Copper

Copper

Vanessa Devereaux

Edited by Marisa Chenery

Cover design by April Martinez

Copyright 2014 Vanessa Devereaux. Published by Forever More Publishing, 31 Wycliffe Place, Kitchener, Ontario, N2M 5J6, Canada. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author.

ISBN: 978-1-92785-961-2

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

Emma Snow makes her living as an escort to some of London’s richest men. What begins as a routine call to one of her clients ends in his murder. Detective Mark Hargreeves enters her life and is now assigned to protect her, because she is a witness to the crime.

She is immediately drawn to him, and senses like many of her clients, that he is another troubled soul. She wants him, lusts for him, but he still loves his wife who died in childbirth. Emma knows he probably would not want and could not love a woman who makes her living pleasuring other men, but she is willing to do anything to have him as her own.

Chapter One

London 1878

Sometimes our lives can take the strangest turns. A person walks into your life and quickly becomes your savior. In my case, it was a copper with beautiful blue eyes.

When I approached 112 Cumberland Place that morning everything looked the same, and I had no idea what would soon unfold within its walls, and that the man of my dreams would walk into my life around noon that day.

The same routine was followed every Tuesday morning. The master of the house dismissed all the staff an hour before I was scheduled to arrive. He was a private man and never wished anyone in his employ to know how he sought his pleasure.

Sir Michael, a psychiatrist by profession, was a man who liked things to be perfect. We had kept the same appointment, same day, same time, for a little over a year. He liked order and sameness, an almost obsessive behavior that I guessed was the reason many of his patients sought his help. For, he too, knew what it was like to live with such an affliction. On our first meeting he’d sat and gone through step-by-step what I was to do upon arriving at his house.

I would get there at shortly before ten a.m. That day I was a few minutes late, because it had been raining and the hansom cab had taken more time to travel along Charing Cross Road.

Upon arriving, I climbed the stairs to the front door, put my hand behind the flowerpot on the windowsill and searched around in the dirt for the key. Due to the heavy rain, it had become muddy, so by the time I retrieved it, I had to wipe mud from it before placing it into the lock.

After pushing the door open, I stepped inside and wiped my feet on the mat. The smell of polished wood hit my nostrils, and I assumed the servants had spent the better part of the morning cleaning the banisters and walls. Cleanliness was another one of Sir Michael’s obsessions. He liked his house as neat as a pin. His women in the same condition. I proceeded up the stairs to go about my ritual that he insisted upon before he had contact with me. He required that he was my first client of the day, and paid extra for the privilege.

After heading up the stairs to the first floor, I pushed open the door to the bathroom and walked inside. I shut it, knowing I would have complete privacy, but still wanted to go through my ritual in my own secure world. I placed my bag onto the floor and then took off my clothes, laying each piece neatly across the edge of the bathtub.

Once naked, I glanced at myself in the mirror. A curvy young woman like myself sometimes was not always in demand, but I knew how to please a man, so my days were always filled.

I reached for the sponge and bar of soap Sir Michael left especially for me. Despite my lateness, the water in the bowl was still tepid. He had always insisted that once the downstairs clock stuck ten I be in position and ready for his grand entrance. Time was of the essence, so I hurried. After dipping both soap and sponge into the bowl, I worked up a lather and proceeded to wipe the sponge over my pubic hair. I spread my legs and worked it into my folds. The coldness bit into the delicate skin around my pussy. I took the edge and pushed it up into my channel, cleaning myself to his high standards.

I put the sponge back beside the bowl, wondering if the servants ever wondered what it was used for and who had used it. Next I reached for my bag, opened it and the box and took out my own sponge dipped in vinegar before inserting it high into my pussy so Sir Michael would not even know it was there.

I glanced one more time at myself and then headed to the room, knowing I had only seconds to spare. I hurried down the hallway and then inside his room to see everything laid out, ready for our time together.

I took the red scarf, tied it around my eyes, walked to the foot of the bed and leaned over while the clock chimed ten.

As punctual as ever, Sir Michael walked into the room. I always knew when he reached the bed, because there was a loose floorboard that cried out when he was two feet away.

He ran his hands over my ass cheeks, kissing each one before he slapped the right one and then the left. The left one, the right one again, and then did his usual inspection, pushing my legs apart to see if his spanking had excited me. Seeing my juices slid from my channel thrilled him. It did, in fact, excite other clients too so I had practiced making my pussy cream even when the men did not thrill me.

Sir Michael swiped his finger across my folds, and using the riding crop, hit the middle of my two cheeks. He examined me again, running his gloved fingers from my pussy to my anus.

He hit me two more times and then kissed the middle of my back, which always meant he was satisfied with the state of my arousal. Apart from the first day when we had met, he had never spoken to me during our sessions. Over the year, I had gotten to know what he wanted and needed by his movements and touch.

I stood and turned around, lifting both my arms out to the sides and away from my body. He played with my nipples, pulling them, squeezing them between his index finger and thumb. They turned hard within seconds. He slapped my left thigh, signaling he wanted my legs farther apart. I moved my right foot away from the left one, and felt the riding crop go between my legs, quickly finding my clit. He rolled it back and forth, biting into the nub until I groaned. Not a make believe groan that many of my clients do not mind me producing for them, but this was always the real thing, because Sir Michael knew how to excite me with the crop.

