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An estate in the country for the missus and a townhome in London for the mistress. That was the way of it. That was what everyone–his father included–considered to benormal. While he, happily minding his own business and hurting no one, was thought of as the outlier. The failure. The disappointment.
What a bloody batch of nonsense.
“A pair of tits for your trouble, darling?” Flavia Sapphire, a fiery redhead with curves for days, plopped onto Ezra’s lap and wound her arm around his neck.
She was one of seven premiere jewels that worked and resided at The Bull Yard, an upscale, private establishment that specialized in discreet entertainment. Whether it be companionship, a game of dice, vintage whisky, or pleasure that was more…eclectic in nature.
Once upon a time, Ezra and Flavia had been lovers, but after the initial surge of lust had subsided, they’d both been pleasantly surprised to find that they were far better off as friends. Flavia was one of the few people capable of seeing past Ezra’s affable grin to the true range of emotions that he hid underneath, and Ezra was the only person who knew that Flavia preferred quim to cock.
“I can get one of the girls for you,” she prompted when he remained uncharacteristically silent. “Hazel Diamond is free, or Valentina Ruby if you prefer.”
Ezra had enjoyed both, but at the moment, he did not desire either.
“I want…” He hesitated. For once, he didn’t knowwhathe wanted. For the past week–and longer back than that, if he was being honest with himself–the usual carnal delights had failed to whet his appetite. In September, he’d parted ways with his mistress, a Parisian opera-singer who hadn’t spoken a word of English. Not that they’d done much talking. She’d received an offer of marriage from some prince of a tiny, inconsequential Scandinavian country, and Ezra had let her go with a vague, enigmatic wistfulness that had stopped him from going out and immediately seeking another courtesan to take her place.
It wasn’t that he’dfeltanything for Elyna. He’d never been in love, nor was he completely convinced that such an emotion even existed. But he had become accustomed to their routine. To having her waiting for him, naked, at the end of the day. Or in the morning. Or anytime, really. His desire for a good fuck didn’t adhere to a traditional schedule. But then she’d up and left him (not that he blamed her for who was he, an earl, to compete with royalty?) and he was unsettled to find that he was…lonely.
Or maybe he was sick.
Practically on his deathbed.
Yes,
That was it.
He’d caught the plague.
“Ezra?” Flavia murmured. From a distance, it appeared as if she was whispering a lascivious offer in his ear. Only he could hear the genuine concern in her tone. “What’s wrong, darling? Is this because of Elyna? I’ve been telling you for weeks that I have a replacement. She isn’t French, but after you see what she can do with her tongue–”
“It’s not Elyna,” he interrupted. Reaching around Flavia, he picked up his glass of vintage Scottish whisky–the best to be found anywhere–and took a sip. He braced himself for the delicious burn, but all he got was a mild tickle.
Wonderful.
Just bloody wonderful.
First his insatiable appetite for women with magic tongues had abandoned him, and now his sense of taste was gone. What next? His enjoyment of gambling? His ability to drink his friends under the table and still swagger out the door without falling over? Dear God. What if…what if he no longer liked to admire a lovely bosom when it passed him on the street? What if he was somehow turning into a eunuch?
“Let me hold your tits,” he demanded, and Flavia willingly obliged.
“Well?” she asked on a breathy sigh, arching her spine as he fondled her breast, first sliding his palm inside her boned corset to cup warm, soft flesh before lightly rolling her pointed nipple between his thumb and index finger. “Should we go upstairs? I don’t have an appointment until a quarter to midnight.”
“No.” Ezra removed his hand and she slid off his lap to lean against the bar, placing gloved elbows on the curved mahogany edge while she watched the room and its occupants beneath heavy lids. “But at least now I know everything is in working order.”
She cast a glance at his crotch and smirked. “Was there ever any doubt, darling?”
“I’m bored, Flavia.” He took another sip of whisky, then nudged the half-empty glass aside. “Or else I’ve the plague. One or the other. Will you come to my funeral and give a toast?”
“You haven’t got the plague and we’reallbored, darling, or else a place like this”–she gestured outwards with a dismissive flick of her wrist–“wouldn’t be raking in a grotesque amount of money night after night. Do you know we tried to close on Mondays? To give the girls a rest. There was a line halfway around the square before we eventually let them in. Sad, bored bastards, every last one of them.” The corners of her lips twitched. “Notyou, of course, darling. That cock of yours is too big to be sad. Which is why I don’t like to see you this way. There’s a game of Hazard starting in the crimson room if you want to join. The buy-in is only 200 pounds.”
“Is that all?” he said dryly. “Maybe another time. Tonight…tonight I think I’ll just go home.”
“Alone?Don’t be absurd. Let me call over–”
But Flavia didn’t get the finish her sentence, because at that precise moment, a trio of men–all of them drunk and schoolmates of Ezra’s from Oxford–stumbled over and used the bar to catch themselves.
“Whitmore!” cried Lord Chambers, a tall, whip-thin viscount with a wife and newborn at home. “Fancy meeting you here. What are you drinking?”
“Glenavon.” He lifted the glass. “It’s yours if you want it, I was on my way out.”
