Justine Elyot's Blog, page 25

Preaching to the Choir

Just so I have an excuse to show off my lovely, pretty cover again, I'm going to give away three PDF copies of The Choirmaster to the first three commenters.

Happy sigh.

And here is part of the Mozart Requiem, as featured in the story.

1888

Here's something new (well, not that new – actually it's quite old) for 2011 – a story serialisation.

I started writing this a couple of years ago, got about two thirds of the way through and then had to stop to write On Demand. I've never picked the thread up again. I thought it might be a bit of fun to post it here and see if I'm motivated to continue once I run out.

Anyway, it's Victorian high-melodrama, full of skulduggery and suspense, with erotica and romance in the mix. If you like the sound of that, why not give it a whirl? I'll post a little bit every week and see how I go.

1888 – Chapter One

"Is the Frenchman here?  He is late.  I can't set up the equipment myself."

Odd phrases such as this emerged coherent from the buzz of low masculine conversation that drifted through the door to the anteroom.  Polly half-attended to it, but her concentration was more fully attuned to a thorough examination of the gracious décor of her surroundings.  This was quite the grandest room she had ever been in, and it wasn't even a proper room; the gent who had brought her here had called it an 'antechamber'.  Proper posh, it was – flock wallpaper, delicately coloured glass shades on the bracketed gas lamps, finely stitched antimacassars atop the small tables that interspersed the ornate chairs.  If this was an antechamber, Lord knew what the front parlour might be like; Polly's entire family could live and sleep in a room this size.

"You could have found a prettier girl; she is no more than a drab."  The querulous remark was made in a foreign accent Polly could not place, having had little to do with folks from overseas in her forty one years.  Then the distinctive voice of The Toff replied.

"It isn't the easiest task to find girls willing to satisfy your specific tastes.  Even the lowest whores have their limits.  I had to offer this one twenty guineas, which is a King's ransom considering that full coitus can usually be obtained for no more than twopence."

The Toff's words elicited a shudder from Polly, the recollection of why she was here flooding into her consciousness uninvited.  Suddenly the odd scraping and sharpening sounds that had been background noise to the conversation loomed hugely in the foreground.  There was a clink that reminded her of a table being laid, but presumably this was not the laying out of cutlery but of…instruments.

The words of The Toff when he had picked her up bucked and surged in her brain in such a way as to induce mild seasickness.  "He is a very rich and powerful man, but he has unusual tastes, so unusual that he is willing to offer substantial remuneration to a lady who can accommodate him."  On being asked what the tastes were, The Toff had merely answered, "The infliction of pain.  Are you a mother?"

Polly had nodded, nonplussed.

"The pain is severe, but I daresay nothing that would compare with childbed.  Would fifteen guineas aid the process of making a decision?"

Polly had haggled it up to twenty and blithely ascended the step into The Toff's carriage.  He was a somewhat mysterious-looking cove, heavily moustachioed and wearing a hat whose broad brim shaded his face.  Her overall impression was of a shadow, albeit one with watchful gimlet eyes.  All her thought in the carriage had been of what she could do with twenty guineas, a delirious fantasy spree of celebration in her head, but now…well, the reality of earning those twenty guineas must be confronted.

She was swallowing with difficulty, a sheen of perspiration on her palms and brow, when a small bespectacled man burst in and bolted through the door to the larger room without so much as a nod of acknowledgement.

"Ach!"

"At last," grumbled The Toff.  "Let us prepare your apparatus, and then we may begin proceedings."

(N.B. Despite the doomy opening, there are no scenes of graphic torture in this story.)

Music When Soft Voices Die

2011 has barely had time to brush its teeth and comb its hair and yet I already have a new publication out.

The Choirmaster releases tomorrow at Noble Romance. I've been particularly excited about this story finding a home, because it is a special favourite of mine. I adore the characters, love the setting and am passionate about the story – which an editor described as 'rags to riches with a D/s twist'.

