The rapacious lust for revenge had proven to be an unexpectedly powerful predilection. A good swiving lasted but a fleeting moment. Revenge? Sweet, sensuous revenge, now that saw a man satisfied and kept him that way until they lowered his cold, dead body into the dirt.
Cyra drew Malden so deep his ballocks touched her chin. She played with his sac and his flesh tightened painfully. A hiss slipped from between his teeth. He squeezed his eyes tight and fought the urge to empty himself into her throat.
Fighting that baser urge to come quick and hard, Malden slid his fingers through her tight curls and urged Cyra to a slower pace. Not unlike a slow, deliberate, drawn-out avengement, restraint made the climax sweeter for Malden, too.
He managed to breathe easier, and this time fixed his heavy gaze out at his empire. All the while Cyra attempted to ring an orgasm from him, he took in the sight of what he’d created.
The room, purposely designed in the form of a hexagram, featured a different perversion at each Latin-labeled point.
Malden surveyed the fortunes being tossed away at his gaming tables, the Cyprians sprawled with their legs on either side of a patron and fucking him while they wagered, the married couples being led throughout the room and guided on to the Ludere Suites—Orgy Suites.
Because, of course. Men were not made for one woman. Lust fueled a fascination that, after enough fucking, eventually slaked those needs. And when they did? Those men…and women…came to Malden’s Hellfire Club—sometimes the bored couples came together.
His hips moved reflexively, arching toward Cyra’s scarlet mouth that hung vacuously open to accommodate Malden’s length and girth.
From around his cock, the Cyprian moaned and murmured her appreciation.
Absently, he reached down to test her wetness.
Whimpering, Cyra parted her knees wider.
Her sodden channel dripped with a like lust.
Cyra gasped and moved her hips, attempting to steal some relief.
“Slow,” he murmured.
She whimpered.
More benevolent than she deserved, Malden continued stroking her. She moved her hips wildly back and forth; her desperate search for satiation made her efforts on his behalf, sloppy.
Some were incapable of restraint. Sadly, Cyra proved among that disappointing number. Those women were the ones who bored him most. Of course, she’d stay on in her role as every man had a different predilection and she’d serve those fellows well.
But with Cyra’s efforts now proving tedious, Malden surveyed the vulgar scene unfolding on the center stage—the latest—and most—depraved for Malden’s most debased patrons—Auction Virginis.
For the latest addition of debaucheries provided at Lucifer’s Lair, every night, seven innocent ladies, each draped in a matching filmy white peignoir and elaborate feathered mask affixed to conceal her identity, lined up behind a gilded rope. They stood as gentlemen each approached and evaluated them the same way they did their horseflesh.
The virgin’s expressions were all the same: gazes downcast. Heads bent subserviently. Hands clasped before them, as if in fervent prayer; each woman praying for salvation.
It’d proven a magnificent addition to his club. Malden’s profits tripled and his memberships doubled.
It turned out the respected lords of London were more debauched than most men knew, and all mamas feared.
Auction Virginis was also nothing more than a cruelly scandalous show.
After all, gentlemen might lust for the libidinous idea of it all, but ultimately, they—for the most part—had enough restraint to not debauch a virgin.
Not that noble fathers cared for their useless daughters. They didn’t. Powerful peers didn’t possess puling emotions for any of their kin, not even the sons and heirs who continued their lines.
What they did, however, care about was expanding their power, wealth, and influence—all feats best achieved through the sale of their daughters.
Yes, ultimately, all virginal ladies were auctioned off. The ton merely dressed those transactions up as respectable ventures. They called it the Marriage Mart but they may as well have named it the Virgin Auction. For, in the end, it was all the same. Ladies for sale, and always to the highest bidder with the deepest pockets.
Malden’s gaze locked on a lone woman moving through his club. She walked with timid steps, stealing furtive glances at the lascivious tableaus as she went.
He narrowed his eyes. Malden knew firsthand the peril that came from allowing an innocent lady into the midst of his club.
She’d donned a flimsy black disguise that left parts of her face exposed. Between enormous eyes revealed by an entirely insufficient mask and the amazing height her dark eyebrows climbed, she stood out as clearly as a whore in church.
It’s how he knew she didn’t belong; both by her face and how she moved. He knew the identity of each and every person who stepped foot inside his palace. Malden himself met each potential patron and either personally approved or declined membership.
Langley, one of his guards, kept a safe distance, but also a determined gaze on the impudent intruder who’d invaded Lucifer’s Lair.
Just then, Cyra’s teeth grazed the plum tip of his rod, reminding Malden she was still there.
As attuned as he’d been to the woman who’d infiltrated Lucifer’s Lair, he’d forgotten all about the Cyprian framed between his legs.
“That is enough,” he said coolly. “We’re done here.”
He’d far more pressing matters to attend than getting himself off on her mediocre attempts.
Nodding wobbily, the Cyprian stood.
Cyra forgotten, Malden stood and stuffed his shaft back in his trousers. All the while, he kept his gaze directed outward on the interloper.
His uninvited guest stopped in her tracks and stared at a gaming table where three lords and ladies in various stages of dishabille played a game of strip poker. If possible, the lady’s eyes grew rounder.
Malden stepped on a nearby circular call button the same color as the dark mahogany flooring and pressed it.