I steadied myself. The blood rushed to my pussy, and I enjoyed every second of the moment. He tapped my belly. Another signal that told me he was ready for the main event.

I sat on the bed, worked my body upward and put my hands out to check if I was placed correctly. The bedposts were within touching distance, and I knew I did not have to move another inch.

Sir Michael took each silk tie and secured it around my wrists, attaching them to the posts. Next he tied my ankles to the bottom ones, and soon I was spread wide open for him.

The mattress dipped by my legs, which always told me he had climbed upon it, and within seconds, the tip of his cock would be nudging at my entrance.

That day he did not hesitate for a second. He plunged straight into me. I was not sure if I was as relaxed as I usually was or just overly tense throughout my whole body, but for some strange reason, he felt bigger, longer, and for the first time since I had been with him, I could tell he was unsheathed.

His thrusts were also more urgent, heavier, and his breathing more pronounced. I bucked against his body, feeling a stirring in my pussy that I did not usually get with Sir Michael.

“Oh god,” I accidentally murmured as the pleasure traveled up and down my legs. He increased his tempo, grunting almost, setting up fiction that sent me on the point of no return. I had to find my release.

I lifted my hips, meeting his body. Loud slapping noises and his grunts echoed around the room. My head spun as he took me closer and closer to my climax.

“More, fuck me more.” Those words tumbled over my lips before I could sensor myself, and I knew I was in danger of losing Sir Michael as a client. He had always insisted on complete silence.

I stiffened my legs, pushed upward and found the release I was so longing for.

It was, in fact, beautiful. The best climax of my life. I relaxed while taking it all in and enjoying the after-glow as Sir Michael’s thrusts grew harder and deeper, and it was at that point I realized the man fucking me was not him.

Who was this man?

He quickly found his own release. The warmth spread throughout my pussy. He got off the bed, and as always, untied my hands. I always kept them up above my head, and gave him the chance to leave the room and retreat safely back to his study.

I counted to twenty and then took off the blindfold before I untied my ankles. I slid off the bed and proceeded to the bathroom where I had left my clothes. I spread my legs, removed the vinegar-soaked sponge and then used the now cold water to clean my pussy. I dressed quickly. I had another client waiting in Hampstead at noon. I took the money off the shelf where Sir Michael always left it for me. Perhaps it had been my imagination that the man had not been him. Maybe I was tired and my mind played tricks on me.

As I left the bathroom and then headed down the hallway, I heard music playing. Beautiful music, and it made me want to stand there and listen. I knew I should not, because Sir Michael liked me gone as soon as we were done with our business.

A cello sang out and then I caught sight of something flowing out from under his study door. Red, but not wine, something thicker
. Blood
.

I panicked, not knowing what to do, and wondered if I should simply run and scream. However, something led me to the door. I was about to do what was unforgiveable and invade Sir Michael’s private sanctuary. I opened his study door and then screamed at the top of my lungs when I saw the image before me.

Chapter Two

“Perhaps some vital evidence remains on her body. I think we should search her to see what we can find.”

I turned away from the police officers who had arrived at Sir Michael’s shortly after I had run screaming outside onto the pavement. They did nothing to lower their voices. I knew and understood women in my profession did not get or deserve respect, but Sir Michael was dead, and I did not consider it a laughing matter.

“I volunteer to search her pussy,” said a tall uniformed officer as the other men burst out laughing. “I am guessing it could hide a thing or two.”

I now wished I had run and run and not alerted the police to what I had found. However, I felt it was my duty, and the poor man could have sat in his own blood for hours until the staff returned to their duties.

I finally turned around and found the courage to face them “You can do so, by all means, but I doubt on a copper’s wages you could afford such a privilege.”

“Oh, listen to Miss High and Mighty,” said the biggest one of the bunch. He stepped toward me, and I was positive he was going to grab me by the collar of my dress. “You are nothing but a slut,” he spat into my face.

“How dare you talk to a woman like that.” A tall dark-haired man entered the room. “You owe the lady an apology,” he said.

The policemen fell silent.

“Well, I am waiting to hear something,” said the man.

“Sorry, miss, some silly misunderstanding,” said the policeman who had called me a slut, tipping his hat at me.

“Now all of you get about your work, and I never want to hear offensive remarks cross your lips again or you will be reported and put on suspension.”

All the men mumbled under their breath and scattered. The man turned around to look at me. His eyes were a light shade of blue. They had the sort of look that told me he had had sorrow in his life. A person’s eyes tell their life story, and this man ran away from pain. I wanted to reach up and stroke the side of his face. Part of my success as an escort to London’s wealthy men had been knowing what bothered them.

He lifted his hat to me. “Detective Mark Hargreeves, miss.”

I held out my hand. “Emma Snow.”

He shook it while not taking his gaze off me. “Perhaps we can go into the downstairs parlor and talk.”