Here is a short excerpt:

"He picked up the flogger and Loveday flinched, drawing in a sharp breath as Matthew caressed the plaited leather handle and the softly knotted strands.

He chuckled, his face lighting with rueful concern. "Oh, don't worry, Loveday. I'm not going to hurt you. Not today, at any rate."

Loveday swallowed hard. Not hurt her? So what was with the flogger? Did she believe him? Did she trust him? Yes. Yes, she did.

The realisation flooded over her, letting her muscles unknot and her spine relax. She trusted him. This was a good man, a man who'd been nothing but kind to her, at considerable cost to himself. He had said he would not hurt her—so he would not hurt her.

"I just want to . . . ." He held out the flogger, sliding its buttery suede strings over her breasts, tickling the nipples, making her want to shrink back. But there was nowhere to go. She had to sit there and take the exquisite sensation until it became hard to bear, the softness on her hard nipples torture. She gasped and swivelled her hips left and right, looking anywhere for release, but those tiny pulses of ticklish torment travelled straight to her clit and her pussy, drenching her thighs, making the wood slippery and warm.

"Tease you," he finished his earlier sentence, taking the handle of the flogger and tracing the outline of her breasts, then bringing it back to the centre and letting it make its leathery trail down over her belly and toward the little triangle of neatly clipped hair that marked her primary pleasure zone. "I like to tease." He stroked her pussy lips with the trailing ends, the knots catching now and again in her pubic hair. "Might make you shave that," he said. "Maybe." Now the wicked little ribbons were on her clit, stimulating it just enough to make her feel like she might die if she didn't get to come soon, but barely, only just enough; nowhere near hard or firm enough to provide relief. "How does that feel, Loveday?"

"Oh . . . more, sir . . . please," she moaned, trying to push her bottom forward so she might touch the handle with her swollen, needful clit and get the real, substantial contact she craved.

"More, eh?" He whipped it backward and left her groaning with disappointment, abandoned once more to the feather-light touch of the strands. "You want to come, don't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Say it."

"I want to come, sir."

"I want to see you come, Loveday. I remember how it looks . . . your face, all twisted and confused, and all mine. But not yet."

"Oh," she whined, but the thought of saying the safe word was far, far away.

He put the whip down for a moment and dropped once more to his knees, putting a hand on each thigh before zooming in closer than before to her widespread pussy, close enough to feel warm breath on her slick labia. She laid her head back on the chair. Please lick me, she prayed, though she felt too shy to ask outright.

Instead, he kissed the soft flesh at the juncture of thigh and bottom cheek, kissing all the way around the perimeter of her burning pussy but never quite venturing over that border. He then repeated the pattern with the tip of his tongue, while Loveday, mindlessly horny and desperate, tried to trick him out of his pre-ordained path by jerking and grinding, hoping to bump him into her soaked centre. He was diabolically accurate, though, and could not be diverted, licking and breathing, round and round, until she began to plead for mercy.

"Please, sir, please let me, please."

"Let you?" The words drifted around her clit, never touching it.

"Let me come! This is torture! I'm begging you!"

"You'll come when I decide it's time, and not before. And any more of that writhing, miss, and I'll tie you round the waist so you can't move, at all."

"God, you're so evil!"

"I know. All right. Just a minute."

He stood, depriving her of that longed-for tongue, and took more photographs, all kinds of photographs, before reaching once more for the flogger. Looming over her, he thrust its leather handle between her pussy lips, rolling and grinding it against her clit while he gripped the chair back with his other hand.

The friction sent her straight away into paroxysms of orgasm, shaking and yowling on the chair, wanting to grab the whip and hump it like an animal, but restrained from doing so by the straining cuffs. The climax seemed to go on and on, lights blurring, her whole mind filled with exploding colours, her clit seeming huge while her legs turned to water, bliss ending with one last burst of white light shocking her eyes back open.

It was Matthew's camera phone, capturing her forever in a distrait, dishevelled, red-faced post-orgasmic mess.

