Prologue

M iss Xenia Loveday's next patron entered the confessional like a man who owed nothing to God, and this intrigued her. Of course, this was not a real confessional, and she was no absolver of sins. In fact, she was the opposite: a dispenser of iniquities.

She couldn't see much of her client through the silk screen that covered the hole between the two sides of the booth. The translucent window revealed only shadows, a unique arrangement that allowed the patron to receive his services anonymously. When she'd first proposed this diversion, her employer, who was known as the "Abbess," had seen its potential.

"I like a woman with initiative." The Abbess's closely spaced eyes had gleamed with approval and avarice. "You remind me a bit o' myself, dearie. When I first started this Nunnery in the middle o' nowhere, people said I was mad. Now bluebloods come from London to spend their blunt. I predict this new game o' yours will be the talk o' my brothel…no pun intended. Keep the ideas coming, dove, and you may find yourself rising through the ranks."

Rising through the ranks of the brothel wasn't Xenia's dream in life…but needs must. She was short on funds, and this job allowed her to make a good living without selling her body and exposing herself to a host of dangers, from diseases to pregnancy. Most importantly, she could keep her identity concealed, which was key to her survival.

Play your part well. If you earn a good tip, you could add to your savings…and maybe have extra left over for a meat pie.

Cheered by the thought of a savory pastry for supper, she took stock of her waiting patron. He'd turned down the lamp on his side of the confessional, rendering himself a flickering shadow. Like the other guests who attended the Nunnery's masquerades, he wore a mask to guard his privacy. Xenia's success stemmed from her ability to understand a customer and his deepest fantasies, and she discerned several details about the present fellow.

Limned by the dim light, he appeared fit…muscular without excessive bulk. The breadth of his shoulders and length of his torso suggested that he was tall, and his hair appeared short and thick. He had the posture of a gentleman who, from birth, has known his own worth. His stillness conveyed an uncommon degree of self-discipline. He did not fidget, nor launch into lustful demands. Instead, he waited with a quiet confidence that fascinated her.

What brought him here? What are his desires? What does he want from me?

By "me," Xenia was referring to her persona this eve, Sister Sirena. The angle of her patron's head indicated that he returned her scrutiny, and she knew what he saw. She'd worked on perfecting her silhouette, which was cast onto the silk screen by two bright lamps. As Sirena, she wore a dramatic wimple, beaded crucifix, and padded bodysuit that enhanced her curves and gave the illusion that she was as naked as the day she was born.

Her costume also provided protection. Back in London, she had let her guard down, and her past had nearly caught up to her. She'd learned her lesson. When she interviewed for this job, she'd done so under the alias of Mary Smith and altered her appearance with hair dye and face paint.

"Welcome to my confessional, sir," she said grandly. "I am Sister Sirena, the Salacious Storyteller. Tonight, I will enchant you with a tale woven from your deepest, innermost desires. As you listen to my voice, you will find yourself transported into another world. A world where pleasure is everything, and nothing is forbidden."

Although she'd given this introduction a half-dozen times this eve, her intimate tones made it sound like a secret between lovers. Her voice was her most prized asset, an instrument she'd learned to play with precision. She could tailor her tone, timbre, and accent to any role she played. She could sound like an eager wanton or a coy virgin; for the right price, she could be whoever the customer wanted.

"Nothing is forbidden?"

The stranger's query held a quiet intensity. Although his voice was muffled by the partition—he didn't project his voice the way she, a professional, did—his accent and manner confirmed that he was a blueblood. Her encounters with the breed had been far from sterling, but she was always willing to take their money.

"Tell me your desires, sir." She'd crafted Sister Sirena's voice to be an alluring mix of sultry and submissive. "And I will spin you a tale."

"What sort of tale?"

"That is up to you, darling," she purred. "Do you wish to hear about birching? A ménage à trois , perhaps? Or I could tell you about a dungeon where the most depraved acts imaginable take place…"

"None of that interests me," he said.

A picky toff. Just what I need.

She kept her tone sweet and cajoling. "What do you want, sir?"

He paused, as if contemplating his options. Was he hesitating because his fantasies were filthy? She could have assured him that she wasn't one to judge. She'd heard about every perversion under the sun and doubted his desires could be more depraved than those of the patron before him, who'd wanted a fantasy in which every orifice was filled and in simultaneous fashion. During the telling, she'd lost track of the body count and number of appendages; luckily, her patron had been too busy pleasuring himself to notice. His groaning climax had drowned out that of the tale.

"Discretion is my middle name," she said coaxingly.

