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A Man's Desire
Chapter One

 

New Orleans, 1798

Ethan Peron never squandered his pleasures.

The conviction arose from childhood poverty and a cynical adult’s certainty of the shifting fortunes of men. Over the years he had developed an order, a precise routine in the manner in which he savored his sensual delights, a routine from which he rarely wavered and which bespoke admirable control.

Drink first. Whiskey mostly, sometimes brandy, which he swirled lazily in a heated crystal snifter as he did tonight, allowing the mesmerizing twirl of the glossy amber liquid to relax his mind and clear it of the week’s business. One smooth sip coated his throat and burned a path straight to his gut. He sighed in satisfaction. Even the etched cut of the glass intrigued him tonight. With the tip of one calloused finger, he traced the vine of gold relief that trailed along its stem, feeling himself unwind with the idle gesture.

This evening, as always, he would take considerable time pondering his second pleasure. As he cast a lazy glance over the club’s offerings, he remained free from annoying flirtations and open invitations. His habits included drinking alone, in the silence of his thoughts.

It proved well understood.

When the occasional ambitious woman who harbored hopes of attaining mistress status disturbed his routine, a swift dismissal followed. Madame Thibault tolerated no rebelliousness from her girls and prided her establishment on its sensitivity to the eccentricities of its male patrons, particularly Ethan, given the Madame’s and his fond history.

Too often of late his thoughts returned to that history and his youthful initiation into the treasures of women. And like an old man recounting more exciting times, he relived now his innocent surprise at seeing naked female flesh within touching distance for the first time.

So suddenly had he halted that day in the brothel hallway, twenty-two years ago, that the lid of the chamber pot he held as he performed his morning rounds slid dangerously to one side while he stood in the open doorway of Lizella’s room and gaped.

Even now Ethan smiled, recalling how he looked - a tall lanky youth, dark of hair and eyes, but soft of face. Too pretty, Madame Thibault claimed, to be considered a man despite the adult urgency with which his boy’s body had reacted. A tinge of pride still lingered.

His innocent eyes had roved over Lizella’s smooth bottom as she bent to slide her toes into her stocking. Ethan, momentarily ignoring the pot he clutched, tilted his head to one side and bent low and then lower, hoping to glimpse heaven in the sweet pink lips he had studied only in discarded magazines, their forbidden pages stained and crumpled, leaving more to imagination than actual sight.

She bent lower and he swooned. The fleshy folds pouted through her silken thighs, even her tiny brown rose between the smooth globes of her bottom winked at him. His every impulse cried to drop to his knees and lick her. He grew painfully erect.

"What is dis?" Madame Thibault’s smooth voice sounded behind him.

He whirled in a panic and stared wide-eyed as his employer approached in a swirl of red silk, her dark hair pinned up hastily with two clips and her ample breasts swaying freely under the form shaping fabric. She’d just emerged from her bath. He could smell the tang of rose water on her moist skin.

Sure he would be fired for being caught ogling the merchandise, he muttered a quick apology. "I didn’t know Lizella was still in her room." He gave a quick bow of deference and waited.

Lizella’s throaty chuckle sounded behind him, and then he felt her warm breath brush the back of his neck.

"What luck, non?" She ran a long nail along the side of his throat. He dared not turn to look at her but he could smell her, too. More woman scent to tease his senses.

Madame Thibault eyed him with interest. "You value your job, Mon Cherie?"

"Yes, Madame."

"’Dis mus’ be hard for you," she murmured, "surrounded by so much female flesh and sounds of couplin’ behind every door, non?"

"No, Madame."

"Non?" She arched a brow and dropped her eyes to his rigid erection. His face burned but still he grew harder.

Her nipples pouted beneath the silky fabric of her dressing gown and it gaped wide, exposing a creamy expanse of cleavage. He had never seen a woman’s nipples – girls’ but never the fully ripened peaks of a woman.

The temptation to touch his finger to her nipple goaded his recklessness nature. But before he did, she cupped his sex and squeezed. The rush of blood to his face sent his head spinning. When she scratched her long nails over the soft cloth of his breeches, he held his breath.

"He’s a fine lookin’ young man, our Ethan. Is he non, Lizella?"

"Oh, oui, Madame."

"And fourteen is a fine age. A good age. Don’ you agree?"

"Oui, Madame. May I?"

"Mais, non ..." Madame laughed softly, trailing her fingertips along his length before finally releasing him. He gave a sigh of relief. But then she cupped his cheek and smiled with a warm drawing smile that held delightful promise. "I have so few pleasures left. ‘Dis one is mine."