"Ah," she whimpered, quite undone and on the verge of tears. "God. Oh." The tears came, and Matthew put his camera away and kissed them from her face, his hands now gentle, his voice warm and reassuring.

"It's all right, Loveday; it's all right, you're safe. I'm with you."

"It's okay," she managed to say. "I'm okay. I'm not upset. But that was . . . powerful. Really mind-blowing. Like nothing else."

"Well, that's the draw of the power exchange, I think. It's intense with someone you don't care about. With someone you do . . . well. It's like nothing else. As you say."

"You care about me?"

"Silly girl. You know I do."

He uncuffed her, untaped her ankles, and carried her exhausted body into the bedroom.

"One thing that struck me about that," she said dreamily, lying naked beside her fully clothed master. "There wasn't much in it for you."

"I think you'll find there was," he said, taking her hand and moving it over the hard bulge in his trousers. "It did quite a lot for me, actually. But if you're offering to finish off what you started . . . I won't object.""

Working with Noble Romance has been a highly positive experience from start to finish. They really do live by their motto – 'Dare to be Different'. The Choirmaster is an unusual erotic romance in that the hero and heroine develop a relationship before they hit the sack. Crazy, I know, but it's just the way it came to me. I'm delighted this quirk hasn't held it back.

To finish the post – music. Here is the song Loveday is busking in the Barbican tube station when she meets Matthew. (Dame Kiri's version cos it's the one I grew up with.)

MMXI

If I achieve half of what I have planned for this year, I'll be doing well.

Last year's doldrums sent me retreating into one of the first places I turn for comfort – music. It hath charms to soothe the savage breast – not that my breast is particularly savage, more oppressed. All the same, the tunes did the trick. Pretty much everything I've written over the last few months has a musical theme or connection of some kind, and this tendency shows no sign of abating yet. So 2011 will be a Year of Music for me. Look out for charismatic pianists, strict conductors, passionate opera stars, cuban-heeled tango dancers – they are all on their way.

I have some exciting news to share, as well as some excerpts and a free story – so look in again soon, won't you? And I hope the hangover isn't too severe. Less severe than mine, anyway.

The Remains of the Year

For me, 2010 was not a very good year. The calendar was full of funerals and dates for operations. Bad things happened to family members, friends, friends of friends. People were lost, most before their time. So I'll be relieved to chuck that 2010 calendar into the bin and open a new, optimistically blank, one. I think 2011 must be better.

There were good things in 2010, though. Here are a few of the many.

Three Short Stories That Caught My Eye

Of course, there are many more, but these are the ones that have stuck most firmly in my memory:

1. Red Shoes Redux by Nikki Magennis from Alison's Wonderland, edited by Alison Tyler, published by Harlequin Spice.

2. The Red Brassiere by EllaRegina from Sex In The City: Paris, edited by Maxim Jakubowski, published by Xcite.

3. Pleasure's Apprentice by Remittance Girl, available to read at remittancegirl.com

(Seems I have a red thing going on this year.)

Two Websites I Have Taken to My Heart

1. Erotica For All – everything an erotica fan could want or need to know, courtesy of the brilliant Lucy Felthouse.

2. Madame Guillotine – because who the hell doesn't love Victorian prostitutes, great empresses of Hapsburg and Bourbon Europe, alleyways and gin?

One To Watch for 2011

One writer who has impressed me this year with her scope and versatility is Lana Fox. She looks at the subjects of sex and sexuality in a grown-up, joined-up way, writing commentary as well as beautifully considered erotica. I will be very interested to see where 2011 takes her.

Of course, there were lots and lots of other things. Wonderful anthologies; tip-top new novels from Charlotte Stein, K D Grace, Madelynne Ellis, Jeremy Edwards and many more; promising new voices breaking through the barriers all over the place.

In 2011 I know there is a lot to look forward to. So that's where I'm going to look now. Forward.

Would You Adam And Eve It?

In medieval times, Christmas Eve was known as Adam and Eve Day. An evergreen would be decorated with apples and communion wafers for the purposes of the Paradise Play – a re-enactment of the events in the Garden of Eden. The tree was known as the Paradise Tree.

