Chapter 7

7

"Welcome, gentlemen." Thorne Blackmore, the owner of the most exclusive underground club in London, spread his arms wide.

Dorian and the six other dukes entered the long three-story brick building situated in the bowels of Whitechapel. It was beautifully maintained and had a large back mews with household buildings to sustain all of Elysium's operations and whatever other shady business Thorne Blackmore undertook to acquire such riches.The entrance was marked by a semicircle of six sharp, sunray-like triangles above the door, a symbol known to all members.

The large, semidark room welcomed Dorian with indulgent scents of expensive alcohol and tobacco, exotic perfume, and coffee. Dark teal walls with exquisite, sensual art surrounded him in candlelight. A string quartet in the corner played "Stabat Mater" by Pergolesi, and a pair of superb opera singers—one male, one female—sang the slow, emotional piece, their voices interplaying so expertly, the high notes stabbed straight into Dorian's heart .

Thorne Blackmore certainly knew how to please his clients.

"Good evening, Mr. Blackmore," said Dorian as he strode in and looked around the room.

There were several tables with chairs, where members could usually eat, drink, and gamble, but which now stood empty. The panther in the cage at the far end lay on his stomach and raised his head, his eyes on Dorian and his friends while a python slithered very slowly around the branches of a marula tree behind a glass wall.

"I hear congratulations are in order," said Blackmore.

Dorian's jaw worked. "Thank you. Your sister was at my wedding with Lord Richard."

Thorne cocked his head, his cold, dark eyes warming momentarily at the mention of Jane. "I'm sure she enjoyed herself."

Dorian nodded. "I hope so."

Silence hung in the air, with the unspoken question: Why was Dorian spending his wedding night here, and not with his wife? But Blackmore was paid very well to keep his mouth shut and satisfy the deepest, secret cravings of the dukes.

"I apologize for having canceled our reservation a few days ago," said Dorian. "I had urgent matters to attend."

He had, of course, needed to meet with Mr. George Rose in London and arrange many things for the wedding, including the special license.

"Of course," said Thorne Blackmore. "I hope you understand the irreversible fee and the extra payment for an urgent booking for this night. I had to close the club for regular visitors."

"Most certainly," said Fortyne as he was already putting down his violet coat and hanging it on the back of the chair. "Do put the bill in my name. This exuberant night is my wedding present to one of my best friends. It seems Rath urgently needs his…ahem…usual distraction."

Blackmore raised one dark eyebrow and cocked his head in understanding.

Pryde clenched his fists. "Clearly, if the groom abandoned his bride mere hours after their vows, the marriage was a mistake." His chestnut eyes met Dorian's directly and accusingly. "This is just the beginning of a complete disaster. And you know why."

The beast within Dorian lashed like a fiery, burning whip against raw skin. "You know nothing, Constantine."

Dorian was furious with himself. With Miss Rose—nay, with his duchess—for asking all the right questions, for not being afraid of him, for not keeping her distance.

He'd come here because he wanted her.

Truth was, the moment he'd seen her in the church, he had been completely smitten with her. And that terrified him. He'd never felt anything like that in his entire life—awe and a sense of wonder that she had miraculously stepped into his miserable, lonely life.

He wanted her. Badly.

And yet, she was so innocent. So pure. So young.

With that smile that warmed the icy depths of his heart.

He needed to appease the raging beast inside, which loved nothing more than to destroy beautiful things. Vases. Paintings. Art.

If he took her to his bed, he'd destroy her, too.

He couldn't do that to an innocent, beautiful thing like his wife.

He needed someone who knew what they were doing. Who knew what he needed.

Lilith .

"This is going to end badly," said Pryde, standing at Dorian's right shoulder. "She's his sister!"

"It's going to be fine!" Lucien stood next to Dorian and clapped him on his shoulder with all his might. "She's so pretty, friend. You did the right thing. Well, not yet. The aforementioned right thing is waiting to be done by you back in Rath Hall."

"Shut your mouths, both of you. You two are driving me insane!" Dorian roared and marched away from them, deeper into the club. "Where's Lilith, Mr. Blackmore?"

Blackmore, who watched them with an amused look, nodded. "All of the ladies are on their way to you, gentlemen."

And then they appeared. Lilith was a tall, willowy woman in her late twenties, with a mane of shiny black hair. Her big dark eyes were catlike—the hooded eyes of a true seductress—and they were trained on him. She was dressed in a crimson gown, which dipped low and left little to imagination. Her lips were painted red, too, and he wondered if she had dressed just for him, to match his colors.

The rest of the sex workers followed her. Blonds, brunettes, redheads. Thin, curvy, tall and short, from all kinds of backgrounds. All of them were beautiful and carefully selected by Blackmore—and fiercely protected by him.

They spilled through the room, each already knowing their roles and what each duke required.

Lucien wanted three ladies tonight. Pryde had one woman he'd always met with, although he'd always hid with her in a separate room, and Dorian never knew what he did in there exactly. If Constantine simply talked to her, spilling his deepest insecurities and secrets, Dorian wouldn't be surprised.

The Duke of Enveigh lounged against the plush velvet settee, his silky green waistcoat shining under the dark coat embroidered with the serpent of his crest. His gray eyes glinted as he watched the male courtesan slowly undress the blushing female sex worker, her gown slipping from her shoulders.

The Duke of Eccess threw his head back in ecstasy, his auburn coat adorned with the boar of his lineage lying discarded on the floor. The women, draped in silks of blush and gold, drizzled the finest Parisian chocolate over their bountiful curves, the rich hues of their silks a contrast to his honey-blond locks. Their fingers tangled in his hair as he feasted upon their skin, the dark brown depths of his eyes glinting with mischief.

