Knightley’s Tale

A Maeve & Devlin Story

Destiny D’Otare

Maeve and Devlin are back with another erotic tale—this time featuring two of Maeve’s favorite characters as you’ve never seen them before….

Mr. Knightley is shocked that his beloved Emma would risk her reputation by visiting the scandalous pleasure garden where the ton’s sexual fantasies came to life. He’s even more astounded—and aroused—by Emma’s transformation into a sensual goddess intent on being initiated into the secrets of love…by him!

Contents

Begin Reading

“Is there a woman in there?”

Digging through the layers of down and fleece piled on their large bed, Devlin tried to reach his wife’s soft, sweet skin. But Maeve didn’t match his enthusiasm as she burrowed deeper into the folds.

“I’m cold.” She sniffed loudly.

“Cold? You’ve a fire blazing in the grate, luv. Blankets heaped ’top you like a Russian princess. And, of course, you have me. What more could a body want?”

“It’s December in Scotland. And you chose the lodge in which to spend the holidays instead of the resort in the West Indies. And…I miss home,” she added with a sniff.

“You’re lonely.” Devlin curled up to her, and, in a voice that was almost a purr, he enticed, “Shall I warm you…with a story?”

Maeve’s eyes became round.

“Yes. But I’ll have none of that Charlie’s Angels threesomes. I want something with depth. A plot.”

“Plot? Like Jane Austen?” He indicated the books on her nightstand. “But they don’t even kiss in those books.”

“Perhaps a little more robust. But I do love a good Regency.”

“The time period has its possibilities. As I recall, it wasn’t as virtuous as your Jane would lead us to believe. While the king forbade anyone to write about sex, he didn’t prevent anyone from having sex—no, quite the contrary. Take Prinny, for example, that perverted old sod.” Devlin paused, a far-off memory clouding his eyes.

“The Secretum has its origins in the early nineteenth century,” Maeve prodded, knowing Devlin’s penchant for the British Museum’s secluded room of erotic art.

“Precisely, my dear. Your Jane was surrounded by debauchery and I bet just a little rubbed off.” He was contemplating. “Very well, a Regency it is. Any other demands?”

“The hero must be dashing.”

“Of course.”

“The seduction must be true to the time period—no PDAs.”

“Indeed.”

“It must be set at a high-society party.”

“Hmmm.”

“They must waltz.”

“Can they touch while they dance?”

Ignoring his sarcasm, Maeve continued, “And he must pleasure her…”

“But, of course.”

“…while their clothes remain on.”

“Ah.” Devlin settled back on the pillow next to her, considering the challenge. “So, let me get this straight…you want a tale of seduction for two of your favorite Jane Austen characters that entails a situation of public lovemaking, but without nudity.”

“Precisely.”

“Very well…”

“Little girl, this seems to say,

Never stop upon your way.…”

Wolves packed the floor tonight.

Swallowing his growl of frustration, Knightley shoved his way through the crowded dance floor into the entry hall where he narrowly avoided colliding with two more prowling jackals.

They dressed the part, too.

The young pups somehow—Knightley didn’t linger over them to find out exactly how—had affixed fur to their naked torsos. Full headdresses of gray hair covered their faces, complete with sharp eyes, long snouts and big ears.

Fully erect, they apparently were enjoying the spoils of London’s largest masquerade ball.

Knightley wanted no part of it tonight. He was about to turn away, but a sound—a distinctive feminine giggle coming from the vicinity of the animals—caught his full attention. Another giggle and out she flitted—a flaxen-haired girl dressed in a low-cut, simple country dress. A long braid trailed behind her, swishing like a dragon’s tail as she danced around the pups.

“Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your golden hair,” one of the wolves barked.

Hiking up her skirt above her waist to exhibit hair that was unnaturally bright yellow, she jiggled her plump bare ass for her audience. An oil-shined leg lifted, displaying a wet, red mouth ready for sex.

The wolves howled in delight. She invited them closer, bending a leg around the torso of one wolf and roping her braid around his companion’s neck. She winked at Knightley.

“Who will be the first to climb me and come in?” she cooed.

A professional.

Knightley turned away. Definitely not his Emma.

Annoyed and semi-hard, he resumed his urgent pace out the door and into the cool spring night air. Reaching the front gate, he folded his arms across his chest and settled in.

“Go to the pleasure gardens,” Emma’s silly friends had bandied about earlier this evening at a dinner party. “Return with the cap of the gondolier and tell us all that you see and hear.”

Fools, the lot of them.

And he was the biggest fool of all, because here he stood, sentry to the gates of what very likely would be his own personal hell tonight.

As if the devil harkened, an unmarked carriage lumbered up the street and stopped in front of the gardens’ quiet entrance. Alighting without assistance, a young woman sprang to the ground. The hazy moonlight reflected a willowy outline dressed in a cream-colored lace evening gown.

Instantly, he recognized the long, lithe body, the same one he’d often seen leaping, graceful and unladylike, from carriages and trees and whatnot. But it was just recently that the figure’s soft curves and long limbs had started leaping atop him. Naked. Undulating.

In his dreams.

He shook himself, mentally and physically, from a long sigh. This was not the time, and definitely not the place, to dwell on his private fantasies.

Receding into the shadows, he prayed for her to lose her nerve and return home.

Emma, being Emma, did not. Taking a quick look around and seeing no one, she reached back into the carriage, snatched her cloak, and waved off the driver.

“I shall be ready in one hour,” she called to the servant as he urged the horses down the lane. Knightley couldn’t help but feel irritated. Did she have everyone wrapped around her finger?

Alone on a deserted London street, she approached the gardens’ front gate and stopped, surveying the grounds. The moon chose then to escape a cloud. Emma, of course, radiated in moonlight.

His breath held.

But this was not Emma. Not his Emma, at least. Not the neighbor girl whom he continually chased out of his library. Not the girl who would tease him into ridiculous debates over Sunday dinners. Not the girl who was set on mismatching everyone in the parish into marriage.

This girl—this woman—was someone you awoke next to after a night of lovemaking and loved her again and again.

