Sacred Revelations by Harte Roxy

Author:Harte Roxy [Roxy, Harte]
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
Tags: Contemporary, General, Romance, Adult, Erotica, Fiction
ISBN: 9781616501068
Google: nWgUQgAACAAJ
Amazon: 1616501065
Barnesnoble: 1616501065
Goodreads: 6961451
Publisher: Lyrical Press, Inc
Published: 2009-11-01T07:00:00+00:00

Walking into Garrett’s office, I’m distracted by a loose string on the front of my corset, trying to decide to pull or not to pull. I decide to not pull, pulling seems like a very bad idea when beading is involved.

“Hey, do you have scissors?”

Looking up, I swallow the question behind a cough. Garrett is wearing skintight, navy blue velvet breeches tucked into over-the-knee leather boots with a turned-down cuff at the top of the boot. I think my head tilts, trying to take in the whole view and not able to process so much ooh-la-la at once. Oh my .

When I suggested a Marie Antoinette Masquerade Party, I was thinking about women’s hairstyles, flowing gowns, decadence, and frivolity. I wasn’t thinking, what would a man of the era be wearing.

Now, remembering history classes about Mozart and King Louis XVI, enlightenment dawns in the vision standing before me.

He is painted as white as I, face, neck, hands, his cheeks reddened, scarlet lipstick pouting, even eye shadow in blues and plums. If his face was beautiful before, he is sin itself painted, even the star-shaped beauty mark above his lip is decadently sinful in a kiss me here fashion. He wears a white wig with long curls. His white shirt is all ruffles and lace. His long-tailed silk-brocade jacket in sky-blue with ornate silver embroidery and beading matches his eyes, making us not matchy-matchy, but closely color coordinated enough to take one damn fine photograph…if anyone is so inclined. I do hope someone is so inclined. My God.

I take a step forward but hold myself in check, heart slamming through my chest, trying to escape the bonds of my too-tight corset for want of rushing to him and throwing myself at his feet.

“You’re wearing false eyelashes!” I accuse wickedly, smiling.

“So are you,” he accuses right back.

I flutter my long, silver stick-on lashes, thinking, oh yeah, I am .

“Do you have a sock stuck in those pants, mister?” I leer.

“I should say not, Madame ,” he replies aristocratically and with a seemingly well-practiced accent.

The game is on.

“Mademoiselle,” I correct with a curtsy, holding out my hand. Predictably, he hurries forward to lift and kiss. “Enchanté. ” He kisses the top of my hand, then rolls my wrist to inhale and kiss, palm, wrist, then higher.

I clear my throat when he reaches my inner elbow, asking with wide-eyed innocence, “Escortez-moi à la mascarade, mon seigneur?”

“Escortez-moi au sofa, mademoiselle?”

I am stunned by the request, forgetting French, not really believing that he wants me to do what I think he wants to do on his leather couch. “You’ll ruin your makeup,” I protest, but don’t put up a real struggle when he leads me there.

“Be careful and our makeup will survive.” He sits, opening the front of his pants, his very hard, very erect penis springing free. He quips, “See, no sock.”

He lifts my skirts, sliding his hand over my silk stockings. He snaps my garter against my bare thigh before pulling me onto my knees to straddle him.

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