Raine. Elizabeth Amber
he was mightily tempted.
The terms of such an assignation would be tacitly understood by both parties. No words would be needed. Their coupling would be fleeting, furtive. Coins rather than endearments would be exchanged as easily as bodily fluids. He only had to knock upon this woman’s door to be invited into her home. Into her body.
No. He rallied his self-control and forced himself to walk on. Courtesans moved in the same social circles as he once had here in Venice. She might recognize him and gossip. He couldn’t take the chance he might tarnish the Satyr family name yet again.
Raine slipped into the shadows of the buildings that lined the canal. Willing partners lurked there below the bridge.
Were he were so inclined, he could take the lowest guttersnipe to his bed and not fear that he might contract a venereal disease. The Satyr were immune to the syphilis and gonorrhea that were rampant in the city. Which made it all the more absurd that he’d been brought down with a simple cold.
The calls of the indigent echoed over the water. “Signore! Signore! Look my way.” Enticements were offered, each more lewd than the former as the inhabitants of the nooks and crannies under the bridge vied for his custom.
His eyes roved them. They were a ragtag bunch. But he could find a woman here with whom to take his ease and be done with this terrible need. There were men. Boys. Girls. All of them desperate.
He, too, was desperate tonight. Desperate for Human warmth. But his fastidious nature recoiled from seeking his pleasure with a woman from among them.
The hermaphrodite had inspired this spurt of lust in him and she would have satisfied it best. He pulled himself up short. What was he thinking?
Once before he’d set his affections on a specific Human. The one he’d married. She’d been a colossal mistake. He’d bedded her nightly for weeks after their wedding, each time in a gentlemanly fashion. Her body had brought his to satisfaction, but he hadn’t been satisfied. Lying with her had only piqued his desire, and he’d gone to Shimmerskins afterward.
Such ElseWorld beings were easily conjured from the mist by males of Satyr lineage at any time or place. They were beautiful, willing vessels whose sole reason to exist was to bring him and his brothers to orgasm as often and in whatever manner they desired.
He had but to imagine an act and impart it to such a creature with his mind. Without speaking a word he could make her understand precisely what he required, and she would endeavor to please him. She would express desire with her eyes, her lips, and her body. But it would all be false, as false as she herself was. Therein lay the problem. Tonight his body craved another sort of satisfaction. Warm. Passionate. Human. Real.
But he would make do.
He turned on his heel to head toward the dock. He would take the gondola, hie back to his hotel, and summon a Shimmerskin. Maybe two.
He took a determined step away from the alley.
Suddenly, a body came crashing against his back.
The scent of Faerie blanketed him like a quick heady puff of fresh spicy air spritzed from an expensive crystal bottle. It was there, and then gone again in an instant. It was the only scent he’d been able to detect all day. And because of that he felt its impact all the more keenly.
Instinctively, he lashed out an arm and wrapped it around the waist of the person who’d blundered into him from the alley. He felt the softness of a woman encased in yards and yards of velvet and satin.
A head lifted. Black witch’s eyes gazed up into his from the twin holes of a bauta mask.
It was the creature from the theater. The hermaphrodite! The answer to his prayers. He might not have recognized her if she hadn’t still worn the Carnivale mask.
A sharp elbow found his ribs. He grunted but otherwise ignored it. The scent of Fey had dissipated. Had he only imagined it?
Her dark eyes were laced with fear, her breathing was fast, and her body was heated as though she’d been running. Over her head, he surveyed the streets around them. They were dark and deserted except for the occasional straggler. The Grand Canal was quieter now in the evening hours. Where had she come from?
She punched his back and elbowed him repeatedly. “Let go of me, you dolt.”
He ignored her. Since no one else stood nearby, it had to have been this creature that had brought the scent with her. He couldn’t take the chance of letting her go until he knew for certain.
He clasped her arm before she could aim her weapon at a more vulnerable part of his anatomy. “Hold there. I mean you no harm.”
Nimble hands groped under his coat, pinching at him and poking for his crotch with hard knuckles. He turned so she couldn’t reach her goal.
“Hold, I say.”
She only squirmed in response. Was she Faerie or merely a comely prostitute? Or both?
“Let go of me.” Her voice was cultured. Throaty. Sexy.
His cock swelled. “Who are you?”
“Who are you?” she countered, trying to yank herself away.
He grabbed both of her forearms. Bacchus! Though she wasn’t aware of it, the cloak shifted and he caught a fleeting glimpse of a breast. Underneath, she was naked.
She tried to knee him. He angled away, causing her to tumble forward and grab at his hips for balance. Her hand lodged in his pocket by accident, ripping it.
Abruptly she stopped struggling against him. She was staring at the ground now, transfixed.
What the devil? Raine glanced down and saw that the ribbons he’d stuffed into his pockets earlier that day had tumbled free onto the tiled street.
The woman shook off his hold, knelt, and picked them up. She stood again, holding them cupped in her palms and studying them as though they were priceless treasures.
When he automatically reached for them, she closed her hands into fists and snatched them back. He caught the straggling ends of several ribbons. Winding the strands crossways around his palm until he had a firm grip, he used them to pull her against him.
The woman held on to her prize, refusing to let go. And for a moment they were linked, tethered by rainbow threads of satin. He stared into the black pools of her eyes and saw they were flecked with gold. Her lashes were cobwebby, casting shadows on the bronze cheeks of her mask. Her breasts were soft against him. His desire for her ratcheted higher.
“How old are you?” he demanded in a level tone.
She wriggled, trying to look around him, first to one side, then the other. She frowned, obviously not finding whatever it was she wanted. “Where’s violet?”
“What?” Was she simple?
“You only have six ribbons,” she explained, gazing at him with brittle patience as though he were the simple one. “You have only six colors of the rainbow here. Where’s violet? It’s missing.”
“I don’t know. Who the hell cares? I bought them for my sister-in-law and her younger sister,” he explained needlessly, then felt annoyed that he’d revealed even that small bit of himself.
He gave the ribbons a jerk and repeated his earlier question. “How old are you?”
She shrugged, irritated. “Nineteen. What does it matter?”
Relief filled him, but he was careful. “Don’t lie. I won’t seek my pleasure with girls not yet become women.”
“Pleasure?” She stilled, lifting her eyes to search his. “I’m nineteen,” she said slowly.
He looked skeptical.
“I’m quite sure of it because today is my birthday. And how old are you?”
“Twenty-seven, as if it matters a whit. What’s your price?”
Dark