Her hair, normally springy blond curls pinned atop her head, was brushed out in long waves draped over her shoulders. Even though he was a dozen feet away, his memory filled in the distance with the smell of those locks: honey and lemon. How many times had he leaned over her during supper tonight just to fill his breath with her perfume?

What heaven it would be to have the scent envelop him in a curtain of gold as she lay atop him, her velvety opening bringing him deeper and deeper inside…

STOP!

He commanded his dick to back down. It was a constant battle these days: sparring with his sex. Every match required the right balance of thrust and parry. In Emma’s presence, he was the master of restraint.

Through the wrought-iron gate his beleaguered gaze followed her as she shook out her cloak and wrapped it around her shoulders, taking care to clasp it at the base of her neck. Nimble fingers—ungloved—traced two paths along her neck, fanning out at the nape. Slowly, as if she were Venus inviting a lover, she released the mass of hair trapped within the cape. Golden strands rippled through her hands. Arching her neck, she languished in the feel of it, a soft smile curving at her lips.

All that was missing were his lips tasting the sweet spot just below her ear.

The next moment, however, was completely ruined when two revelations struck Knightley.

He could not see her eyes.

Her cloak was inside out.

The first realization came when he noticed that a gold-and-red half mask completely obliterated her features. Hidden from him were her sky-blue eyes, long blond lashes and the high cheekbones he knew were flushed pink with mischief. The mask remade her. This woman was a complete stranger who made his pulse race the exact same way Emma did.

The latter awareness came when she flipped the hood over her head and the whole cape flashed red. Bright blood-red. It was the color of the silk that lined the inside of her best wool cloak. As she tucked the loose hair into the depths of the hood, her transformation was complete.

She was Red Riding Hood.

He snorted in disbelief. Had everyone tonight adapted Grimm’s fairy tales?

She apparently heard the sound because she hesitated until he stepped into the moonlight. Her whole demeanor changed instantly: she was thrilled to see him.

“Knightley! But how did you know I would be here? I left you at your brother’s home, sitting in the library, drinking your brandy. And how did you arrive here so fast?”

“Horse. Faster than a chaise and four.” He could barely form a complete sentence. Setting aside his own thrilling response to her, he summoned up a familiar stern directive.

“Emma, you’re not going in.”

Her chin lifted.

Would she argue? Would she wheedle? Would she pout? He leaned forward to catch every nuance. She did not disappoint.

She looked down, demurely, but Knightley knew she was composing her strategy. Her jaw locked and then softened. Her lips pursed.

But when her gaze rose again, she bore an expression he had never seen on her before. Indeed, she had drawn a new weapon from her persuasion arsenal.

Sexuality.

Her lips parted slightly as she leaned toward him. One gleaming white fingertip tested the barrier between them, connecting with a black iron rung just in front of their faces. Deliberately, her finger ran down the length of the grate stopping just below his waist—pointing at the one part of his body that was capable of pointing back.

And she was smiling—both innocent and seductive, in her Emma way, revealing everything and nothing. He was left brimming and unfulfilled.

“I promise to behave,” she said quietly. The sweet dulcet tone curled through him. He could almost see its tentacles wrapping simultaneously around his heart and groin, tugging him down to the fires of Hades.

His mouth opened and shut. Dry. Speechless. For the first time he could summon no arguments to dissuade her.

“Very well,” he said finally, licking his lips. “Pull the bobbin and the latch will open.”

She smiled triumphantly and pushed open the gate. Oblivious that she was entering the wolves’ den, she skipped up to him and threw her arms around his neck.

“We’ll have a quick look around and then we’ll leave,” she said.

Her eyes danced behind the mask as she reached to place a chaste kiss on his cheek. But her leg brushed his cock and he reacted instinctively. His head turned abruptly and his lips met hers. Unbidden, his hands reached out for her, itching to pull her tightly against him so he could press the whole of himself up against her. Would she pull away?

They had never truly embraced. In fact, they had never before been in such close proximity, and he could tell she too felt the strangeness and wonder of it. Her eyes widened in huge circles behind the mask, but her lips were tight. A virgin’s kiss.

When his cock expressed its delight, he set her firmly away from him.

“You will not leave my side the entire time. Is that clear?” He growled as he grabbed her arm and dragged her along. He knew he sounded surly, but he blamed that on his cock, too.

“Perfectly,” she replied in a sing-song.

When they reached the entry to the building, Knightley hastily searched the corners and was satisfied to see the wolf pups had moved on. He had started pushing through to the anteroom when she tugged at his sleeve.

“You have no mask.”

Damn. He would not take the chance that someone would recognize them tonight.

“I hadn’t planned on coming…or staying.” He muttered, looking around until he spied a basket near the front archway. It was filled with black half masks, apparently for the ill-prepared fools chasing after unchaperoned girls hell-bent on ruining themselves. He scooped out a cloth and sized it to his face for her approval.

Emma’s expression was thoughtful.

“I suppose it will do,” she allowed. “We could say you’re costumed as a gaming-hell manager.”

Sarcastic, this was the girl he knew and loved.

Spying a gilded mirror on the wall, he turned to peer at what she was criticizing.

Ruffian, indeed. His white shirt was open at the neck, with no cravat or waistcoat. He had thrown a long black coat over his shirt and his black Hessian boots covered the lower half of his tan pants. No rightful host of a polite society party would have granted him entrance. However, this party was different; dress was casual, if not optional.

“How do you know what gaming-hell managers dress like?” He asked suspiciously.

“I read books. Many, many books. Allow me.” Coming up behind him, she pulled the mask from his hands and on tiptoes reached around his face to smooth the mask into place. Her soft breasts pressed against his back, burning him through and through.

He didn’t dare breathe. He just stared at the mirror’s reflection. It made him feel the voyeur.

A disheveled man was standing entirely too still except for a vibrating hunger that emanated from him like a steam engine. That certainly wasn’t him. And the veiled female running her fingers through his hair as she fastened the silk ties at the back of his head…well, he still didn’t know who she was, either.

The strangers’ gazes met in the mirror.

