Pearl on Cherry
Authors: Chanse Lowell
PEARL ON CHERRY
Chanse Lowell
Mayhem Erotica Publishing
Copyright © December 2013 by Chanse Lowell
All rights reserved.
This book 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 others, purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and you 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.
CONTENT WARNING — This story contains scenes of an explicit, erotic nature and is intended for adults, 18+. Story includes anal sex (use of implements in the anus as makeshift butt plug toys), bondage, crude language, dubious consent and a primitive type of Dom/sub arrangement involving consensual sex. There is mention of rape and abortion—both more than once, but it is not shown. There is an attempted, unsuccessful rape scene that is thwarted. There are also punishment scenes with whipping and spanking some might find offensive, along with violence with fist fights. Characters portrayed are 18 or older.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents are created solely from the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or deceased, locations and businesses, along with events, are entirely coincidental.
Published by Mayhem Erotica Publishing
Cover illustration by Mayhem Cover Creations © 2013
Acknowledgments
Edited by: Lynda Kimpel, Marti Lynch
Prereaders: Sarra Benaissa, Angela Bohr, Connie Lema, Robin Parrish, Tricia Lockwood-Smith, Mary "MzPeaches" Smith
French translator: Sarra Benaissa
Chapter 1
January 4th, 1907
When ere we meet like parted souls, drifting in the night.
Me in my suit, and you with your skirts, all shadows against the light.
But perchance we dance, or speak a word,
And all is not lost or forbidden.
But you shall sing a lovely note that may hold me and give me will to fight.
I very much look forward to meeting with you today . . .
William Berling Ferrismore III
Clarissa Stone brushed the note aside as she dusted the great Lenora Cheri’s traveling chest.
First Koster, and now this. Being in Bial’s Music Hall was a nightmare. There were so many protesters outside, giving her a headache and making it difficult to get in and out of the building, that she almost wished she was anywhere but here.
“Don’t forget to have my dress ready, Clary,” Lenora said in passing as she left for the final act.
“I won’t, miss. I’ll have it done before you’re back,” Clarissa said. She turned, and once Lenora was gone, she kicked the infuriating woman’s trunk. “And don’t call me Clary.” She squared her shoulders and pulled out the sparkling beaded dress. There were two of them in the case—one was powder blue and the other silver.
Lenora looked ghostly in silver, so Clarissa arranged that one in the corner, out of the way.
Knock, knock, knock.
Clarissa rolled her eyes and went to the door.
She knew what was happening. It was the same with all these starlets.
And Lenora was the worst.
She answered the knock, and in bounded none other than Ferrismore, the tall, dark, dashing, obscenely wealthy man who’d sent that absurd love note.
“Where is she?” he asked, out of breath, glancing around the room and right past her.
Clarissa curtsied, but only enough to be polite. “She’s on stage, sir. She’ll be back in about ten minutes.”
He roamed around the room, his greedy fingers sampling everything around him.
She cringed when he yanked a bead off Lenora’s dress she’d be wearing to the Vanderbilt party taking place in less than an hour.
“This is unacceptable. I told her when I’d arrive to collect her. We can’t be late,” he said, rounding on her and then bearing down, looming.
His face was mere inches from Clarissa’s. With him being this close, she was able to determine his eye color—sage green, ringed around the edge with an almost black warning of natural danger. It was captivating and frightening at the same time.
She wanted to avert her gaze, but she refused. If she looked away, he’d trample all over her, taking advantage.
“Do you think I should be made to wait?” he asked, his warm breath fanning over her face.
She blinked, held her breath and shook her head in tiny increments. He stepped closer, and she lost her balance, falling back onto Lenora’s trunk. She clutched the edges of it as she forced herself to keep her eyes on him.
“And so, why am I waiting for her?” He crossed his arms over his chest.
Her mind went blank.
“Go and fetch her immediately!” he barked.
“No,” she managed to squeak.
“No?”
“No.” She swallowed and found her voice. “It will ruin the production, and Lenora’s the star of the show.”
“Well, then . . . Take her place. Undoubtedly, you know all her lines, and all those men out there are probably inebriated by now anyway. They wouldn’t notice the difference. I’m certain you’ll do . . .” He leaned down, gripped her chin and examined her face.
“She’s a great deal leaner and longer than I am,” she pointed out.
“And you have blue eyes. Hers are light green—even lighter than mine. So?”
“Don’t you think the audience will be aware of these changes?” She blinked several times, trying to gather her wits back. He’d disarmed her with his breathtakingly rugged good looks.
“You have an adequate bosom from where I’m standing.” His eyes drifted down to her chest. “And you obviously know how to play the part of a wanton, wealthy woman.”
