Where Destiny Plays, page 27
The odalisque bowed and departed, closing the door behind her.
The figure on the divan lit a lamp, then another, revealing himself to be dressed as a sultan as well, black bearded and masked, his bulk obscuring the slender sofa, his robe a deep blue to Arthur’s rich red.
A third lamp revealed a figure in the space between the divans.
A boy—or a youth rather, as he was too tall for boyhood—knelt on a pillow with his back to Arthur. He wore a crimson waistcoat and striped trousers, loose and baggy in the Eastern style, embroidered slippers, and a fez cap over his cloth mask. The blue sultan extended his arm in a gesture of presentation.
His wedding gift was an obeisant youth.
Arthur had never been the dominant with another man and he had only ever been with Joseph. Now he would play the aggressor.
The idea was far more arousing than he had ever thought it would be. His wife knew him too well.
He approached and the youth bowed his head, the act of submission sparking lust in his loins. On a low table sat a small lusterware jug, the sheen of the liquid therein proclaiming it to be oil. Arthur unfastened the frog closure of his robe then knelt down behind the boy.
He lay a palm on the youth’s shoulder and caressed his arm, the hairless flesh soft under his touch. Would his gift bear the sculpted muscles of an athlete? Or the supple form of one on the cusp of manhood? He preferred neither and wanted both. He would leave the vest to cover the boy’s torso until his passions needed the excitement of the unexplored.
Arthur reached for the jug and poured out a measure of oil. He smoothed the liquid over his erection, coating it, increasing his desire, breathing lewdly against the neck of the boy. The blue sultan shifted on the divan. Under his robe, he too was stroking himself.
It was a harem of a different sort. A night at a caravansary. Two sultans and their ferrash, a camp servant ready to do more than pitch their tent.
He snaked his arm around the youth to find the tie at his waist. He yanked the bow then slid the striped linen over the slender hips, revealing the temptation of rounded buttocks.
Arthur lay his hands on either side of the pale bottom before him, smoothing his thumbs over the orbs of his arse. “And now, my innocent, we shall slake our hunger in a forbidden way,” he murmured. “Bend over, my ferrash.”
The youth obeyed. Arthur stripped off his robe as he gazed at the glorious sight.
He stretched the cheeks to reveal the puckered hole shadowed in the crevice, the hair indicating the youth had reached the age of manhood. He poured oil on the delicate ridge of the coccyx, letting it flow into the dark split, then massaged it into the crinkled aperture. The youth gasped, a light, yearning sound that inspired his cock to full-stand. Was his ferrash as aroused as he?
He prodded the hole until the tightness abated. He eased in the head of his cock, the youth’s wanton sigh encouraging him to proceed.
The blue sultan came up behind to wait his turn with the youth.
Arthur delved farther. The youth yelped.
“Shh, shh, my ferrash. Let me allay your pain.” He reached around to grab the youth’s cock.
But he had none.
Shock faded to understanding when he discovered a feminine slit instead, slick with want. He growled a chuckle. He would thank his wife later. Until then it was much more fun to play the fantasy.
“A eunuch. Then you comprehend the unrequited and proscribed desires of men.”
He teased her clit as he pushed in slowly, increasing his ministrations until he was buried to the hilt.
He exhaled at the glorious constriction before commencing his carnal rhythm, savoring every beat.
Without warning, the blue sultan grappled him from behind. Arthur jerked to no avail against the muscular arm encircling his waist. One hand dug cruelly into his side as oily fingers probed his anus, thick and insistent, familiar in their path. His cock, slackened from astonishment, hardened anew.
And then the blue sultan pressed his prick against his unyielding passage, ramming in relentlessly, Arthur’s groaned complaints futile in the face of the sultan’s fervor.
Once sheathed, both men began a syncopated sensual rhythm and pain dissolved into a most exquisite double pleasure.
Arthur’s hand slipped away from the ferrash, his mind seeking his own bliss, pounding the arse before him as he was slammed into from behind. The sultan’s balls, heavy with seed, slapped against his, sparking pangs of tortuous delight through his groin. The cock inside him rubbed the root of his sex, inciting his ascension to a new rapture. Grunted oaths filled the air around them, prayers for reprieve from the sensual torment.