As tension swelled within him, he felt her sway then steady herself against his back. Another searing heat steamed through his coat, creating a fiery trail down his spine, along his ass and against the back of his thighs.

There was no denying it now: every fiber in his body wanted her desperately.

“Never trust a stranger-friend;

No one knows how it will end.…”

Emma had Knightley right where she wanted him.

In her arms.

Well, almost.

True, her arms were about him, but his back was to her, which was not quite the position she was hoping for.

Still, she felt powerful and wicked—although that, too, could be attributed to the nakedness under her dress. Leaving one’s drawers at home could be positively liberating.

She liked the new sensations that rocked her body each time she touched him.

And she liked touching him. Exceedingly well.

As her fingertips stroked his hair, a curling dark lock slipped through her fingers like the finest French silk ribbon.

Her bottom clenched.

Emboldened, her hands crept over the rippling muscles of those arms that had always tantalized her. Yes, they were just as hard as she’d imagined.

Heat surged through the V at her legs.

The feeling was so intense she had to lean against him to remain standing. Her breasts melted into his back. Softness against hardness. And more heat emanated from him. She pictured placing the heat of her V against his naked back.

Whoosh. Warm liquid saturated her thighs.

More, a voice urged from deep within her. More.

As if he could hear her thoughts, their gazes met in the mirror and locked. His look communicated danger…and something she’d never seen before in him.

Hunger. Intense hunger. The hunger she imagined a beast displays before it devours its prey.

The next instant the beast was gone, and so was he.

Damnation.

How was he ever going to initiate her into the bounds of love if he kept walking away? It was all rather unsettling, especially when she was sure she had felt his desire—hard and pulsating—when she had nudged her leg against him.

What she needed was a diversion that would land him right back in her arms. Preferably before his mood turned blustery.

“Let’s get on with it and be done with this night,” he growled.

“Let’s get on with it, indeed,” Emma grumbled at his back.

His sore attitude didn’t mollify her—she could always charm Knightley out of a bad mood. For years she had studied him, committed every facial expression, indeed, every quirk of an eyebrow, to her memory.

Yet, tonight, he was a virtual stranger.

Perhaps it was the mask. Dark and uninviting, the black silk hid his expression, especially the eyebrow quirk. She couldn’t read his thoughts or predict his moods. His mysteriousness was maddening. And exciting.

But Knightley was full of secrets.

Such as, where did he go when he disappeared “to London” for weeks on end and then returned, relaxed and good-humored, to lecture her on her meddling?

And, why was he always shooing her out of his library? Not that that ever stopped her.

As she shadowed him through the anteroom to the terrace doors—and how was he so familiar with these “demoralizing” gardens?—she vowed to herself that tonight would be a night of unveiling for both of them.

With one step onto the terrace, her schemes abandoned her.

“Oh my,” she breathed.

This was no ordinary garden, but a fairyland—a fantastical outdoor wonderland of flowered trees and shrubs enclosing a glistening dance floor. Tiny lanterns hung from wires crisscrossing the sky twinkled candlelight onto the occupants below. A white gazebo to the left housed the orchestra, and thick bushes on the right opened into narrow pathways where people were disappearing or reappearing in pairs or groups.

Even though no music played, the dance floor was crowded as were the chairs and tables scattered around the floor.

“It’s breathtaking. Whyever do they keep this a secret?” Emma asked Knightley as he led her along the edge of the floor.

“To protect the innocent.” His sneer matched that of the woman stalking toward them. Knightley tightened his grasp on Emma’s arm, but there was no avoiding the confrontation as the woman glared down at Emma’s clothes.

Apparently, this ball had room from only one “Red.”

Emma pasted on a placating smile. Really, the woman’s costume—a crimson gown and matching demi-mask—would have been unremarkable had it not fully exposed her breasts.

As if no one had ever seen Lady Willingham’s painted nipples before.

“Why you’ve come as Rose Red. What a clever disguise, Lady W.” Emma chattered. Knightley groaned. Hailing a passing waiter, he grabbed a champagne flute and emptied the contents down his throat.

“Have we met?” Lady W was trying to be coy but her mouth was set in a hard line. It perfectly matched her tits. Usually they were covered by the sheerest of ball gowns, but Emma had always marveled after them. Could they, as the fables claimed, cut glass?

“But of course. I am one of your greatest admirers,” Emma said smoothly. “You should wear scarlet more often. It accentuates your finest assets.”

Knightley choked.

Emma struggled to maintain a serene smile, as Knightley twisted his head to look anywhere but at Lady Willingham’s rouged tips.

“My dear, you have me at a loss for I do not know your name.” Lady W was turning up the coyness.

“Red Riding Hood, to be sure,” Emma answered sweetly, patting her hood more tightly over her head.

“And she must not talk to strangers along the way,” Knightley broke in, pulling Emma into the throng on the dance floor.

Well, at least she had gotten more than a grunt out of him. When they were out of Lady W’s clutches, Knightley waved for another glass of champagne. As an afterthought, he reluctantly handed a flute to Emma.

She smiled into her glass and returned to unmasking other attendees.

“Look there. I’m sure that’s Sir Osgood Fielding the Third dressed as the Frog King,” Emma whispered to Knightley. “He’s the man wearing green silk and sticking a very long tongue to the neck of that lovely statuesque woman? But why can I not place her? You see, the princess there? It seems I would remember a lady so tall.”

Knightley wheezed and gulped more from his glass. In a raspy voice, he offered, “That’s because the princess is Lord Dafney.”

It took Emma a full minute to comprehend. She had always heard of such things. She gazed curiously back at the pair who were enjoying a laugh. Heads together, intimate, happy.

Knightley interrupted hoarsely, “Don’t stare.”

“I am not.”

“Emma?”

“Really, I am not.” But she could not help herself from sneaking another glance.

It took the orchestra’s lilting music and organized movement on the dance floor to draw her attention away.

This was something new.

Dancers were not just touching fingertips, they were touching everywhere. Wrapped in each other’s arms, couples twirled around the floor in three-quarter time. So scandalously close. So deliciously sensual.

