Burned

Aria Adams

Description

“Would you do anything to get warm?”

On the streets of London, eighteen-year-old Eve Smythe is freezing to death. She cannot return home until she sells her matches, but nobody wants them. Knowing she has not got long to live, she does the unforgivable: She strikes a match. The light draws the attention of a certain Mr. Ignis. He offers her warmth and food, but only if she agrees to do anything he wants. And his tastes are dark and terrifying.

As she tumbles further into his strange world of dominance and pain, she cannot help wondering, will he ever see her as anything more than his submissive plaything, or will he simply tire of her one day and cast her aside?

Publisher’s Note: This dark Victorian romance features sensual scenes, extensive fire play and dangerous situations, but the HEA is guaranteed.

Sujets

• Suspenso
• Traditional marriage
• Rags to riches
• Orphan
• Kept
• Pain and pleasure
• Owned
• Temperature play
• Royalty
• Power exchange
• Victorian
• BDSM
• Dark
• Dangerous
• Possession
• Interprétation du rôle
• Suspense
• Bondage et discipline, domination et soumission et sado-masochisme

Informations

• Publié par: Blushing Books Publications
• Date de parution: 10 juillet 2018
• Nombre de lectures: 1
• EAN13: 9781612587967
• Langue: English

Extrait

Burned


Aria Adams

Blushing Books
Contents



What’s Inside


Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18


Aria Adams

EBook Offer

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©2018 by Blushing Books® and Aria Adams
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Adams, Aria
Burned

eBook ISBN: 978-1-61258-796-7
Cover Design by ABCD Graphics

This book is intended for adults only . Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults. Nothing in this book should be interpreted as Blushing Books’ or the author’s advocating any non-consensual spanking activity or the spanking of minors.
What’s Inside

“Good girl, remain still,” he encouraged. He walked behind her and trailed his fingers down the side of her neck, then began methodically unfastening the components of her dress, until she stood before him in her undergarments. He deftly manipulated the fastens and straps, until that was gone, too, and she stood before the hearth, bare and feeling very exposed.
“It would not do to allow you to remain so undressed,” he said. She hoped he had something more demure for her to wear, now. Perhaps the dress had been an obedience test, to find out if she would really do whatever he asked of her.
He plucked a candle from a candlestick on an occasional table, then walked over to her. To her immense surprise and shock, he cupped her left breast and tipped the candle until the wax poured down her skin. The heat burned a little, and she gasped at the new sensation, but did not move.
“Good. Now the other one.” He tilted the candle once more, drizzling the wax over her right breast like he was decorating one of those fancy cakes she’d seen through the bakery’s window. The slight burn was a little disconcerting for the first couple of seconds, but it faded quickly and she was left with slowly hardening wax covering her body.
Next, he walked around behind her and drizzled the wax over her rear. When it went down the cleft of her bottom, she gasped in surprise as the warmth penetrated her flesh more easily.
“It is more sensitive there, is it not?” he remarked.
“Yes, sir,” she replied. She wondered why he was doing this and how long it would last. It seemed so peculiar and nothing like what she had expected him to do.
He dribbled more candle wax over her body, until he had to fetch a second candle.
“Place your hands together, Eve,” he instructed. She did, holding them out before her like a prayer. When her caned palm touched the other one, it ached.
He poured more wax over her hands. It especially burned when it caught the edge of one of the cane marks and she pressed her hands together harder to stop that from happening again.
Before the wax over her hands was properly hard, he forced the stub of the first candle between her fingertips, then sealed it in place with more wax. She stared at her hands in wonder. He was turning her into a human candle. For some reason, that didn’t scare her. In fact, she found it a little funny, although she could tell from his face that this was not something to laugh about.
He continued dribbling wax over her flesh, and she waited patiently until he was done. He put the flame to her fingertips, and as the heat penetrated to her skin, she widened her eyes in fear, but he simply melted the wax enough to put the second candle stub beside the first.
“Remain there and do not move,” he ordered. She didn’t want to know what might happen if she disobeyed him. Besides, the two candle flames were mesmerizing. She especially loved the way the two flames seemed to sometimes come together and conjoin as one.
Chapter 1