The blue sultan increased his momentum, ignoring Arthur’s cries as he strove for his own climax, his pistoning prick delving to unexplored depths. Pleasure and pain merged into one euphoric sensation to which Arthur was slave and not master. He let it overtake him, push him forward to oblivion, his howl of release a split-second before the blue sultan’s.
Arthur’s heart pounded, sending blood to rush dizzyingly to his head. His lungs burned from want of air.
His ferrash slumped to her stomach, freeing him from their union. The blue sultan’s cock slackened and fell out.
“Shit.”
Joseph’s relieved curse set Arthur laughing. Which made Lavinia giggle.
She rolled over and untied her mask, letting it and the fez fall to the floor. She gazed up at him then glanced at Joseph sitting splay-legged on the floor, tugging off his beard, panting his own exhaustion.
Her breasts were bound under her cropped waistcoat, her hair covered by a boyish wig. She smiled.
“And was the present to your liking, Lord Petersham?”
“To quote the Rubaiyat, Lady Petersham, ‘All begins and ends in Yes’.”
Epilogue
London, May 1881
Lavinia breathed in the spring air of Kensington Gardens as she strolled arm-in-arm with her husband along the path toward the fountains of the Italian Garden. Behind them, sauntering at a slower pace were the nursemaids and fretting parents of her godson and nephew. Still new to parenthood, Nicholas and Helena unabashedly cooed over their little Robert Louis Atherley, already almost a year old. The older and more subdued Sophia and Joseph tried not to let worry overtake reason with their Henry. Neither Robert nor Henry, of course, had any idea of the responsibilities that lay ahead.
Lavinia gave Arthur’s arm a squeeze. “Did you hear the news yet?”
“News? What news?”
“Helena. She’s expecting.”
“Hmm. I suspect St. Albans would like to keep his wife in such a state until she protests. He adores children.”
“And you adore that others have them.”
He chuckled. “I do, Mrs. Harwell.”
Lavinia flushed under her smile. Arthur liked to remind her of the fact that she was his wife whenever he could. The sobriquet would be hers whether she was the Countess of Petersham or the Marchioness of Richmond.
Passersby were numerous given the good weather, and polite nods were quick and too frequent at times to be able to clearly register the recipient. Some faces were quickly recognized—members from Arthur’s club or subjects of recent gossip. The Earl of Ryburgh tipped his hat with a beleaguered smile as his wife and eldest daughter chattered next to him.
An older man with a young woman—perhaps his daughter?—pushing a perambulator, came toward them. The man grinned as he spoke, his face crinkled in happiness, his blue eyes shining like jewels in the morning sun. The woman giggled and rested her blushing cheek against his shoulder, gazing up at him with shared joy. Somehow they were a striking couple, he with his graying imperial-style beard and top hat, she with her unassuming demeanor and simple gown under which she was obviously pregnant. They were the picture of blissfulness, not of father and daughter, but husband and wife, perhaps newlyweds still very much in love.
The breath hitched in Lavinia’s throat.
They were very much Julius Christopher and his assistant Grace.
Julius caught her astonished gaze, a twinkle in his eyes as he recognized her. He said something to Grace and they stopped as Lavinia and Arthur approached.
Arthur had never met Julius. He smiled politely, unaware that the jovial man before them was the horrible Dr. Christopher from her past.
“Julius,” she blurted. “You look happy.” To say such a thing was simply not done but she was utterly taken aback by the change in him.
“Good day, Countess,” he said with a touch of his hat. Clearly he had followed the society columns to keep apprised of her life.
“Oh, where are my manners?” she said. “Julius Christopher, may I present my husband, the Earl of Petersham. Arthur, Dr. Christopher, a long-time friend.”
A memory flickered behind Julius’ blue eyes. Perhaps a memory of his affair with the insatiable Sophia Phillips, and knowledge that the brother might be much like the sister in that regard. “My lord, a pleasure to meet you.”
Luckily Arthur kept his composure. He knew damn well who Julius was. “Dr. Christopher. A pleasure to finally meet you.”
“Countess, Lord Petersham,” Julius smiled courteously. “My wife, Grace Christopher.”