As a little Christmas gift to everyone who has made 2010 gentler and smoother, here is a story on that theme.

Adam and Eve Day

Once Will had placed the dainty evergreen in its bucket and watered its soil, he doffed his cap to me and ambled off, ready for the tavern and the jovial warmth within.

I could scarcely blame him, for the winter air was bitter indeed, and a tankard of spiced ale seemed a more tempting prospect by far than my day's work.

But the day's work had to be done, so I flexed my fingers in their knitted gauntlets and bent over the pail of apples.

Working as swiftly as my frozen hands would permit, I affixed the fruits to the bushy branches of the tree with lengths of bright red ribbon. The red signified sin, temptation, the blood spilt by the descendants of Adam and Eve, for this was Adam and Eve Day, and my task was the decoration of the Paradise Tree.

When the pail was empty, I turned to my little wooden box of communion wafers, pricking a hole in each to thread through the white ribbon before hanging them amid the bobbing apples.

I stepped back to admire my handiwork, clapping my woollen palms together and trying to warm them with my breath. The sky threatened snow. Perhaps the paradise play would not even take place tonight if the blizzards came. How disappointed the village would be.

"You have adorned it well."

The voice came from behind my shoulder, barely ten paces away. I stiffened at its familiar note, forbidding myself to turn my neck.

"Thank you, my Lord."

The crunch of his boots on the frost-hardened grass, the jingle of his sword belts and the steam cloud of his breath, portending his proximity.

Beside me now, he extended an arm, cupping one of my apples in his leather-gloved hand.

"These are fine apples. Should I take a bite, do you think?"

I blushed beneath his teasing scrutiny, avoiding the grey gimlet eyes.

"Best not, my Lord. They represent the fruit of the tree of knowledge."

"Oh? I thought they came from Skippet's orchard." Sir John laughed, his thumb stroking the shiny peel. "So if I am tempted to sink my teeth into this fine flesh, I fall prey to the devil?"

"This is not the Garden of Eden," I said, feeling thick-headed and unable to reason.

"Truly?" He folded his arms and faced me four-square, his lip curled up in a rare half-smile. "Then you are not Eve and I am not Adam?"

"Of course not." I was hot and flushed now, angry with him for twitting me, angry with myself for letting him.

"This is indeed so," he murmured, stepping closer. "For we would both be naked and unashamed."

"My Lord, I have told you before—"

"You are betrothed to the miller's son? Yes, yes, Beatrice. But we are not talking about your gormless swain. We are talking about the origins of man."

"I had not taken you for a theologian, my Lord."

"There is much art in your impertinence," he said dangerously, lowering his head to capture my eyes. "You think it too subtle for me to note. But I do note it, Beatrice. I note it well."

I chose not to answer, using the silence to fix his glorious image in my mind. The handsomest man for many miles, Sir John stood six foot two barefoot and remained unbeaten at the joust. His eyes could snap from icy chill to ardent heat in the time it took to notice me and his noble brow was crowned by jet black hair. Yet I had spurned him at the Michaelmas Feast, since when his pursuit of me had become all the more relentless.

He unstrung the apple from its bough and held it out to me, its mingling of red and green bright against his black leathern hand.

"Eat."

"You are the serpent now, not Adam."

"Eat it, my little village Eve. I want to see your teeth. I want to watch you taste and take pleasure."

I tried to step back, but he caught my chin in his other hand, wrenched down my jaw and put the fruit close up to my lips.

It's only an apple, I thought, though it seemed much more than that. I let my top teeth sink into the flesh, biting off a morsel which I then chewed, my jaw working against the tight grip of his hand until its taste of mellow late sunshine was gone and I swallowed the pulpy remains.

"You have eaten from the tree," said Sir John, trailing a shiny black finger along my lower lip, harvesting the traces of juice. "Your innocence is lost. All the sins have taken its place."