Irevrence and Fortyne were led into separate chambers, and Dorian knew the rest of his friends would take their own chambers, too.

Lilith's gaze stayed fixed on him as she moved towards him and he moved towards her, but instead of desire stirring in his loins as it had every time he saw her, he couldn't stop seeing the golden curls and the innocent big blue eyes framed by long, curly eyelashes. Not the dark eyes of the woman before him, glistening with sin. Where Lilith was tall and willowy, Dorian suddenly craved lush breasts and curves.

"Your Grace," she murmured seductively into his ear as she laid her thin, perfect hand on his chest. "I was wondering where you were last week."

Her hands were clean and smooth, short nails manicured to perfect ovals. He had noticed how weathered, scratched, and reddened his wife's hands were. Faint traces of dirt remained under her short fingernails despite having obviously been scrubbed with vigor.

Almost as tall as he, Lilith leaned closer to his ear and whispered in a low, throaty voice that sounded like pure sex, "Come."

She took him by the hand and led him to the usual chamber where she accepted visitors. Every step as he followed her felt wrong. But the beast needed its relief, needed to be sated. He couldn't imagine going through twelve months constantly tempted by his wife but without sexual satisfaction.

Through the grand walnut doors, she led him into a corridor with several doors to the left and right. Passing by an open door, he saw the Duke of Irevrence, dressed in pristine white, reclining upon a bed with silk sheets like a fallen angel amid temptation. With his ash-blond hair tied back, Irevrence lazily looked over the several sex workers moving around him, ready to please him, to indulge in whatever whim or fancy struck his mercurial mind.

And there, in the most opulent chamber of Elysium, was where the Duke of Fortyne, in a rich violet coat, played a game of chance and seduction. Fortyne always requested the most exclusive sex worker. Dorian was not sure what it involved, but he was certain the bastard always won. As he did in business.

Dorian and Lilith arrived at a large and luxurious chamber with heavy brocaded curtains that completely covered the windows. An exquisitely carved large bed with silky rose-patterned sheets and a white mink throw stood at the far side.Golden candelabras lit each corner of the room, and a small round table for two with wine and refreshments stood by the fireplace, in which a real fire played.

On the sideboard was a box with an array of the instruments of pleasure Dorian liked to use with Lilith: ties, gags, thin silver handcuffs and fetters, blindfolds, a soft cat-o'-nine-tails, and others. He had bought them all and they were not allowed to be used by anyone but him.

The room was set for his pleasure with a knowing partner.

And yet the ache in his chest was a constant reminder of his wife.

Lilith undressed herself and stood before him naked. He looked her over, waiting for his arousal to make an appearance, for the beast inside him to make its first hungry roar.

But there was nothing. Not even the memory of every time he'd had her pinned under him, with his hand on her throat, pounding into her like an animal, with no regard for her pleasure or comfort, only hearing the rhythmical, greedy slap of skin against skin.

And yet, she loved it. She had her climax before he did, every time. She could take all his brutishness, all his savagery.

Lilith and he…they fit. They were the same.

His wife, on the other hand, was everything he was not: light, innocent, open, young, naive, sheltered, curious, and she wore her heart on her sleeve.

Everything he craved. And everything he could never have.

Lilith came to him and kissed him, her lips tender and soft, and expert. He inhaled her scent.

Now. He would start to want her now. Now his beast would awaken and roar and he'd throw her on the bed. He'd spank her firm buttocks…and feel her wet arousal against his hand.

But he'd imagine his wife's luxurious behind.

He couldn't kiss Lilith back. He waited for her to do something. She wrapped both her hands around his neck, pressing her naked body into his clothes. He could feel her warmth, her silky skin, her familiar scent—a heady mix of flowers and musk that once would have ignited a fire in his veins. But now, even as her skilled hands worked to undress him, he found himself yearning for the delicate fragrance of roses that clung to his wife's skin. Lilith's touch, once electrifying, now felt hollow compared to the gentle brush of his wife's fingertips against his hand when he put his ring on her.

He wrapped his arms around Lilith and brought her to him. As her hands roamed over his body, Dorian's mind drifted to his wife. It was more than just her beauty that drew him in; it was her innocent spirit, her curiosity, and her bravery as she didn't back down from him even when he was so furious and no doubt terrifying, and the way she kept trying to break through his fa?ade.

Forget Miss Rose! Forget Miss Rose!

She wasn't Miss Rose anymore. She was the Duchess of Rath. His to take as he pleased. His to bed. To kiss. To spank. To bring to pleasure.

"Is everything all right, Your Grace?" asked Lilith as she leaned back slightly, her half-lidded eyes watching him.

He let go of her and stepped back. The beast woke up and roared, angry at him now for starving it of its pleasures.

But he couldn't do it. For better or worse, he gave a vow to one woman before God, and he simply couldn't lay his hands on another.

"I can't," he growled, then turned around and strode out of Lilith's room, his heart pounding and his mind reeling.

He had never walked away from pleasure before, never denied himself the satisfaction of his darkest desires.

And as he navigated the dimly lit corridors of Elysium, he still felt the need pulsating in his body. Unsatisfied.

As he stepped out into the cool night air, he promised himself he'd keep strong however difficult it might be. He'd ride harder. He'd swim longer. He'd hire a boxing partner.

Anything to alleviate this tension rising inside him like steam in a cauldron.

All he needed was to maintain his self-control. And not imagine his sweet, virginal wife moaning with pleasure as he thrust into her…