Knightley's Tale

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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!

“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.