Page 16 of His Brazen Tart
However, it was that intense mysteriousness that drew Joan to him. The few tastes Piers had given of the pleasures he could offer made her hungry for more. She wanted everything—all that he had to give. The few hints of a debauched nature had left her burning with curiosity over the range of what he had referred to as his ‘skill set.’
Joan was not completely ignorant. She had studied erotic novels and art and had grown aroused at the depictions of women being spanked—with bare hands, birch rods, paddles, and riding crops. The application of bondage had made her fantasize about being bound and rendered motionless. Such things would have been distasteful to her former lovers—at least, when it came to Joan. She was a lady and such activities seemed, as a general consensus, to be reserved for lower sorts of women. The kind of women that gentlemen paid in dark alleys before slinking into dank hovels.
It had nearly been enough for Joan to wishshewere a lower sort of woman, since it seemed she had the desires of one. But now she had Piers as her guide, and she could hardly wait to discover where this arrangement would take her. Despite having enjoyed their last outing, Joan couldn’t help but wish that her courtesan would simply take her to his residence, where he could debauch her any way he pleased.
“Patience,” he said, lightly flicking the tip of her nose.
Joan scowled and folded her arms over her chest. “Patience is not a virtue I can confess to having.”
“It is one you will learn unless you wish to be punished.”
Liquid heat pooled in her middle, sinking low into her womb at the subtle threat edging his words. His first punishment had been titillating enough that she was ready to defy him just to find out how much further he might take her this time.
She pushed her lower lip into a pout, and in the darkness of the carriage she detected the glint of his pale eyes, dangerous and filled with promise. Joan had nearly made up her mind to continue needling him in hopes it might result in the treatment she so badly craved when the carriage slowed.
“We’re here,” Piers announced while pushing aside a curtain to peer out the window. “Before we go inside, there are rules you must follow. Are you ready to hear them?”
Joan’s spine stiffened at the mention of rules. She had never taken kindly to restrictions of any kind. But then, her belly clenched at the reminder of the last set of instructions he had given her and what had resulted from defying them.
“I suppose,” she teased, offering him a coy smile.
Piers rested his elbows on his thighs and leaned in until the lamplight from outside the carriage illuminated the individual spikes of his pale eyelashes. “You are here as my guest and will conduct yourself like a good girl. You shall imbibe no more than two glasses of champagne and avoid rich foods. You are not to speak to any guest unless they have addressed me first and I have introduced you. Do not look any of the men directly in the eye. Keep your gaze modestly lowered. No flirtation, Joan; this rule is the most important. The last thing I need is for someone to misinterpret your coquetry as an invitation.”
Joan blinked, taken aback by the terse way in which Piers delivered these ridiculous rules. Of course, she had expected him to take charge of the evening—it was what she paid him for, after all. But the restrictions placed upon her were asinine. How did he expect her to enjoy herself if she were forced to keep her eyes down and her mouth closed unless he instructed her otherwise?
As if sensing her resistance, Piers took hold of the back of her neck and pulled until her bottom was rested on the very edge of her seat. She felt as if the only thing keeping her from falling flat on her face was the clench of strong fingers on the tender cords running from the base of her skull to her shoulders. A shiver raced down her spine as he used his other hand to stroke along the pillar of her throat and the line of her cleavage, bared wantonly by the low cut of her bodice.
“Good girls are rewarded,” he reminded her. “Can you behave yourself, Joan?”
“I … I can try,” she said, breathless with anticipation and lust. The deep growl in his voice and the promise threaded through every word made her yearn. She had grown slick between her thighs, and the compression of her stays caused her chemise to agitate her hardened nipples. The longer they dallied, the longer she would have to wait to have her pleasure. Joan cleared her throat and tried again. “Yes, I can behave myself.”
“Good,” he murmured, allowing his fingertip to trail along her jaw before dropping his hand.
