mask of an actor.
Without conscious thought, Tasha followed him. She pushed through the crowd with a single purpose until she reached the door, shoving it open with a creak all but drowned by the chattering voices behind her. She glanced to the left and squinted. Even though the sun hadn’t quite set, the London air at dusk was gloomy from the smoke of thousands of cooking fires. A horse whinnied, stamping one restless foot behind a cart blocking the alleyway, but nothing moved. She looked right. Ah, there he was, turning the corner at the end of the alley.
She rushed after him, her sturdy shoes clopping softly on the paving stones, careful not to step in wet patches left from the afternoon’s rain. By the time she reached the crossing street, her calves ached from straining to keep her balance as she ran over the slippery pavement. She slowed and eased her way around the corner. Would he see her? She could pretend to be a doxy or go in the other direction to evade him completely.
The thought of abandoning her pursuit gave her a pang of unease, and she’d learned to never question her intuition. She had no intention of letting him slip away into the dusk, never to be seen again.
His long strides had already taken him down the street to the outer corner of the square. If she got too close, he’d hear her. Would he call the watch? No matter. She hadn’t pocketed much from the nobs tonight, so he would have no reason to suspect her. Perhaps he’d think her a trollop and proposition her.
Perhaps she would accept.
Good heavens, that thought shouldn’t make her breath catch. More likely he’d demand an explanation, and what could she say? “You fascinate me?” He’d think her fit for Bedlam.
No, she’d remain hidden tonight. Find his lodgings, then think of a way to contrive a meeting tomorrow.
About the Author
Gemma Woods has no spouse, no children, and no pets. Her family is imaginary -- she writes them. Outside her imaginary world, she enjoys the typical author hobbies of reading, traveling, and fretting over her dying houseplants.
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