“What are they dancing?” Emma asked breathlessly.

“The waltz,” Knightley said from behind her. “From Vienna, I believe. It’s apparently all the rage on the continent.”

“It’s lovely.” She looked up at him and he must have guessed her wistful thoughts. For the first time this night, his face beneath the mask softened. A slight smile formed at the corners of his mouth.

“Would you like to try it?”

She nodded. “You know this dance?”

“I’ve had a turn or two.”

“How? When?”

“Would you rather pepper me with questions or dance?

“Dance.” She raised her arms to him.

When he entered into her personal circle, she tingled with delight. Here was her diversion. He was going to hold her again and she was positively giddy with anticipation. It was perfect.

He did not make eye contact as he ensured the correct placement of their hands and feet. With his large hand splayed across the small of her back, she felt deliciously feminine and delicate. When his other hand possessed hers, her heart beat wildly in her chest and she couldn’t catch her breath. Apparently, he was oblivious to the effect.

Slowly, he began to rock her back and forth, asking, “Do you feel the rhythm?”

“Rhythm? Uh-huh.” she croaked.

He gazed down at her then and actually chuckled.

“Relax, Emma. Enjoy this.”

Slowly he turned them, while continuing to rock. Compelled to glance at their feet, Emma stumbled. She offered an apology, but he only drew her closer into the embrace.

“There’s no use looking down. I’ve got you,” he said quietly.

He truly had possessed her. As he whisked her around the floor, her feet barely grazed the ground.

By the second overture, she had forgotten everything except the heat of his body and the sharp jaunt of his profile as he surveyed their progress around the dance floor. How well she knew the sharp edges of his nose, his cheekbones, his chin.

She had the inexplicable urge to run her tongue along the length of his jawbone.

“What I wouldn’t give to have Sir Osgood’s tongue.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Had she made that last wish aloud? Quickly, she thought, change the subject.

“Have you had many partners?” She blurted out, quickly adding, “for dancing.”

His head snapped forward. He gave her a hard, quizzical look before answering.

“A few. I’ve stood up with you innumerable times, too.”

“Would you say I am passably fair…as a dance partner?”

“Fishing for compliments, Emma?” He tried to tease her, but she wouldn’t allow him to avoid the question.

“I don’t prize myself as a skilled dancer,” he said, measuring his words. “I select my partners very carefully. You and I…we fit. We’re neither overly graceful nor terribly clumsy. We laugh at our embarrassing missteps. And our heights are perfectly suited.” He smiled at her. Really smiled.

It was these moments with Knightley that she cherished most. More, the little voice inside her begged. More.

“So, if two people were perfectly matched for dancing, the same would be said for other activities too. Perhaps…kissing?”

He missed a step.

Encouraged, she proceeded.

“I’ve read that kissing can be very…energetic.” Oh, she hoped she didn’t regret going down this path.

“You’ve read?” His voice was wary. “What books have you been reading, Emma?”

“Well,” she prolonged the single word as long as she dared. “In Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure…”

“What?” He accused. “You read Fannie Hill?”

“Well, yes. And The Way of a Man with a Maid, The Heptameron and The Lustful Turk, which, I have to say, was quite…er…energetic.”

Knightley abruptly halted their dance, just as the violins struck the last note. His face was but inches from hers, and her chest rose and fell in even breaths, anticipating his next move. For a long moment he held her in this intimate embrace and simply looked at her. The mask hid the darkest of his emotions, but she could feel the heat—mixed with anger—rolling off him.

Wrong path.

Without ceremony, he released every part but her hand and stormed off the dance floor.

She followed at first but then started tugging to free his hold on her.

“Really, of all the high-handed, pig-headed…” she actually tripped into a man wearing a snout and pink ears. He was bent over a woman’s open dress. They weren’t alone. Three women dressed in white gossamer robes were stroking the couple up and down. They seemed to be quite enjoying themselves.

“Excuse me,” Emma called out, but it didn’t seem to penetrate the small group.

It did, however, cause Knightley to tighten his grip on her. She was sure he was taking her to her carriage and sending her home. Instead, he turned right and headed beyond the trees into the maze of shrubs.

“Where are you taking me?”

He didn’t answer, instead focusing his energies on maneuvering through the pathways and around the dozens of partially clad bodies.

Breasts, buttocks, full nakedness—they were in full bloom next to the spring flowers. In pairs, in groups.

Why, they had walked into a full orgy.

Curious—and titillated—Emma craned her neck to see what these people were doing and, more importantly, how they were doing it. But Knightley had increased his speed. Regrettably, he was in no mood to stop and watch.

Deep into the center of maze he dragged her until they reached a small private copse. He swung her around to face him. For a moment they huffed to catch their breath. A thin cloud passed over the moon, casting a hazy glow around them. Soft grass tickled her ankles. Everything was suddenly still, except her heartbeat in her chest, wanting.

“Why?” Knightley gritted out the single word.

“Why?” She tossed back. “Whatever do you mean: Why?”

He breathed deeply.

“Why are you doing this to me?” He stepped forward, almost intimidating her with his height. Almost.

“Doing what?”

He changed tactics.

“You were in my library.”

“Perhaps.”

“You were reading about…things—things that a properly bred girl should not have knowledge of. Emma, you are practically my sister.”

“Precisely my point. I am not your sister. Your brother married my sister. That gives us familiarity, not familial relations. Furthermore, I am not that neighbor girl in pigtails you once petted on the head,” she paused. Her breasts heaved.

This was her moment of truth. In for a penny… “I want to be petted, but not on my head.”

There was a long pause. Damn, but she could not read his expression. He was so near, he sucked all of the air from her.

“Emma, you do not know the game you are playing at.”

“I think I do.”

“You are stretching my limits.” His hands gripped her upper arms, bringing their faces nearer.

“They need stretching,” she shot back.

“You are practically begging me to…” His voice was tight, as if he were fighting his last resolve.

“Begging you to kiss me?” She meant the question to come out archly. In reality, it sounded like a longing whisper.

Yes.

Kiss me.