London 1886.
“G et up, Eve, and make yourself useful.”
Eve Smythe’s father kicked her, hard, and she scrambled to move. The fog in her eyes never seemed to abate. She cast off her threadbare blankets and coughed deeply. Sitting up always made the ever-present phlegm tickle her throat as it shifted in her chest. She had no shoes to wear; her father had sold his boots two years ago for more drink, and those had been the only pair in the house.
Eve shuddered at the thought of going out there again. It was cold enough inside the room where they lived. Cold and damp. Snails crawled up the walls and sometimes she was so hungry that she ate them. She hated snails.
The stench of her father seemed to keep the rats plentiful, too. Eve slept on the floor, and sometimes she awoke in the night, frozen with fear, as she felt the tiny claws of vermin crawling over her body.
Her jaw ached from the cold.
“Stop dawdling, child, and get out there.” Her father had no sympathy. Eve knew he was in too much pain himself to recognise that she was afraid. The coldness, she knew, would be her grave one of these days.
She mentally roused herself. There was no way of avoiding it. She picked up her box of matches and went outside. The moment her feet touched the icy paving slabs, she cringed as the cold locked her muscles all the way up her legs. With all her effort, she forced herself to tune out the pain in her feet. Soon, they would feel nothing, and then she could think about something other than how cold it was.
Unsteadily, each step agonizing, she walked through the slums of the East End of London. Through the thick smog, an illuminated factory clock declared that it was six in the morning. She hurried to Leicester Square, to try and sell to the shopkeepers and other workers as they arrived to begin burning in their own version of Hell.
Everyone in the city was doomed. Only the rich could afford to spend their days without pain, exhaustion and hunger. Eve just wanted to stop hurting all the time, but the brutal cold wouldn’t give her any reprieve.
When daylight feebly penetrated the city with its bleak light, Eve had still sold no matches. Her teeth chattered with cold. She no longer felt the outside of her hands and feet, but the bones inside them ached in the frigid, damp air. Her face hurt, too, but that was a constant reminder of her own folly.
“Please, matches,” she mumbled, barely able to move her lips. She wanted to eat, to get warm again, and to rest. All around her, people wrapped in thick coats and scarves avoided her. Sometimes, when she was out here trying to sell matches, Eve wondered if she were a ghost. It wouldn’t surprise her if someone walked straight through her, one day. She watched her breath turn into an ever-growing white cloud, until it faded into the rest of the air. A thicker puff of mist passed her lips as someone barged past her, thumping her back and demanding she get out of the way.
If only there were somewhere else for her to be, she would gladly stop standing on the frosty paving slabs.
The day was long, and Eve fought rising panic as nobody bought her matches. If she returned home with no money again, her father would beat her with the poker. The scabbed welts hadn’t healed from the last time, barely three days ago. No, this time, if she didn’t sell a single match by sunset, she would find an alcove, hide in it until morning, and hope she sold more tomorrow than today. It wouldn’t be the first time she had slept out of doors for fear of her father’s wrath. The cold was permanent and unavoidable, but beatings were something she could sometimes escape from.
The white clouds took on a dull, bluish hue, then the lamplighters began making their rounds, and as the soft orange glow illuminated the square, snow began to fall.
“Please, sirs… d-do y-y-you want m-more mmm-matches?” she asked, forcing her freezing lips to shape the words.
“Filthy urchin! Get out of here!” The older lamplighter kicked out at her, connecting his hobnail boots with her shin, hard, and Eve fell to the floor. Dazed and struggling to move, she remained where she was for a long moment, as the lamplighters laughed and walked off, chattering about a hand of cards they’d both played.
More desperate than ever, Eve held out a match and did the unforgivable: She struck it against the paper. As the head caught fire, it hissed, accompanied by the familiar, delicious scent of phosphorous, and for a moment, Eve’s body drank in the warmth emanating from the tiny fire. She had hoped that the light would cause someone to take notice and buy a match, but the people all walked with their heads down, hats set against the snow, hands in pockets or muffs, as they hurried back to their destinations.
The snow fell in thick, fluffy wads, but its likeness to cotton wool