Torn by grief and desire, Amelia Keystone faces temptation. A faerie invades her sleep, and for a price offers her the powers to save her fiancé, Lord Randolph Cressy, grievously wounded while saving Amelia’s life.
Gravely ill and invalided, Randolph is unwilling to force her into a lifetime committed to his care and rescinds his offer of marriage. As a distraction from her broken heart, Amelia considers becoming an Agent of the Queen and bedding the handsome agent Charles Graves. Can she resist one temptation and succumb to the other?
Praise for Drawing Temptation (Empire of Hearts 2)
"The characters were interesting and this is a rather adult steampunk but it was well done. The part where Newgate was mentioned was very descriptive and was easy to picture. This was a very unique love story and it makes you wonder will there be more adventures for this heroine?"
-- 5 Stars from Crystal Crossings, Amazon Review
"This was what I was hoping for from the sequel in the Empire of Hearts series. It was a great steampunk scifi romance that did what I was looking for. The characters worked well and did everything that it should have."
-- 5 Stars from Kathryn, Amazon Review
"Mikala Ash has a marvelous ability with her writing to make things sound so Victorian and yet she includes so many things like magic and mechanical stuff that make this series steampunk. She combines these things seamlessly and writes compelling and interesting stories. "
-- 5 Stars from Suzanne, Kobo Review
This e-book file may contain adult scenes and language which some may find offensive and which is not appropriate for a young audience. Changeling Press E-Books are for sale to adults, only, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.
Drawing Temptation (Empire of Hearts 2)
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2022 Mikala Ash
I pushed the domed head of Albert, my euphemistically termed “Lady’s Helper,” against the lips of my quim, nudging them apart, and slid it inside to fill my sheath with its soulless girth. I’d prepared myself with my fingers, massaging in fragrant oil to ease its passage, and rubbing the hard nub to stimulate my own reluctant juices.
In a vain attempt to bring the matter to conclusion I forced my former fiancé Randolph, Lord Cressy, into my mind’s eye, recapitulating our vigorous lovemaking on that glorious night at his estate. I tried once more to feel the lusty pressure of his lips on mine, the velvet touch of his fingers as he caressed my breasts, and the heavy thickness of his cock that filled me so completely. Albert’s thrusts become faster, deeper, until the pounding hurt, yet I could not achieve the physical release I so desperately needed.
In desperation I introduced Charles into my imaginary bed, the handsome and charming Agent of the Queen. In the past I had entertained fantasies of both men pleasuring me while Albert dutifully brought me to breathtaking climaxes. The two simulacrums of my imagination laboured to bring me to a sleep-inducing peak. No matter how they worked at my breasts and quim, fingering and fucking, sucking and kissing, no matter the acrobatic contortions my imagination, fuelled by dozens of sensational novels I’d read, nothing they did would give me that hotly desired release.
With a frustrated sigh I put Albert aside. I’d named the ivory phallus-shaped sewing kit as a homage to the empire’s fallen hero, Prince Albert. I’d purchased the device in Switzerland where I had taught languages and drawing at a prestigious finishing school for girls in Lucerne. Albert had comforted me during many a lonely night, and with frequent use found the sites of supreme stimulation without any conscious command on my part.
My nightly episodes of fantasy-driven self-abuse, as the learned scholars described self-pleasuring, and something I suspect men and women alike habitually partake of, had primed me, like a driver stokes the boiler of his stream engine, to respond to the slightest touch of the throttle. It was inevitable that the first instance of sexual attraction would lead me into temptation. My fall from grace and summary dismissal from the school was all too predictable.
The man with whom I risked my reputation was Lord Randolph Cressy, the father of Felicity, one of my students. She had, I was certain, been involved in matchmaking for her beloved father, thinking he and I were compatible. How she intuited that I have no idea, but she had been correct.
Our discovery in a state of dishabille by the headmistress had led to my instant sacking and expulsion to my homeland, alone and virtually penniless. Lord Cressy had eventually come to my rescue and had secured my employment with an old friend of his, Mrs. Graves, a philanthropist and woman of business, who employed me as a tutor for her ten-year-old daughter, Hesta. There I met her son, Charles, a charming and handsome man of action, Randolph’s equal in every way. Randolph had eventually proposed marriage, an incredible development given our differing stations. I’d been surprised, and Randolph, thinking I had reservations about our relative ages -- he was fifteen years my senior -- had given me time to consider the offer carefully before giving an answer. During those heady days I’d been stalked by an assassin and the adventure had resolved itself in terror, blood, and violence. Both Randolph and Charles were grievously wounded while saving my life.
The weeks that followed were difficult, and I’d become single-minded in my devotion to their care. Thankfully my earnest prayers had been answered, and both Randolph and Charles recovered. Charles travelled back to London, and I stayed with Randolph. The doctor had assured us he would mend eventually and would soon be his old self. The bullet had not damaged anything vital. However, his recuperation had not progressed as rapidly as I wished.
When his condition had improved sufficiently to allow him to leave his room, I took the first opportunity to confirm my acceptance of his proposal, making it abundantly clear that I desired most fervently to be his wife. I remember the moment like it was an image captured on glass, crystal clear, and ice cold in its precise representation of the moment. Randolph had been dozing in the sunlit garden, sitting in a bath chair, swathed in thick blankets.
“Randolph, now you’ve recovered I can give you my answer.”
His drawn features considered me. His once bright intelligent eyes now watery and weak. “My dear,” he said slowly.
“My answer is, yes,” I said quickly. “Yes. Yes, and yes again. I wish with all my heart to marry you.”
His lack of response cut into my heart like the assassin’s knife which Randolph’s intervention had saved me from. His gaze fell to the blanket wrapped around his knees. “My dear,” he repeated.
Even though Randolph spoke softly, his tone chilled me to the bone. “What is it?”