"You should take part in the play tonight," I muttered nervously, trying to release my face from his unyielding hold. "You could have written it."

He let me go, only to trace one fingertip down my neck and between my collarbone, following the path of the apple. He wrapped the hand around my neck and drew in close to me, leaning down to speak into my ear.

"The first man and the first woman knew no shame, no restrictions of propriety or religion or station. They knew only their desire for one another."

"But they were innocents, my Lord," I stammered, fearing the loss of my resolve more keenly than ever. "And God prescribed their union."

His forehead abutted mine, his nose pressed into my cheek. His mouth was so close to mine I could smell the mulled wine from his last meal.

"If desire is innocent, then what wrong is there in yielding to it? Come, Beatrice, you are cold. Let me warm you. I can pay off the miller. I shall keep you so well, you will want for nothing."

His cloak enfolded me and I was lost for that moment in its luxurious heat, dizzy with conflicting emotions. Had that apple truly been magical? Was it bewitched?

The questions dissolved into shivering mist, induced by the sudden pressure of his lips on mine. That bold foray behind my defensive line undid me; in the advance of pure sensation, my reason was defeated.

In our kiss, we were Adam and Eve and the serpent, all three, fighting against and submitting to our true natures in eternal sequence.

"Come to the manor, Beatrice. There is such a fine fire. You need never be cold again."

Wrapped in his great cloak, pressed to his side, I let him lead me from the tree, its red apples and white wafers twisting in the snow-laden wind.

I'm thinking I might post a Part Two of this on New Year's Eve – so watch out for that.

And Happy Christmas!

 

Joy To The World

Who would like a free book then? Like Scrooge on Christmas morning, I have goodwill to distribute (but no giant turkey). Up for grabs are:

1. On Demand

2. The Business of Pleasure

3. Fairy Tale Lust (edited by Kristina Wright, containing my story Three Times)

4. Passion (edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel, containing my story Lingua Franca)

Also – not pictured because they are intangible, ethereal things

5. Master Me (anthology containing my story A Very Personal Trainer)

6. Competitive Nature (menage-themed novella)

If you'd like a little bit of festive smut cheer, just comment below, stating which book you'd prefer to receive. I can't promise you'll have them before the 25th, but they might just be ready for the New Year.

Speaking of which – happy holidays, everyone. I'm hoping to have a special free read later on this week, so keep your eyes peeled.

Epaulettes

I love that word. I love the thing it means. And it's turning out to be an epauletted December, one way or another, what with Uniform Behaviour ready for download, and now another anthology, Ultimate Uniforms out tomorrow from Xcite books.

Check out that cover – the eye is certainly drawn to…the uniform…(Actually, I'm loving those PVC gauntlets, not sure what uniform they belong to though.)

My story is called The Arresting Officer, and you can probably glean from the title that it involves a police uniform. Here's the lowdown:

Imogen sets out to save the ancient tree from the bulldozers, but ends up being saved herself by high-school flame Jason Sargent, who now happens to be a sergeant. The pair has some unfinished business and neither can think of a better place to clear things up than the police station interview room. Jason's interrogation techniques have Imogen revealing all in no time …

As ever, mine is just one of a plethora of tempting tales. Expect smartly-dressed hotness from: Chrissie Bentley ; Shashauna P Thomas ; Garland ; Thom Gautier ; Rachel Charman ; Landon Dixon ; Courtney James ; Lynn Lake ; Beverly Langland ; Tara S Nichols ; Sadie Wolf ; Cyanne ; Elizabeth Coldwell ; Sophia Valenti ; Charlotte Stein ; Sommer Marsden ; Lily Harlem ; Heidi Champa and Teri Fritz.

A bit of interview room action for you here:

"Twenty minutes later, I sit, still cuffed, slumped in a plastic chair in an interview suite.

'You had better be bloody quiet,' Jason warns me, locking the door behind us. 'These rooms are usually pretty vacant at this time of day, but I've asked Nicki at the front desk to come and give us a knock if there's a risk of disturbance. She's a good sort. She'll cover for me.'