And more.

Nearer and nearer he drew; she dared not blink for fear she’d miss it. She could smell the mix of his man’s soap and brandy and heat. It was intoxicating, threatening to drown her.

She would not close her eyes. Even as his mouth lowered to hers and brushed softly along her lower lip, she stared at him. She didn’t want to miss one moment of this kiss.

It was really, finally happening.

Their mouths connected and her toes curled. Tasting, his lips gently pulled and rubbed along her lips’ lower plump edge.

A loud moan escaped. It must have come from her mouth. Taking advantage of the opening, his tongue explored the depth, teasing her tongue and inviting her to play.

Desire surged, it seemed, directly to her nipples; they hardened and ached for something more.

When his hands roved over her backside, liquid heat poured between her legs.

Simultaneously limp and restless, her knees gave way and she flung her arms about his neck. She didn’t know if she melted into him or if he engulfed her. She didn’t care.

Finally, her body gave in. She closed her eyes and let the tingling sensation tantalize every inch of her.

Never had anything felt so good.

“As you’re pretty so be wise;

Wolves may lurk in every guise.”

He must be delusional.

Reason, indeed any functioning thought process, had abandoned him. Pure physical being had taken over.

So unlike him. In the throes of passion, he would never truly let go of his conscious self.

Therefore, this must be a fantasy.

Adding to the erotic vision was Emma—opening for him, kissing him with the intense, honest enthusiasm only Emma was capable of. She was exploring real passion for the first time with him…only him.

It all felt so real.

His dick, for one, would testify something was different, as it reached out for her soft folds. His hands skimmed over her body, craving more of her softness.

Instead, he met only silk and lace. He was suddenly consumed with an overwhelming need to rip through the clothes to get to this fantasy Emma.

But something was still bothering him, holding him back.

In truth, if this were a dream, a dream of having Emma all to himself, why were other women laughing?

An inner voice, one driven to protect Emma, commanded him to break the kiss and turn around. Reality washed over him as he reclaimed his bearings.

They were in the pleasure gardens and someone was coming.

Reluctantly, he let her go and placed her securely against the interior hedge. Emma, he noticed, was caught up in the previous moment—her eyes still closed and lips parted as if waiting for her lover’s return.

Lover.

Better to think on that after he dispensed with whatever trouble was rounding the bend.

Granted, after that kiss, he would never be able to land an effective facer, let alone muster the strength to swing his arm. He stepped forward, nonetheless, hoping to appear menacing.

The voices, chanting now, sounded closer.

Hand-in-hand, three women appeared. Like goddesses, they were dressed in translucent white robes. When they glided into the copse they exclaimed their delight and skipped to Knightley, circling him in a strange ritual.

The leader, a redhead, halted a foot away and smiled invitingly.

“We have been looking for you,” she said in a low seductive voice. “You were the lone wolf on the hunt for his mate. We watched you as you circled the dance floor again and again until you disappeared.

“We have come to see that all your appetites are satisfied this evening.”

Upon her nod, six hands reached out and began caressing him, simultaneously stroking his back, his hair, his chest, his arms, his thighs, his calves.

Paralyzed, Knightley did what any man would do—he acquiesced.

“We are the Three Passions.” The leader waved her arms at her companions and indicated first the blonde to his right.

“This fair maid is Love.” The blonde nuzzled Knightley’s neck, hooked a leg around his waist, and slid along his side and down his right leg, finally dropping in a pool at his feet.

“The second, this pale-cheeked lass, is Ambition.”

The raven-haired beauty poked her head under his arm, grinned impishly and then returned to running her entire body along the length of his backside.

“And I am…” she began, but Knightley interrupted.

“My demon, Poesy.”

“Ah, you know Keats. Excellent, milord. We love the intellectual sort.” The others giggled in agreement, causing Knightley to tense.

Conscious thought was slowly returning. He was forgetting something. But his judgment was clouded, and when the redhead slid a long graceful hand down his chest, lower and lower, he was temporarily lost.

“Yes, I am Poesy, or Poetry—maiden most unmeek. The Passions have come to tempt you, to offer you pleasures beyond your imaginings. Tell me, milord, you do desire passion?”

As she emphasized the last word, her fingers trailed over his hard-on and up again.

Befuddled, his body contradicting his brain, Knightley croaked the first answer he could muster: “Yes.”

An audible gasp behind Poetry wakened him. He broke the trance and answered the question again.

“No,” he said sturdily. “I desire passion only with her.”

They ignored him and turned their attention to Emma.

“Ah, here she is. The mate.” The redhead glided away, and the others quickly followed.

Knightley spun around, his body suddenly cold—whether bereft of the Passions’ attentions or fear for Emma’s virtue, he didn’t know for sure.

They had surrounded Emma, studying her as if she were marble.

“Why, sir, she is a beauty.” Poetry raised her hands to Emma’s head and gently rolled back the cowl of her cloak. Another nod from the leader and all six hands immediately went to Emma’s hair, freeing it strand by strand from the cloak.

A protest was on the tip of his lips, but Knightley never vocalized it.

Emma stood as straight as a soldier in ranks, hands at her side. But her head was tilted slightly and her lips partly opened. She gazed at him briefly and, even though the mask hid most of her features, he knew she was neither afraid nor repulsed. She seemed rather engaged, even intrigued.

Internally, he warred over his need to protect her and his increasing sense of excitement. His body held still, but vibrated with awareness he had never known.

Once her hair was primped, the six hands moved downward pushing back the folds of her cloak and smoothing over the silk and lace of her cream gown.

The leader commanded Emma’s attention.

“Your wolf is full in his longings,” she announced in a deep throaty voice. “Come and see what you have wrought.”

Cradling Emma’s hand as if it were a delicate dove, Poetry coaxed Emma to stand before him. Entranced, they all watched as Poetry guided Emma’s hand over Knightley’s burgeoning crotch.

His breath caught. He dared not move for fear he’d send Emma fleeing, but damn, he was about to burst.

The other Passions crowded around, renewing Emma’s massaging while giving her encouragements.

