LORD DECADENT'S OBSESSION (3 page)

through the streets as the moonlight flickered through the windows. Prentice couldn't

bring himself to speak, though he had much to say.

He had been retrospective of late; the anniversary of his wife's death loomed

near. He experienced the same melancholy every year. His usual jovial humor was

reduced to morose thoughts, and though his sexual urges never abated, he took little

pleasure in satisfying them.

The carriage stopped outside number forty-two Doughty Street. The coachman

opened the door, and Prentice got out. Desiree followed with his help.

"Would you care for a brandy, my lord? I have some fine French."

"Yes, I believe I would," he said without thinking. He loathed being alone, and

rather enjoyed the lady's company.

Desiree let them into her home, the servants obviously having long ago found

their beds. Someone had left a taper lit, which provided scant but sufficient light.

Prentice followed Desiree to her drawing room, a small but adequate place, filled to

teeming with furniture that belonged to the last century. A sconce was lit in this room,

as was a nice fire in the grate, which warmed the room cozily.

Prentice walked around, looking at the porcelain figurines. "This is a nice room.

It seems to be a pleasant place to spend some idle hours."

"Thank you. This is my favorite room in the house."

"How long have you been in London?"

"Many years now, but in this house only the last five."

"Is that when your husband died?"

"Yes, it is."

Prentice turned to apologize, and was struck once again by her inordinate

beauty. His heart wrenched.

"Desiree, I . . . ."

"What is it? You suddenly look so terribly sad."

Her compassion gripped him. He crossed the space between them, and before he

could think, he kissed her. He covered her mouth with a desperation that frightened

him. As her lips parted and her arms came around his neck, he became lost in the

moment. His tongue delved inside to explore.

He wrapped his arms around her slim body, absorbing her warmth, her strength.

He didn't allow himself this type of closeness. Having a woman's body pressed so close

to his own, was a luxury he rarely indulged in. Fucking was one thing; this kind of

intimacy was something else entirely.

She gave back, kissing him with abandon, with purpose.

"I want you," he whispered. "Where is your bed?"

"This way." She led him up the stairs, down a long hallway, and to her

bedchamber. It too was warmed by a cheery fire in the grate.

They were barely through the door before Prentice was working the buttons on

the back of Desiree's dress. He wanted to tear the thing off of her but realized

forbearance was the more appropriate route.

"God I hate buttons, especially tiny ones," he grumbled.

She giggled like a young debutante.

Finally, he pushed her dress down over her shoulders; it fell into a fluffy heap

about her ankles. Her stays soon joined the dress, leaving her standing before him in

her chemise, looking lovelier than a woman had a right.

He couldn't resist the temptation to pluck the silver pins from her hair. He

wanted to see if her tawny tresses felt as silky as they looked. It took but a moment to

discover the softness, and become intoxicated by the glorious smell of gardenias. He

raked his hands through her locks, allowing himself to become lost in the moment.

"I wish to see you, Desiree."

"You have but to ask, sir."

"I am not your master now. I am simply a man who wants you under him."

She slipped the chemise over her head. Prentice filled his hands with her breasts

then covered each nipple in turn with his mouth. She seemed to melt in his embrace. He

suckled them, hungrily drawing the nipple into the moist heat of his mouth, laving

them with his tongue.

"Delicious."

She reached up to unbutton his coat. He shrugged out of it, allowing the

expensive garment to join her dress in a puddle on the floor.

"I wish to see you as well."

He picked her up and carried her to the bed. Perching her bottom on the edge of

the mattress, he towered over her, shielding her from the lapping shadows of the fire.

Her face was close enough to . . . .

She reached for the buttons of his breeches, her tongue licking her bottom lip.

When Desiree's hand brushed his cock through the linen, he closed his eyes, the

sensation almost overwhelming. For a moment, he replayed another night in his head,

another woman. He forced himself to open his eyes, to bring himself back to the

present.
She's gone, old man. Abigail's gone.

Impatience replaced sorrow as he helped her with the remaining three buttons.

He then allowed her to slide the breeches and small clothes over his narrow hips,

savoring the feel of her hands skimming over his skin.

Her warm breath upon him was nearly his undoing. "Touch me." Even
he
sensed

the raw need in his voice.

He waited for the first contact—that precious feeling he'd always adored. Her

warm hand reverently closed around his steel hard cock, while her eyes studied his

face. She was practiced, he could tell. He did so hate to break them in, to teach them the

many ways to please him, especially when he was anxious to sink into them and forget.

He wished for a schooled touch from someone who might have a few surprises of her

own.

She slid her hand down, touching all the most sensitive spots. Then up again, her

thumb riding the engorged blue vein.

"Oh, shit," he hissed through his teeth.

"Do you like that, my lord?"

"You know I do, vixen." His hold on composure grew tenuous.

As she slid her hand down once again, she flicked her tongue over the bulbous

head, lapping the secretion her ministrations produced. She opened her mouth,

covering the head, surrounding his cock in wet, velvety warmth. Inch by delicious inch,

she took him in.

Chapter Three

Desiree awoke to Lord Wycroft's soft snores. The sun was not yet up. She'd have

to wake him soon, before the servants began to stir.

She rolled to her side, lifting herself up on one elbow. He hadn't changed in the

last ten years. He was still the most handsome man she had ever seen. His tawny hair

was beginning to streak with silver, but the look certainly became him.

If she wasn't careful, she would become lost in those topaz eyes again, a fate

she'd not allow.

She'd sensed a deep sadness about him the night before, but he was still the same

horse's arse he'd always been. She laughed to herself.
He's so self-confident; he must think

himself invincible.
A man of eight and thirty should be more careful, and she would

make him realize it.

