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.
Publisher on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok:
@changelingpress
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