Lavinia extended her hand to the woman who had softened and tamed Julius’ heart. “Lady Christopher, felicitations on your marriage.”
Grace blushed with a glance at Julius. Probably not many called her by her proper title. That Julius was a baronet was something he did not flaunt. “My lady.” She quickly clasped her hand.
Lavinia indicated the perambulator. “And who is this?”
Grace pulled back the blanket to show off the sleeping babe. “Hope, my lady. Our daughter.”
Lavinia had to choke back emotion. Hope. “What a poignant name.”
“We’ve another on the way,” Grace added excitedly.
“Congratulations.” It was sincere. Seeing Grace’s sheer joy and its reflection in Julius’ face was heartwarming.
The others approached. Silence seemed to descend despite the bustling crowd. Julius was subdued before those he had wronged in the past. He greeted them one by one, his comportment, his soft voice, his clear devotion to Grace thoroughly disarming to each in their turn. Then suddenly, Sophia, Helena, and Grace were engrossed in conversation about babies and mothering, and Nicholas and Julius were discussing attending their respective wives during the births of their children. Joseph stood at Nicholas’ side, his interaction with the two spare but cordial.
Arthur sidled up to her. “A penny for your thoughts.”
Lavinia turned a smile to him. “I was just thinking how each of these couples owes their inception to either you or me.”
Arthur chuckled.
“And their children.” Lavinia wrapped her arm around her husband’s. “Really we are parents to them all.”
“‘A lamp to guide the little children stumbling in the dark’.” Arthur slid his hand around her waist.
“Guiding them to their own homes so we can do a little stumbling in the dark of our own.”
He laughed. “I would have it no other way, Mrs. Harwell.”
* * * * *
Author’s Note to the Reader
Thank you for reading Where Destiny Plays. If you enjoyed the book, I would love for you to leave a review on your favorite retailer site, on Goodreads, on BookBub, or on your blog!
Previous titles in The Harwell Heirs saga are The Pleasure Device (Book 1) and Disobedience By Design (Book 2).
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The Harwell Heirs
Victorian aristocracy has very strict rules concerning marital connections and familial obligations. But the Harwell heirs—Helena, Sophia, and Arthur—discover love doesn’t always follow the rules. Scandalous affairs force these scions of society to choose between duty and desire, deference and destiny.
Book 1: The Pleasure Device
Helena and Nicholas’s story
Book 2: Disobedience By Design
Sophia and Joseph’s – and Arthur and Joseph’s – story
Book 3: Where Destiny Plays
Arthur and Lavinia’s story
Book 4: A Delicate Seduction: A Harwell Heirs Legacy Romance
Percival and Bertram’s story
Book 5: Discovering Her Delight: A Harwell Heirs Legacy Romance
William and Beatrice’s story
Book 6: Their Noble Deceit: A Harwell Heirs Legacy Romance
Percival, Bertram, Penelope, and Viola’s story
More provocative historical romance by Regina Kammer
Art & Discipline
Beneath prim and proper Victorian society lies a world of unconventional artistic endeavors and sensual pursuits.
Book 1: The Westerman Affair
Book 1.5: “The Invitation”
American Revolutionary Tales
Tales of epic passion set in New York during the American Revolution.
Book 1: The General’s Wife: An American Revolutionary Tale
Book 2: Winter Interlude: An American Revolutionary Novelette
Stories from the San Juan Islands
Disputed Boundaries
A British soldier and an American adventurer test the borders of desire. Set during the Pig War on San Juan Island in 1869.
About the Author
Regina Kammer is a librarian, an art historian, and an award-winning, international best-selling, multi-published writer of provocative historical romance and contemporary romance with a touch of history. Her short stories and novels make history sexier, whether the era is Roman, Byzantine, Viking, American Revolution, or Victorian. She’s even sexed up contemporary settings, Steampunk, and Greco-Roman mythology. She has been published by Cleis Press, Go Deeper Press, Ellora’s Cave, Andrews UK, Story Ink, Loose Id, The Naughty Literati, and her own imprint, Viridium Press. She began writing historical fiction with romantic elements during National Novel Writing Month 2006, switching to erotic romance when all her characters suddenly demanded to have sex.
Keep up with Regina
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Regina Kammer, Where Destiny Plays