'I hope so.' I beam up at him as he takes a seat opposite me, then remember to get back into role. Sulky unco-operative suspect faced with powerful, sexy, authoritative man wearing a big utility belt. The stuff of illicit fantasies. 'And before you ask, no comment.'

He recovers well from a flicker of bemusement and leans across the scuffed table, banging it with his fist.

'I'll break you, Imogen Lovell, if it takes me all day and all night. Where are the secret plans?'

'NO comment!' I flick a V at him, which is not easy when your wrists are weighed down by several pounds of heavy metal.

'Right, that does it. Time for the strip search. Get on your feet.'

'Make me,' I grouse. He does. He comes around behind me and yanks me out of the chair, kicking it aside before patting his hands down the length of my body, airport security style, but with a substantially increased accompanying frisson. Finding nothing, he pulls my sweater up over my bra and peers inside the cups for contraband.

'Only my nipples there, Sergeant,' I taunt. 'Is that not what you're looking for?'

'I thought they were bullets,' he says gruffly. 'My mistake. Might as well get this off anyway.' He unclips the bra, pulls the sweater over my head and tries to wrestle them over the handcuffs, but to no avail – so they have to remain there, bunched and hanging off my wrists while my upper body is bared and vulnerable to the explorations of his big, brawny hands. He presses them into my breasts, squeezing and fiddling, tickling my nipples until I squirm and try to break free. But he is far, far too strong for that.

'Nothing to hide there,' he decides. 'But I bet I'll find something I'm looking for down here.' He has my jeans unbuttoned in an instant, and he wrenches them down to my ankles before hooking his thumbs into the waistband of my knickers. 'Well, Miss Lovell? Anything to confess before I have to force the issue?'

I shift from foot to foot, acutely aware of my ankles and wrists restrained by denim and metal respectively, embarrassed by the stain of arousal he will doubtless see and approve of when he denudes my privates of their scanty covering.

'I am strangely attracted to you, officer,' I admit. He laughs and pulls down my knickers. The invasive section of the body search commences with three of his fingers dipped in my copious juices.

'So you are,' he murmurs victoriously. 'You're soaking wet down here. Well, I think I know just how to deal with you now.'

I pivot forward, loving the feel of his exploratory fingers, just on the right side of harsh as they twiddle my clit and slide backwards towards the hidden depths.

'Anything to declare up here?' he asks lightly, spearing my cunt with two thick fingers. 'Oh, no, there is nothing hidden here. And you can't hide the fact that you want me to fuck you either. I've never known a hornier dissident.'

I giggle. 'No, I bet you haven't. Oh, officer, please don't!' I exclaim, remembering that I probably shouldn't be quite so happy with the situation.

'So if the secret plans aren't up here,' he says, finger-thrusting energetically while he pushes me down over the desk with a clank of cuffs. 'Where are they?'

'I don't know!' I cry feverishly. The metallic fetters press into my breasts, cold and hard, reminding me of my helpless condition.

'Tell me!' One big flat hand crashes down on my unprepared bottom. I yelp so loudly that Jason retrieves a handkerchief from his pocket and stuffs it into my mouth. 'Quiet!' he scolds before laying on more hard smacks. How unfair! How am I supposed to confess now? Even if I want to?"

Rudolph the Red Knows Rain, Dear

That's the punchline to a rather dreadful joke. I'm sure you can write the lead-in in your own heads without my input.

But you probably wouldn't be able to write my new kinky Christmassy long-short (13K words), Reindeer In Training, not unless you were a bloody mind-reader or, for some reason, thought it would be fun to copy it out word-for-word, having bought it.

And if you wanted to buy it in order to copy it out word-for-word, you would need to go to Smashwords, which is where it is available.

Still with me? I hope so. I'm a little distracted these days.

Anyway, Reindeer In Training is my big self-publishing experiment. I wanted to know how easy or difficult it would be, how would I do a cover, would anyone buy it, would it be worth doing? I've answered the first two of those questions (fairly easy, take a photo and doctor it in paint.net) and I await further data on the last couple. You could help me with that data!