She flopped back onto her pillow, pondering how the last ten years had come to

define who she was. She'd been like all the other girls in Mrs. Petrie's School for Young

Ladies. She'd learned to embroider—a pursuit destined for extinction—and play the

pianoforte and violin, and all the proper manners any young girl should know. Later,

she had come out, curtsied before the Queen, danced with all the eligible young men

and old widowers, all of whom were looking for a wife, and if she were truthful with

herself, she'd have to admit she'd been happy with her life.

But then, an arrogant, cocksure nobleman, who, it turned out, meant none of his

flattery, had turned her entire world upside down. He'd infiltrated the ranks of the

searching, and pursued his course of conquering. She'd been one of many who had

fallen into his trap of long eyelashes, silver tongue (oh, that tongue!), and heavenly

hands.

Desiree shuddered at her immaturity.
How could I have believed all his lies?
She'd

asked herself that same question every day for the last ten years. That mistake had cost

her everything she held dear. He'd taken her virginity, which she gave without so much

as a whimper, then abandoned her to her fate, while he went on and married Abigail

Featherstone.
I was good enough to fuck but not to marry
.

Instead, her parents rushed her into a marriage with Ebenezer Huntington, a

wealthy merchant treble her age. His gray side-whiskers alone turned her stomach, but

add to that his paunch, and his yellowed, tobacco-stained teeth, and he was a

thoroughly disgusting man.

The family of the young man who'd originally wanted to marry her insisted

upon knowing the status of her maidenhead before committing to a betrothal. Upon a

physician's discovery that the valuable shield was no longer intact, her humiliated

parents palmed her off on Mr. Huntington, who didn't have a care for the condition of

said maidenhead. He was quite content to have a young, beautiful wife to sweat over in

his bed. The sounds of his grunting and groaning had solidified her anger toward

Prentice Hyde, the almighty Marquess of Wycroft.

In the beginning, in her more rational moments, she'd taken the lion's share of

the blame. However, as time passed, and her misery increased, it had become easier to

shuttle all the blame to him, citing
her
youth, and inexperience.

She'd fallen for his honeyed words, and their one quick coupling in an alcove

had changed her life forever. He'd pay for that. She would lure him in, and when she

had him as enamored as she'd been, she'd walk away.

She'd planned this for years. She'd heard how he was a devotee of some of the

more perverse sexual practices, something she had become interested in, as well. After

her husband died, and she'd gone back out into society, she'd attended a ball, where

she'd overheard several rather foxed gentlemen describe some of the activities that went

on at the Sapphire Club. Their descriptions had dampened her quim, and excited her

senses.

She relished the idea that a man could turn her into a quivering mass of need as

he spanked her bottom. She'd always been a naughty girl but had hidden it well

beneath linen and silk.

Yes, she would enjoy Prentice Hyde. She'd submit to his whims and wants

because it suited her purpose to do so. If last night was any standard by which to judge,

she'd look forward to what was to come. She'd learn all she could, and when the time

was right, she'd turn it on him and pray that he'd suffer after she took her leave.

Revenge was sweet, or so she'd read somewhere, but in the meantime . . . .

* * * * *

Prentice sat behind the expansive mahogany desk in his library, trying to

concentrate on the sheaf of papers his man-of-business had foisted upon him earlier

that morning. Crop yields and petitioning tenants were something he usually left for

Upton to handle, but somehow the business always ended back in his lap.

"Give them whatever it is they want," Prentice said, impatient with being forced

to see to matters that held no particular interest for him. It wasn't that he was a

neglectful landowner. He simply knew how to delegate so he could pursue far more

important matters. Right now, he had a matter of a carnal nature to tend to, and Upton

was in the way.

"The cottages need new thatch before the cold sets in and—"

"I said, give them what they need. See to it, Upton." With that, Prentice stood and

made for the door.

"As you wish, my lord."

Though it was early afternoon, the Sapphire Club hummed with activity.

Prentice enjoyed the atmosphere of the place. It was a large, rambling, three-story estate

in St. John's Wood. Lucien Damrill had purchased it and established a sex club, which

occupied the first two floors. Lucien and his wife, Serenity, resided on the third floor.

Prentice and Lucien had been friends for years, and it was Prentice who had

helped exonerate Serenity of murder a few years before. The friendship deepened after

that, making Prentice feel as though he was almost a partner in club.

His boots tapped loudly as he walked across the tiled entrance hall toward the

library. Lucien could usually be found there at this time of day, though he would be

setting out soon for his afternoon spanking appointment with his wife.

The door stood ajar, and before Prentice entered, he peered into the room. Lucien

stood beside the Biedermeier chaise, his wife bent over the arm, getting her daily

spanking.

Lucien's perversities required a mate such as Serenity, who had adapted to, nay,

surpassed
her husband's expectations. She enjoyed her spankings, begged for them as a

rule, and Lucien could deliver one with skill.

"Come in, Prentice," Lucien called. "Don't be loitering about in the hall."

Prentice sauntered in, making for the fine French brandy Lucien always stocked.

"Good afternoon, Serenity, I see you are enjoying yourself, as usual."

Serenity was rather breathless, but she smiled as Lucien delivered another stroke

with Serenity's favorite leather strap.

Prentice sat down out of the way, savoring the sound of the strap as it hit bare

skin. He envied Lucien, for Prentice once had such a partner and would forever feel that

loss acutely.

Lucien helped Serenity stand, and she straightened her skirts. They had been

pulled up to her waist, and as usual she wore no drawers.

Lucien kissed Serenity with shameless passion, rubbing her inflamed bottom as