"I thought it was ‘ Salacious .'"

This fellow had wit. Interesting.

"I am salacious and capable of keeping a secret," she replied.

"Very well," he said. "I want something real."

Did he mean he wanted to tup? If so, he'd come to the wrong place.

"I am a storyteller, sir," she said. "If you're looking for another kind of diversion, the lovely novices downstairs will gladly?—"

"I want you."

His statement set off a peculiar quiver at the center of her being.

"But I don't want to be peddled the usual drivel. I want your genuine responses—not what you think I want."

In the years Xenia had been doing this work, no one had asked her to be herself before. The proposal astounded her…and sparked a secret longing, which she snuffed. Her recent entanglement with a follower had demonstrated the futility of wanting to be desired for who she was. However, she was a professional. She could act the part of the genuine lover, and the toff across from her would never suspect she was playing a role.

"Of course, sir," she said in a flirty tone. "Now that you have me, I wonder what you desire of me?"

"I want you on my lap, your lips ready for mine."

At his demand, the tremor in her belly turned disconcertingly authentic. She didn't know why he affected her like no other patron had. Already, their encounter felt more titillating than her last conversation, which had involved six—or was it seven?—bodies and a great deal of thrusting. The passionate intensity she sensed beneath this fellow's restraint intrigued her. Her mind's eye filled in the details obscured by shadow and mask.

She pictured him as a handsome and charming faerie tale prince with golden hair and emerald eyes. He lived in a castle and had dozens of servants at his beck and call. Yet despite his life of privilege and command, something was missing…and he didn't know what. That was why he had come here, she concluded. He was searching for something—something real and intimate.

Although many would scorn her line of work, she took pride in the services she provided. She considered herself an artist, and her medium was sexual desire. In her confessional, guided by her creativity and imagination, clients were free to explore their deepest longings.

"I'm here," she said with soft invitation. "Waiting for you."

"I cup your cheek, and your skin is soft against my palm. When I press my mouth to yours, you tremble."

"Do I taste sweet?"

"Er, yes. You do, I suppose."

She imagined him frowning. She'd distracted him from his agenda, and maybe this was a good thing. Maybe challenging his self-control would allow him to discharge his primal impulses.

"I ate strawberries while I was waiting for you." She made her voice as sweet as the fruit. "Ripe, plump berries that stained my lips red to match my hair."

He cleared his throat. "You have red hair?"

She usually revealed as little of her true self as possible. Yet the image of scarlet berries, lips, and hair had flashed in her head, too delicious not to share. The way her patron was leaning subtly toward the screen, hooked on her every word, suggested that he had a preference for redheads. Since he'd started the fantasy with kissing, she suspected that he had a romantic streak as well—that he wasn't a poke-the-stick-in-the-hole sort of fellow—and she tailored her tale accordingly.

"Red as a flame," she said candidly. "I've left it loose because you like it this way. It flows over my sheer white peignoir edged with the finest lace. Sitting on your lap, I surrender to the masterful sweep of your tongue. I feel the thick ridge of your cock beneath my bottom, and it leaves me wanting more."

"I give you more." He took charge with thrilling dominance. "You're a naughty thing, wriggling your derriere against my erection, but I won't be rushed. I take my time enjoying your mouth before turning to your ear. I lick and suckle the plump lobe."

She felt the moist suction of his lips. Warmth rushed under her skin. Like any good artist, she let the fantasy sweep her up like a leaf in a flowing stream.

"It feels so good that I moan and arch my neck," she said huskily. "When you lick my ear, I feel that slick, hot sensation everywhere. Goose pimples prickle my skin. My nipples tighten?—"

"I see them." The hypnotic cadence of his words penetrated the barrier between them. "Tight, rosy buds jutting against your robe. Your tits are round and full, tempting me to touch them."

Oh, he's good.

"I want you to touch me," she breathed.

"I tear off your peignoir and fill my palms with your soft flesh, using my thumbs to circle the tips. Do you like the way I'm rubbing your nipples between my finger and thumb?"

Her nipples throbbed. "Oh, yes. Do it harder."

"You want me to pinch them?"

"Yes, please."

"How do you react when I lick your nipples, suck them into my mouth?"

The ghostly tug of his lips drew a warm gush between her thighs.

"I slide my fingers into your hair." Her unsteadiness wasn't feigned. "I hold you close as you lick me. My breasts are glistening, heaving in the candlelight. When you draw on my nipple, I feel a delicious tug in my pussy."

"Is your pussy wet for me?"

