Bordello Dolls by Ellen Ashe Page B

narrowly defined reality.
    A vision, born from arousal, flickered through her mind’s eye—seduction—the ultimate risk, an intimate union with one who could feel no guilt, shame or consequence. She was pressed tightly into the circle of his arms, a slave to his talented craft of foreplay, accepting his hand across her breast, his mouth upon hers in the most fervent of kisses. She was accepting him inside, to share her body and take her energy. She was one with the storm.
    She shook her head and snuffed a laugh that came from both absurdity and embarrassment.
    When she looked again to the counter he was gone. She tipped her ear to listen. There was a distant rustling sound in one corner—an irregular tapping, like the heel of a boot, footsteps, one slightly out of pace with the other. But they neither progressed nor retreated.
    A clock? Or water expanding pipes between the walls?
    If not for this peculiar noise, she might have remained silent. But now her skin crawled, her senses warning that perhaps she shouldn’t linger here. Something foul and unnatural inhabited this place. She wasn’t brave enough to uncover what she cared not to understand, especially within herself. So she turned to leave.
    She cried a short scream of alarm. The shopkeeper stood directly behind her, and as she whirled around, she had nearly walked into him.
    Heat rose in her face. Scarlet’s sexual fantasies embarrassed her more because he was so close, towering over her. She also suffered extreme reticence … a desire to neither stay nor leave. The moment, surreal and painful, hung without hope.
    Coal black eyes bore into her. “I am Nicolai Von Adler,” he said with a quick nod. “Welcome to my abode.”
    “Scarlet,” she replied, almost mechanically. “Scarlet Boujois.”
    His brow lifted. It was a slight movement, one she might not have caught if it hadn’t been for her hypnotic interest in his eyes.
    “Are you interested in dolls, Scarlet Boujois?” he asked.
    Before she could garble any sort of an answer, he waved his hand towards the corner of the room where the tapping sound had come from.
    “I have a collection of unique pieces I thought you might enjoy seeing.”
    She felt she had no choice but be ushered along even though she had absolutely no interest in dolls, unique or otherwise. In him, however, she had interest. Already, she suspected she had become addicted to whatever opulence he might care to offer.
    He sidestepped around her, bowing slightly as he did so, his hand nearing her shoulder without touching her. If she had moved towards the gesture, a mere inch or less, she would have known the sensation of his hand on her skin. If she had, but she hadn’t. She followed dumbly, instead.
    His dark silky shirt ballooned loosely over belted trousers. The flow of his physique beneath was almost fluid. A clasp, intricately woven, held a swath of long hair down his back. Again, she was recalculated his age but for what justification she couldn’t explain. Age made no difference. His sensuality was an inrushing cause for celebration, as would a late summer storm promising rain when the earth was devastatingly parched. The newness of this experience left her slightly lightheaded.
    Curiously, she had become acutely aware of her body beneath her limply fitting dress. She felt restricted, though the scanty dress was appropriate for summer. A sudden and mad urge to pull off the dress swept over her. But only if the presentation would pleasure her host. She had to struggle to keep such wildly conceived thoughts controlled. She did enjoy a man’s attentions, but she was no harlot.
    He stopped, eye-level to a shelf of beautifully painted dolls.
    “Aren’t they lovely?” he purred, primping the corner of one doll’s long, layered skirt. His fingers rose to the synthetic locks that cascaded over her face and down her breast. He slowly caressed her leg. The act was saturated in adoration. Too much so, perhaps. She felt he had an