There came a short rap on the door.
His head guard, Gruffton, and the only man Malden took from his former establishment, Forbidden Pleasures, stepped inside.
“You called, my lord.”
Cyra took the cue and hastened from the room.
Gruffton stepped out of the way to allow her to pass.
Only after she’d gone did Malden freely speak.
He redirected his singular focus to the one who’d infiltrated his kingdom. “There’s a problem,” he gritted out when Gruffton finally reached the window. “More specifically, a ‘her’.”
Malden jabbed a finger at the still motionless figure. The clever mirror which magnified the floors and patrons below displayed the crimson fire that touched the lady’s elfin-shaped chin and an inch or so of her unconcealed cheeks.
“I’m aware, my lord,” Gruffton assured. “I have Langley following her. He’s already alerted the other men stationed below and the guards in the private suites.”
Had the older man not learned firsthand that innocent ladies were as dangerous as Eve?
His annoyance high, Malden grunted.
“I figured it’d be more helpful to get her identity and find out what business brought her instead of sending her away,” Gruffton added.
The old guard’s logic made sense. Annoyance filled Malden that he’d not been of the same thought. Sloppiness had been letting the mystery woman in Lucifer’s Lair. Letting her leave, would have been even sloppier.
He and Gruffton continued to watch her.
“Want me to lead the questioning?” Gruffton asked, his stare still trained on the cloaked woman.
“Oh, no. I shall see to this one,” he murmured with an unholy glee.
There’d be an inquisition of the virtuous lady who’d inserted herself into a place of sin and vice, and no one but Malden would be the one to do it.
Malden’s lust stirred again. Not because of her innocence. Even he wasn’t a deviant enough to lust for a virgin. This time for altogether different reasons; the delicious appeal of interrogating a clearly virtuous lady who’d risked reputation and ruin by stepping foot inside Malden’s establishment.
Through his previous proprietorship of Forbidden Pleasures and his current one of Lucifer’s Lair, he’d perpetually beggaring of men and acquired a healthy number of enemies. Someone had sent her, and Malden had absolutely no doubt who was behind the lady’s presence.
DuMond. Argyll. Latimer.
Hatred singed his veins.
Credit for this infiltration went to his former friends who’d become his blood rivals in a war of dominance for power in England’s casino arena—and for power over society.
They were behind it. Nay, maybe not Argyll or Latimer. The latter two didn’t possess the same thirst for power as DuMond. Those two followed DuMond like pathetic sheep—just as Malden once did.
What those men hadn’t anticipated, however, is from the ashes of Malden’s weaknesses had grown a man of power; a force to be reckoned with.
How thrilling it would be when they discovered the man they now played games with was nothing like the man they’d known. They’d killed him as effectively as if they’d plunged a blade in his body and their betrayal was the last favor they’d ever done him.
At last, the still-blushing lady gave her head a slight shake, as if to clear the haze of desire cast by the naughty tableau she’d witnessed.
He and Gruffton tensed. Their heads moved in like motions as they each followed her every step.
Again, the lady paused. Then, like she was a lone partner in some nearly motionless waltz, she did a circle in her spot, until she finally stopped, frozen upon the star at the center of the crimson hexagon embroidered into that portion of the gold carpeting.
Malden narrowed his eyes. What are you up to, little minx?
The lady’s gaze remained transfixed on a spot directly adjacent her.
He followed her stare, directly over to the Virginis Auction which had commenced.
Neil, the guard responsible for overseeing the safety of those lady participants and ensuring overzealous patrons didn’t cross a line, collected the first woman. He caught the subservient beauty by the black satin rope fastened about her hands and led her onward to the gold hexagon that marked the spot for each woman to stand when they were auctioned off.
Neil called out. And then the auction began. Old lords with a foot closer to their grave than living, young dandies, notorious rakes, all vied for the lady’s favors. They lifted a paddle containing their club number. Over and over.
Normally, Malden’s sole focus would be on the rising cash value that each raised paddle indicated.
This time, however, he remained locked on the still-motionless lady who took that vulgar scene in. Her body partially angled enough toward him revealed another one of those telling, pathetic blushes.
Even with the distance between them, Malden caught the telltale rise and fall of her back and shoulders.
She is aroused, then.
Not that he was surprised. The only reason virgins didn’t embrace society’s depravities was because the world kept them deliberately blind, deaf, and dumb to all the perverse pleasures that awaited them if they but looked.
For the world knew, once they did have their eyes opened, there’d be no turning back, and those virtuous ladies would quite happily and eagerly spread their legs for anyone who could satisfy their itch.
“Maybe she’s just here to enjoy the club?” Gruffton ventured.
“No,” Malden murmured. If that’d been the case and she’d only come here to throw herself wholly into the depravity to be enjoyed, she’d have donned the mask and had the full experience.
Suddenly, the lady began moving purposefully toward the stage.
“Bring her to me,” Malden whispered.
Gruffton was already gone before the final command had left Malden’s lips.
He burned his gaze into the lady’s slender, narrow back as she gingerly made her way to a place she had no place going to.
He dropped his brows. Nay, nothing good had brought her here. Certainly not curiosity.
Before this night was through, he’d have answers and find out on whose behalf she’d come. And he was going to enjoy exacting that information from her.