The carriage door swung open, and Joan stared at the building looming over them—a remnant from the days of the popularity of Gothic architecture. Turrets and spires were outlined in shadow against the moonlit sky, and stained-glass windows gleamed with colorful light from within. Piers handed her down, then tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. She allowed him to lead her toward a large pair of wooden doors painted black, with enormous silver fixtures shaped like snarling dragons affixed to them. The panels swung wide to reveal two footmen wearing black and silver livery, with matching half-masks covering their eyes and noses. White-gloved hands swept in welcome, guiding the way through a small vestibule and a cascade of silken black curtains.
They were greeted in an opulent antechamber by a cluster of women in diaphanous black gowns in the Grecian style and the same masks worn by the footman. With smiles and giggles, they deftly tied similar masks about Joan’s face, and then Piers’. A third woman offered a platter crowded with silver chalices, and Joan peered inside her cup to find bubbly champagne. The first of the two drinks she would be allowed for the evening.
For now, she was too busy absorbing her surroundings, and the champagne remained untouched as they were ushered through another curtain and into a large circular space. A stone fountain sat in its center, with streams of water arching upward from the mouths of bare-breasted mermaids carved from more of the same. Joan’s mouth fell open as she noticed a group of women attired like those in the antechamber—only they wore pure white gowns, which were soaked through by the spray of water. While other guests of the establishment stood about talking and sipping from their chalices, the nymph-like creatures splashed and giggled with one another. A handful of men stood near the fountain watching them, smiles wide beneath their masks and heads bent close together as they watched the erotic spectacle.
Joan’s senses were overwhelmed by the whir of chaos—music floating on the air amid raised voices and laughter. Though the patrons were all masked, Joan knew members of high society when she saw them. The gentlemen and ladies filling the space wall to wall were elegantly dressed and dripping with jewels. Interspersed amongst them were more of the masked footmen offering goblets of champagne and glasses of other spirits. White-robed women offered sweetmeats, fruits, and cheeses from platters, many receiving lascivious glances and pinched bottoms in return.
Joan’s attention became snared by four platforms erected at the north, south, east, and west points of the circle. The flush on her cheeks spread to engulf her entire face and neck, and the press of stays and chemise against her breasts became constricting at the tight furl of her nipples.
There were people on the platforms wearing little to no clothing, all engaged in intimate acts right out in the open. Joan choked down a shocked gasp at the sight of a nude man on all fours, his buttocks reddening as another man, wearing only breeches and a lion-faced mask, whipped him from behind. Joan’s eyes flared wide as she took in other such sights—women turned over knees with their arses in the air as palms and riding crops fell onto quivering flesh. Another pair of women writhed against one another in wild abandon, rouged lips parted in ecstasy. From curtained alcoves and tables spread throughout the room, patrons dined and drank while watching the performances, all of them seemingly unaffected.
Joan snapped her gaping mouth closed and did her best to appear as if she belonged. Despite the many experiences she’d enjoyed after becoming a widow, she had never seen anything likethis.
A supportive hand braced the small of her back and she glanced up to find Piers watching her, his eyes pale and riveting through the slits of his mask.
“What is this place?” she murmured, her voice husky and strained from the intrigue and curiosity coursing through her.
Piers grinned, the expression curling her toes inside her slippers. It was filled with knowing mischief. It made her legs tremble with anticipation. He lowered his head until his lips brushed the shell of her ear.
“Welcome to Olympus,” he whispered. “An exclusive club for those of us with … exotic tastes.”
Joan smiled, feeling slightly giddy. She had heard whispers of such places and had always been seized by the most insatiable curiosity. However, all the rumors indicated that membership into such clubs were exclusive and heavily regulated, though with good reason. Being ousted as a patron of a place like Olympus could ruin one’s reputation.
Taking her first sip of champagne, Joan allowed the nervous tension to ease from her spine. She clung to Piers’ arm and took in the sights, sounds, and smells of Olympus. The Grecian theme befitted the name of the establishment, and overhead she found vaulted ceilings painted with depictions of Greek gods and goddesses, as well as other mythological creatures. Inhibitions were lowered here, with the masks offering anonymity. Intimacies were traded as easily as handshakes between people—embraces, kisses, and a good deal of groping and petting. The erotic performances on the platforms grew more wanton by the second, until Joan could hardly look in the performers’ direction without receiving an eyeful of breast or buttock or thigh.
