Devi's Paradise (29 page)

Romilly found it unbelievable to be sitting with Armand waiting for the performance to begin. Nathan was taking the leading male role and she was eager to see him and test her reaction, the whole episode taking on a dreamlike quality. The King had not yet arrived, and nothing could start until he did, but being their sovereign he took his time. Romilly and Armand had been invited to partake of refreshments with him after the show. News of their adventures had reached his ears via Alvina, who had dragged her colonial husband back to England.

Romilly glanced sideways at Armand, sure that every woman present would be lusting after him. He was dressed in the height of fashion, as indeed was she. He wore a suit of claret velvet, with a cassock coat that reached his knees, slit on either side and trimmed with sparkling buttons. Under it was a waistcoat, lavishly braided and breeches that fitted his muscled thighs. She couldn’t resist resting her hand on the one nearest to her, feeling his instant reaction even though he was controlled. She worked her gloved fingers higher, feeling a throb that emanated from his groin. He turned and smiled faintly, his cravat and ruffles startlingly white against his tanned skin.

They were alone, and her buttocks ached with the remembrance of his latest spanking. It happened as they were preparing for the evening, alone in their bedroom at her father’s townhouse, maid and valet dismissed. Now, almost within sight of the noisy audience awaiting their king, he inserted a hand under her voluminous skirts and landed unerringly on her mound. Romilly didn’t betray her arousal, accustomed to this by now. He chose the most inappropriate places, and they had even fucked in the conservatory at a ball given by King Louis. As Armand’s slave she was bound to obey, no matter the time or place. She found such spontaneity exciting. It kept her on her toes and didn’t allow for complacency.

His aristocratic fingers combed through her bush, and she recalled how they had held the sword that killed Lafette. Also memories of those selfsame hands wielding a whip, a tawse, a paddle, were enough to raise the fine hair on her limbs and wet her cleft with honeydew. Even when the King took his place in the royal box with that informality he enjoyed so much, Romilly was hardly aware, more concerned about having an orgasm before Armand decided to tease her by stopping. She had assured he wouldn’t do this by resting her hand on his cock and rotating the ring through his tight breeches, causing his member to swell larger. He’d need to put that somewhere, and soon.

She was on the point of coming when the curtains parted and Nathan stood there, speaking the prologue. Romilly placed her hand on top of Armand’s, stopping him rubbing her for a moment, and stared at the man who had introduced her to her own deeply passionate self. He was as handsome as ever, but no one could ever eclipse Armand in her sight, or treat her to that inflammatory mixture of sensuality and bondage.

‘Go on,’ she whispered, breathing in the scent of Armand’s hair and feeling his cock twitch under her hand. At once his slippery middle digit continued its slow, delicious frottage.

She didn’t hear the rest of Nathan’s speech, hardly aware that he had left the stage and that it was now filled with other actors going through their paces. She came, silently, giving nothing away as he had taught her, and as she did so thanked the fates who had cast her away on the shores of Devil’s Paradise.