He pulled a necklace out of her dress that she had purposefully hidden from view, bouncing the end of it and sampling the weight in his palm.
She gasped.
“Those are mine! I didn’t steal them if that’s what you’re inferring.” She pushed off the trunk and slithered her way up to standing, barely keeping from contacting him.
God above, he smelled divine—a mixture of cedar, musk, mint and tobacco along with something that was very inherently male and hinted at naughtiness. It was a clean, crisp smell and she couldn’t help but inhale it deeply.
It smelled like a man with money and nothing better to do than primp and preen more than any woman did.
Her head went fuzzy for a moment until she was standing completely erect.
“Just because I am the help does not mean you can do what you like with me,” she said, her voice holding firm.
He smirked. “I think it means exactly that.”
His fingertip ran around the long strand of pink pearls he’d freed from her bodice.
“Warm . . .”
“I work hard, sir, and my body heat is well earned.” She refused to blink—refused to move from this spot. He could not ruffle her.
“Yes, I’m certain it is, and what would it take to taste of this heat?” His eyes were piercing as he gazed into hers.
“Nothing. It is not for sale.” She swallowed hard now. Lying.
Again
.
“Everything is for sale, ma chérie,” he said, smirking.
“That’s Lenora’s name—not mine.”
“And what, pray tell, is your name, ma petite?”
“Call me Cherry if you wish.”
“Cherry? You said that was not your name.” He blinked and then his damned exotic green eyes roamed over her body again.
“For all you are aware, I live on Cherry Street.”
He laughed. “Yes, I daresay you probably do.” He fisted her lengthy necklace, held it up to his nostrils and took a deep whiff. “Smells like violets and lavender aromatic waters.” After another sniff, he slipped into French and said, “
J'aime votre senteur terreuse—et la façon dont je peux vous croquer et vous dévorer entière. C’est plein de sensualité et je peux voir dans vos yeux que vous voulez être possédé et appartenir à un homme exactement comme moi.”
Why was he talking about how he liked the earthy scent of her and how it was filled with sensuality?
What could that possibly even mean?
She was perplexed by the things he’d said, but she was squirming nonetheless, because the way he said it all was very lewd.
Her spine stiffened. “And you smell like a rake.” A rake with too much money.
She ripped her necklace back out of his hands, but his grip was so tight, the strand broke and pink pearls went flying everywhere.
She gasped, and her eyes stung. All she saw was money flying out the door. Money she could not afford to lose.
“You bastard! I needed that—I was going to sell it,” she blurted.
“You said they weren’t for sale.” He chuckled and bent over, grabbing a pearl on the loose.
He pocketed it.
“That’s mine,” she growled.
“It’s mine now.” He extended his palm. “Give me your hand.”
“How foolish of me to think you might actually be an honest gentleman and give me what is already mine.” Her eyes narrowed, and she set out her foot to stop a rolling bead, keeping her hand far away from the likes of him.
“Slippers? Hardly a servant’s attire,” he said, his right brow and cheek arching so high, he looked like a wolf, baring its teeth with hackles raised.
She pulled her shoulders back and tipped her head up. “When did a magnate such as yourself worry about something as mundane as a maid’s shoes?”
“Ma chérie, I worry about anyone that touches what belongs to me.” He roamed back over to Lenora’s dress, and a smug grin took over what she would’ve said was a fine-featured face when he’d first arrived here.
Now? Well, now he was anything but tempting no matter how solidly built this man was with broad shoulders, large chest and towering height. His dark slick-backed hair made his mossy eyes look like tools of entrapment. He was a cad of obscene measure.
“Go back to Pearl Street where you belong, and take your French aristocratic ass with you,” she said, turning around and grabbing a broom. She swept up as many of the scattered pink beads as possible.
Her eyes stung once more, but she’d be damned if she’d let a single tear loose in his presence.
“Such language. You most definitely come from the lower east side,” he said, tsking at her.
“If I offend your ears, maybe it’s best you leave.” She glanced at him over her shoulder.
He pulled out his pocket watch, but it came out of his coat pocket at an odd angle. “Ten minutes in your presence is enough to send me running, that is for certain.” He huffed. “But I am not leaving without what I came for.”
“Miss Cheri will be here soon.”
“Then I suggest you shut your mouth and make sure her things are ready to go. She’ll be leaving this flea-infested rat hole forthwith.”
She chuckled. “I thought the Ferrismore family was a patron of the arts.” She set a fist on her hip. “Isn’t your money what pays to keep this flea-infested rat hole running?”
“And what would a cherry girl like you know about what my family is invested in?” Once more, he approached her, but this time, he didn’t stop until he was flush up against her. He ran his fingertip down the bridge of her nose.