“That’s right. Up and down. Up and down.”

“The slower, the harder.”

He closed his eyes and tried to remember how to breathe.

She was actually stroking him.

“That’s a good girl,” he heard Poesy say. “Let us instruct you in the ways of Passion.”

“Now, cup and squeeze.”

All at once eight hands tightened around his buttocks, his nipples and his balls.

He exploded.

There was no stopping it. The orgasm poured over him, racking his body with violent shuddering. He closed his eyes, let the wave take him again and again. Emma’s hand resolutely continued to cup him, and he could not stop his seed from spilling out, dampening the cloth that separated them.

He hated himself for this uncharacteristic lack of control.

He hated more that his body loved this moment, groped by three strange women and Emma, yes Emma, bringing him to this height.

He wanted to reach for her and make her come for him.

“Ooohhh! Wasn’t that fun?” one of the Passions cooed, jarring his thoughts.

“Again. I want to do it again.” Another one pleaded.

“Stop!” He commanded. “Enough!” Sensing their hesitation, Knightley broke free of their hands and, like a man possessed by demons, he flailed his arms at them.

“Off with you. All of you.”

Trembling, he turned his back on the Passions and forcibly plugged the dike of his suppressed emotions.

More, more, more.

He wanted to shout, cry and laugh all at once. He grabbed at the wall of shrubs and shook them.

ARRGGHH!

He wasn’t thinking straight. What man would turn away three beautiful women intent on fucking him? He almost turned around and called them back. Almost.

Behind him he could hear the regretful cries of the Passions trailing away as they flitted through the maze.

“I choose Indolence,” he challenged halfheartedly and then laughed hysterically at his bad joke.

“First Grimm, now Keats—this evening’s a literal nightmare.” He chortled madly. It sounded like a witch’s cackle to his ears. Clearly, he was going insane.

In this state, how would he ever win Emma’s love?

Suddenly, he was sober. Clear-headed. Purpose-driven.

He loved Emma.

The flood gate had burst. Emotions poured from him, leaving him exhilarated and free…and in love.

With every breath, every thought, every fiber of his body, he knew it was true.

He wanted to dance and shout it out loud.

He loved Emma.

He hadn’t known until this very moment, but he realized his love had grown over years of adoration. But this love was real and solid and pure. It was the kind of love one committed to—forever.

That’s why he had banished the three women, and why he hadn’t been with any other woman for months now. He was waiting to love Emma.

And when Emma was ready for him to show her the depth of his love, he would do what every man in love does—he would make it perfect for her.

Not on the cold ground. Not spastic or hurried. Not with a crowd of diaphanous bystanders feeling him up.

He must make Emma understand.

“Emma, darling,” he said softly, as he started to turn toward her, “I must expl…”

Breath, thought, all manner of being died in that instant.

Emma was gone.

For several minutes he stood there dumbly—unable to believe that she had left him.

Had she confused his order when he shooed away the other women? Had his lack of self-control scared her away?

Or had the Passions forced her to join them for some deviant tryst? Worse, was she alone and at the mercy of the pleasure gardens?

Fear, a gut-wrenching terror, swept over him.

He threw himself into the shrubs and ran.

“Handsome they may be, and kind,

Gay, and charming—never mind!”

After she escaped the Passions—really, what an elaborate ruse that was—Emma raced out of the maze and onto the open lawn. At the far end of the concourse was her intended destination: the lagoon.

Midway there, she stopped to catch her breath…and gloat.

A wide smile played on her lips. Her body tingled with new sensations. Her bottom contracted, her lips—both sets—were swollen, but craved more. She had never felt so alive.

Even more, she loved how she had made Knightley feel.

Pure ecstasy.

So he wasn’t as impervious to her as he would lead her to believe. Her touch could enthrall him. Indeed, she could drive him over the edge.

It was a heady discovery, this power she had over him.

She wanted to stretch her newfound knowledge—fan the flames. Of course, it involved more touching and much more kissing and far less people.

A niggling of doubt crept into her consciousness. She hoped it was her touch, and hers alone, that brought him such fulfillment.

She sighed. Where was he, anyway?

Casting a glance back to the maze, she frowned. She had been certain he would follow her as soon as he realized she was gone. She was wearing red, for goodness sake, so why couldn’t he find her?

Just as she thought she might have to return for him, Knightley broke through the shrubs. When he began chasing at full gait, she lifted her skirts and took off.

She arrived at the shore to find luck was on her side. One gondolier was docked, lounging in his craft. When he saw her, he stumbled to his feet, but she had already leapt into the bow, motioning for his silence.

The gondola was perfect, just as she had pictured from all the descriptions she had read. While the back of the boat was completely open, a tarp-covered enclosure near the front provided the passengers with privacy. She could see the stars, but no one, not even the gondolier, could see her. Inside, she found a comfortable seat, wider than a bench, not quite a bed. Perfect.

“Emma. This is ridiculous.” She heard Knightley’s out-of-breath pronouncement.

She smiled but remained hidden.

“Mademoiselle wishes to ride, no?” the gondolier offered.

“No.” Knightley’s voice replied tightly, then a heavy sigh. She felt the boat tip slightly to one side as someone moved around the back. A jingling of coins was the next sound.

“Make sure we keep a good distance from the other boats.” Knightley growled. “And I’ll take that.”

Then he stood before her, quivering the boat with his sudden appearance. Intense emotions raged around him. He tossed the gondolier’s cap into her lap but moved no closer.

Somewhere, he had lost his black mask and she could see his dark eyes staring at her—predatory, dangerous. There was a wildness about him that she had never known before.

He didn’t frighten her, not really. She felt sheer excitement.

“Come, sit here next to me. I promise I won’t bite.” She patted the damask-cushioned seat as she leaned back on one of the pillows.

“You are the wolf.” He said simply.

The surprise declaration evoked a laugh from both of them—a full, hearty release that broke the awful tension of the bizarre night.

He ducked into the tent, shrugged out of his coat and sat gingerly on the seat next to her, near but still not touching.