Simply go to the story's page on Smashwords, laugh like a drain at my ridiculous cover for a few moments, then download the opening chapter free! If you like it, you might be persuaded to part with 99 of your hard earned cents.

Just to give you that extra nudge, here is the blurb:

What do kinksters do for Christmas? If they're anything like Liv and Reuben, it involves harnesses, horsewhips and lots and lots of lubricant. Never mind a red nose, somebody in this house is getting a seriously red bottom.

Uniformity

It's been quite a week, and a big part of it has been the release of Uniform Behaviour, which is a first venture into anthology editing by my friend and fellow eroticist, Lucy Felthouse. Not that you'd know she was a novice! She tore into this project with relish and the end result is fabulously polished and tirelessly promoted. I've long known that Lucy is a dynamo, but she has really outdone herself here. And not only can you buy it with confidence that you will enjoy your reading experience, but you can also have the satisfying glow of knowing that you have given to charity – a percentage of the proceeds goes to the Help the Heroes fund.

My story in the collection is called Guard Mounting, and deals with the interesting proposition of what it might take to get one of those guards outside Buckingham Palace to crack a facial expression of some kind. Famously impassive under their bearskin hats, surely something must provoke a reaction…

And of course my guard's uniform is just one of the many. You can also read stories by Rebecca Bond ; Lexie Bay ; Victoria Blisse ; Lucy Felthouse ; Shermaine Williams ; Delyth Angharad ; Cassandra Carr ; Indigo Skye ; Madeline Elayne ; Hawthorn ; Jack Delaney ; Elizabeth Coldwell and Craig J Sorensen.

Here is an excerpt from Guard Mounting for you.

"Hey, Guardsman," I purred, swinging my hips in a sexy little shimmer over to his billet. "Do you like to watch dancing girls?"

I swayed in and out of his space, pushing my breasts up and together or turning around to perform the aforementioned booty-shake, then pushing my hands up through my hair, the way I'd seen some screen siren do on a sixties movie about strippers. He remained expressionless, so I licked my lips, pushed a hand down inside the elastic of my knickers, thrust my pelvis out in mute invitation. Nothing.

"You're good at this," I told him, moving closer. "What does that hat feel like? I've always wondered."

Earlier Greg had told me it was real bear skin, which had freaked me out somewhat, though he insisted the Ministry of Defence were involved in an ongoing search for a synthetic alternative, so I supposed it would be unfair to blame him for their failure.

I put my hand to its silkiness and brushed it, but couldn't restrain a shudder and quickly retracted it again, using my fingers to stroke his impassive cheek instead. I slid a nail inside the gold plaited chin strap and tickled his skin, but not so much as a twitch was my reward.

"Come on," I coaxed, easing the strap upward past his mouth and nose, "let me take this big heavy thing off you." His eyes, uncovered by the dense black fuzz, were distant and glazed. How could a living, breathing man have such control of himself? I put my pouting lips to his, but the kiss I gave him was unreciprocated. I transferred it sideways to his cheekbone, gave his earlobe a little flicking lick, but if it weren't for the heat of his skin, he could have been made of marble.

Perhaps his neck would betray him – but covered as it was with the dress collar, it was invulnerable to my assault. I would have to take off his jacket. I caressed the epaulettes that decorated his wide shoulders, then let my flat palms travel down the scarlet chest to the white belt at his waist. Unbuckled, it was laid to rest on my dressing-table, then I got to work on the rows of embossed gold buttons, undoing them in sets of three, until it became clear that he hadn't bothered to keep his shirt on underneath. When my hands slipped inside the rich red tunic, they encountered smooth bare flesh, pectoral muscle and tiny hard nipples which I couldn't resist giving a tweak.

Glancing upward, I met only that faraway gaze he had been wearing since he entered the room. What would it take? How on earth could I conquer this staunch defender of the monarch?