"Yes." For once, she wasn't telling tales. "I need to touch you. I reach to untie the belt of your dressing gown and free your huge, hard?—"

"I lift you off my lap. I deposit you on the carpet before the hearth and push you onto your back. I grab your hands and secure them above your head."

His authority sliced through the confessional, and it was electrifying. She realized that he'd been holding back. Now he was giving rein to his impulses and immersing himself in the fantasy with her.

"The carpet is silky-rough against my back as I gaze up at you," she said, giddy with triumph. "You've captured me, and I'm helpless to your desires."

"Your wrists are dainty within my grip," he said. "You give me the gift of your surrender because you know that I will take care of you. That no matter how wild and wicked we are together, you are always safe in my keeping."

She felt his powerful yet gentle grip holding her securely. She couldn't escape…and didn't want to. In her quest to uncover his desires, he was somehow baring hers.

"You want to belong to me, don't you?"

His question had a hint of arrogance, and she inhaled, intoxicated by his intensity. By the strength of his focus on her. What would it be like to be claimed by such a man? Would he see beyond her disguises and her past, and desire her for who she was? Would he demand everything of her and give everything in return?

"Yes," she whispered.

"Such a good girl."

His approval felt like a stroke against the neediest part of her, and she trembled.

"I reward you by taking my time. I taste every inch of your skin. The pulse at your throat, the plump underside of your breast, the dip in your belly. Then I spread your legs and admire what is mine."

She felt branded by his possession. His need to claim was a lightning rod to her need to belong.

"My pussy is drenched," she confessed. "I need you so badly."

"I can smell your arousal." Satisfaction dripped from his voice like honey into dark, smoky tea. "When I part your little red nest, your juice coats my thumbs. You are ripe and ready to eat."

"Do you eat me?" she asked breathily.

"I savor you."

His cool correction made her squirm.

"I lick your slit slowly, up and down. You are a treat, soft and plump against my tongue."

"I like what you're doing. It feels like nothing I've ever experienced before." Which was the truth, since she was a virgin...in body only. In knowledge, she rivaled the most seasoned of harlots. "But I want you to lick me higher."

"Where?"

"On my pearl. Please."

"Since you ask so nicely. Do you want me to suck on it, too?"

Her pussy pulsed under his hot, greedy mouth. "Oh, yes."

"I think you need more. I think you crave something inside your empty little hole."

She knew the words he wanted, the ones burning on her tongue.

"Please fuck me," she breathed. "Take me with your big cock."

"I like that you're begging." A smile entered his voice. "But you're not ready for my cock just yet. I'm sliding two fingers into you, and even though you're dripping, it's a snug fit."

She squeezed her thighs together, feeling his touch and the way it opened her to sensation.

"I feel ready," she said.

"You're getting there. Especially when I stroke your needy little bud. You like that, don't you?"

"I love it, but I want more. I need your prick inside me. Please."

Desire swelled inside her as she imagined him leaning over her, a sweltering shelter of sinew and flesh. His green eyes pierced her, searching out her secrets. He was both safety and danger, and it was a thrilling combination.

"Since you asked nicely, I fit my cock to your hole and push in. I do it slowly, watching you take me inch by inch." Pleasure roughened his voice. "You are hot and tight, made to take me."

"You're so thick and long, and even though you're stretching me, I want all of you."

"I plant myself deep. Claim you."

His possession sent a dizzying wave of pleasure through her.

"I've never belonged to anyone before," she admitted. "You fill the emptiness inside me."

"Christ." A note of strain entered his voice. "You're gripping me like a wet, slick fist."

"You feel so big and hard as you thrust inside me." Passion swamped her. "I lift my legs, circling your hips, wanting more."

"I give it to you. Everything you need."

"I want it harder."

"I hook your knees over my shoulders so that I can get deeper into your cunny. I'm pounding into you now, my stones smacking your wet folds."

"I want everything you have to give," she panted. "Take me, go deeper."

"I'm so bloody deep I hit your womb," he growled.

Bliss jolted her core just as a tapping sounded on her door.

"Sister Sirena, your next penitent has arrived."

Her employer's voice slapped her to her senses.

"Thank you for your patronage, sir," the Abbess went on. "Upon leaving the confessional, please make a discreet exit using the door to your right."

Disoriented, Xenia tried to regain her bearings. To summon a farewell worthy of what had transpired between her and her client. He spoke first.

"My compliments, Sister Sirena." His muffled voice was composed, his passion leashed once more. "Your reputation was not exaggerated."

He exited the confessional, shutting the door behind him.