“Here you are as I have always known you,” he said quietly. “Cheeks flushed and eyes shining, so beautiful and so innocent and I think there is nothing, no one, I desire more.” He looked at her hard. “So, I must be the wolf.”

Sighing, he rested his elbows on his knees and placed his head in hands.

She understood. He thought he was taking advantage of her. He didn’t know the depth of her feelings for him.

She knelt on the cushion next to him and pulled his hands away from his face, replacing them with her own. She gently turned his head toward her.

“I have a confession to make,” she said softly.

His only reaction was to raise one eyebrow.

“I planned this entire evening. From the beginning.”

Both eyebrows cocked.

“I stood in the entryway of our dear siblings’ house and opened and closed the door a half-dozen times before I gained your attention. I arranged to have the carriage waiting outside so I could slip out and race off. I knew you would follow.

“I coerced you into leading me into the gardens and I planned for you to make love to me here in a covered gondola.

“It was an elaborate, albeit idiotically romantic, ploy to show you the depth of my feelings for you.”

For a long moment he did nothing, just stared at her. Would he rail at her for being so reckless? Would he set her aside with a lecture? She held her breath, hoping against hope.

“You did all of this…to seduce me? You want me?” He asked finally.

She nodded. The emotion of this night and for him was too much; a tear slipped down her cheek.

Gently, he reached around her head and released the silk ties for the mask. It fell to the floor.

His finger traced along the wetness of her cheek, a soft smile edging his lips.

Gently, he began smoothing the wild waves of hair away from her neck. It was both comforting and sensual.

Without warning, his fingers jerked at the clasp at the base of her neck and released the fastening. He whipped the cloak away from her, flinging it onto the cushion behind her.

Red Riding Hood was gone.

Rough hands tugged her onto his lap and his hard lips claimed her in a long kiss. When they broke away, his lips trailed to her neck, igniting a fiery path of desire.

“Energetic enough?” he questioned in a low voice.

She shivered. Yes and no. More, her body responded. More. She wanted to feel his arms around her, to devour him with kisses, to explore his body.

“What I really wish for…” she asked.

“Anything, darling, I will give you anything.” He was nibbling on the sensitive part just below her ear. She could have purred.

“…is six more hands.”

His chuckled into her neck and hugged her closer.

“That was…” he started, but she silenced him with a finger to his lips.

“…educational, but not nearly as enlightening as your library.” She caressed his cheek.

“About that…tell me what else piqued your interest.”

“The large book with prints from the Orient. The man and woman in different…um…positions.”

“Shunga.”

“Shunga?” She tested the word. “Yes, they were quite invigorating. As were the sculptures.”

He groaned into her neck, hiding his face. “You found the key to the cupboard?”

She didn’t answer. Nor was she about to tell him what she did with the sculptures. Enough confessions for one night.

“What I found most fascinating was the expression on their faces: a mixture of rapture, pain and something more.…It made me wonder.”

Her fingers played with the buttons on his crisp shirt.

“Wonder?” He was nibbling at her neck. Sharp little nips, each one sending jolts through her body. It was quite distracting.

“I wondered if…I—I alone—could make you feel the same.”

She wiggled out of his embrace and dropped to the floorboards. For mere seconds, she hesitated. Even though his face was strangely blank, he didn’t still her progress. With a light touch to each knee, she coaxed his legs to open for her. His answering sigh was a heady feeling. She skimmed her hands along his calves, knees, and thighs, noting every time she moved higher, he would breathe less. Power, indeed.

Her eyes immediately went to the bulge of his cock. It was throbbing now, and she could not stay away. Like a good pupil, she cupped her hand and squeezed. He groaned loudly. Leaning back, he closed his eyes

Encouraged—indeed power-hungry—she attacked the waistband of his pants and found the buttons. She had to see it now. What was this magnificent organ that gave him equal pleasure and pain?

As she flicked each button open, his body tightened and muscles contracted. But he did not stop her. When the last button loosened, she pulled on the cloth and out sprang a thick, red-skinned club.

“Oh,” she gasped. She looked up to see him watching her and giggled nervously to explain her surprise. “I wasn’t expecting…” Well, she didn’t know what exactly she was expecting.

No novel, no etchings, no statue of entwined bodies—none could answer her next question: How was something this large and uncompromising supposed to join with her?

He tried to sit forward, reaching for her, but she held him at bay.

“You don’t appear sufficiently pained,” she murmured.

She stuck out a tentative hand and smoothed her palm over the tip. The member convulsed.

She giggled and tried again. It didn’t react so violently this time. She leaned forward to get a closer look. He was holding himself so stiffly now, she thought he’d expire.

“It resembles a palm tree, don’t you think?” she announced.

Knightley burst out laughing, but broke off when her hand closed around the shaft.

“You see, this is the trunk and this,” she said, moving her hand up and grasping the tip, “is the palm leaves.”

To her delight, he moaned deeply.

“And these,” she reached down the shaft to the base where two red sacks waited for their caress, “are the coconuts.”

Her hand had barely covered them when a growl reverberated in his chest. Two strong hands lifted her from the floor and set her down on the silk lining of her cloak.

“My turn.” He intoned deeply as he rolled next to her. She laughed breathlessly. Oh, yes, his turn. His mouth caught hers as his hand traveled down her legs. When his lips broke free, she felt his smile at her ear.

“Grandmother, what long legs you have,” he mimicked the fairy tale.

She tittered, “The better with which to wrap around you.”

Her leg lifted of its own volition and snuggled over his leg. His hand slipped under the skirt and skimmed over the naked skin of her calf. She wiggled closer to him. But his hand was roaming again, outside of the gown over the bodice of her dress. Single-minded in his pursuit, he undid the line of tiny buttons down her chest. Nudging open the gown, he ran a finger over the silk chemise covering her breast.

She breathed in sharply.

She now had an idea of what he felt.

It was only the beginning.

When his thumb rubbed over the nipple, she froze. She didn’t think her tips could get any harder. Cut glass, indeed.

The tingling had returned too, only now it came in great waves, coursing through her. His hand pushed aside the lace and the nipple tightened further in the cool air. When his fingertip tested the tip again, her body involuntarily arched into his hand.

“My,” his voice was sweet and low at her ear, “what very luscious breasts you have.”

She answered automatically. “The better to…” All thought left her as his mouth covered the orb.

“Oh.” Her cry turned into a moan as his tongue swirled around the nub. He ended the gentle assault with his lips closing around the tip and pulling gently. Lightning pleasure pulsed through her veins. Her restless body twisted toward him, screaming more, more.

“Easy, my love. There will be more.”

Had she spoken her desires aloud? She was mindless of everything but his mouth and his hands. The latter were gathering great folds of fabric at her knees and pushing upward. Yes, she thought, touch me there.

“Why, Emma, your stratagem was quite thorough.”

She stilled. She’d forgotten she was scandalously naked underneath. Would he berate her?

She tried to read his expression, but he seemed transfixed with her until a devilish smile spread across his lips. She knew what he intended the instant before she felt it.

Without ceremony his fingers went straight for the wet, private sanctuary of her womanhood.

She came undone.

Someone’s voice called out (was it hers?) and she found herself muffled against his hard chest, which was rumbling with controlled laughter.

“Ssshhh, darling. We don’t want all of London descending upon us.”

She remembered then they were not alone. She didn’t care—if anything it added more to her excitement. She tried to reach for Knightley, but he quieted her.

His hand returned to her thighs, making slow circling motions and closing in on the target. Slowly he cupped her and stroked back the folds to reveal the nub beneath.

“Oh, Emma, how very wet you are.”

When she didn’t—couldn’t—answer, he added, “The better for you to take me, all of me, in.”

He twirled his finger around and around, slathering the wetness, and slowly nudged it inside. Her walls involuntarily closed around the tip, beckoning his finger in.

She moaned deeply into his chest, and he answered in a low whisper.

“Darling, you are ready for me. If I go any further there will be some pain, then pleasure beyond your imagination. Shall I continue?”

“Hmmm,” she answered, still dazed and hugging his chest.

“Emma?”

“Yes, yes, do it. I want it all. Now.”

He chuckled at her demands and kissed her again, a long sensual mating. When he broke away he shifted over her, dropping his pants and covering her body. Long and hard, his cock was ready, but he guided it gently to bask in her warm, wet folds.

Emma could feel her body becoming restless. She needed more. She arched her hips and brought him fully into her. Both of her mouths gasped.

Unable to maintain the gentle composure, he drove into her, filling her completely. She flinched at the pain and cried out into his shoulder. He stilled then, waiting. His mouth found hers again, and he coaxed her into a long, breathtaking kiss.

He moved slightly to fit his fingertips on her hard nub and started the slow circling movements he knew she craved.

Quickly, the pain recessed and pleasure returned. Pleasure and a strange new pressure. A fire was building deep within her, threatening to overwhelm her.

He was moving over her, slowly pushing in and pulling out—an even staccato that was raising the heat and pressure. When the two collided, the climax burst through her body, shaking her to her core.

Her body sang with new music it had never felt before and with Knightley’s last thrust, she knew he had felt the same.

For a long time, they lay on the bench entwined in each other’s embrace. At some point, the gondolier had begun singing an Italian ballad of long-lost lovers reunited forever.

Knightley shifted and she moved with him. When his warm hand cupped her face, she opened her eyes to find him watching her earnestly.

“I have a confession to make, too,” he said. His eyes were the color of warm chocolate. “I’ve denied it again and again. It was too impractical. You were too young. I was a monster.

“But the truth is…there could be no one else for me. It has always been…and will always be…you.” He caressed her face as he tried to express the words in his heart. “Emma, dearest Emma, call me a fool if you will…I love you.”

The hope in his eyes reflected the sentiment deep within her soul. Her heart fluttered with pure joy.

“I can assure you, you are no fool. I have known all along.” Her hands smoothed away any lingering lines of worry.

“Knightley…George, I love you.”

They kissed, just lips meeting lips and hands touching faces until the rest of their bodies jealously demanded equal attention.

Devlin stroked a stray hair from his wife’s sweet, smiling face. During the storytelling, she had nestled up to him in a perfect spoon.

“I achieved the desired results?” he whispered in her ear.

“Yes, you have.” Her closed eyes crinkled at the edges, wetness leaking at their corners. His story had touched her soft heart.

Without warning, she rolled away, throwing back the quilts and bouncing barefoot to the cold floor. He leaned back, watching her curiously.

“I have quibbles,” she stated, unbuttoning the top of her red pajamas.

“But, of course,” he replied, quoting:

‘No, as then, ’tis simple truth

Sweetest tongue has sharpest tooth!’

“I saved the last stanza for just this purpose. Let’s hear them.”

“You take an awful amount of dramatic license running roughshod right over irrefutable facts.”

Her pajamas unfastened, she wriggled out of the top, exposing her bare breasts.

“What is history if one cannot retell it to suit his own purposes?” His voice, however, sounded less cavalier than his words. He was staring drymouthed at Maeve’s hardened nipples.

“You broke the Charlie’s Angels rule.”

She dropped her pajama pants, revealing lacy black panties.

“I am but a man. I have no other defense.” His gaze moved to her covered triangle.

“And you mock my much-esteemed Jane Austen.”

Folding her arms under her breasts, she tried but didn’t quite succeed in giving him a hard look. Really, all she managed was to accentuate her pointed tips.

“I hold your precious Jane Austen in the highest esteem, simply because you adore her.”

He opened his arms and she crawled into them.

“You did get Knightley’s first name correct. You must have read Emma closely, just for me.”

His hand lowered over her bottom.

“Let’s see what other facts I did get right.”

Discover more of Maeve and Devlin’s naughty tales in other Spice Briefs on sale now:

THE QUEEN’S TALE

THE PIRATE’S TALE

THE TALE OF THE DANCING GIRL

Hungry for more? Spice Briefs to suit every taste are available now at www.spicebriefs.com.

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ISBN: 978-1-4268-5068-4

Knightley’s Tale

Copyright © 2010 by Jennifer Clark

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