Immersed In Pleasure/Submit To Desire (The Original Sinners Pulp Library)

  Immersed In Pleasure /

  Submit To Desire

  Two novellas in one! In the first story, Immersed In Pleasure, the Manhattan Mermaids—all of whom are virgins—entertain wealthy, powerful men in an exclusive club called Fathoms. Derek Prince doesn’t believe they really exist, until he meets the stunningly sensual Xenia. The attraction is mutual. Unfortunately, giving in to temptation means the end of her life at Fathoms.

  And in Submit To Desire, Charlotte Brand is tired of dull boyfriends and boring sex. Kingsley Edge, who owns clubs rumored to supply more than just cocktails, seems just the man to revive her: intense, sophisticated…and looking for a submissive he can train for an elite client. Soon, they are engaged in a series of lessons that test her darkest desires….

  The Original Sinners Pulp Library

  Vintage paperback-inspired editions of Original Sinners erotic novels and novellas.

  Contents

  Immersed In Pleasure

  Submit To Desire

  About the Author

  More Books by Tiffany Reisz

  Immersed In Pleasure

  “I’m telling you, guys, they’re mythical creatures. They’re like, I don’t know…unicorns or mermaids,” Christian said.

  At the mention of mermaids, Derek started paying attention to the conversation again. For the last five minutes, as Mark and Christian discussed their women troubles—specifically how many ex-boyfriends their current girlfriends had—Derek had tuned them out, his eyes fixed on an empty table across the nightclub.

  “Oh, they’re real.” Derek raised his Old-Fashioned to his lips. “I knew one once.”

  “A virgin?” Mark asked. “A virgin over the age of twenty-one? I don’t buy it. They don’t exist.”

  Derek smiled into his drink. “Yes, she was a virgin,” he said. “And a mermaid.”

  “Bullshit.” Christian threw his napkin at Derek.

  “No, he means it.” Mark leaned back and gave Derek a long look. “Plus, he’s the pretty one. If any of us were going to bag a virgin mermaid, it would be Derek Prince.”

  Derek half-laughed and rubbed his forehead. She’d called him pretty too. God, had it really been a whole year? He reached into his pocket and pulled something out. He didn’t show it to Mark and Christian, merely weighed it in the palm of his hand briefly before tucking it into his pocket again.

  “Believe it or not, it’s true. And I saw her first right over there,” he said, pointing to the table he’d been staring at a moment earlier.

  “Over there?” Christian asked, a note of real concern in his voice. “At the VIP table? Kingsley Edge’s table?”

  Kingsley Edge, a wealthy half-French businessman of both renown and ill-repute, owned Cirque du Nuit, the club Derek, Mark, and Christian frequented at least once a week. According to rumor, a series of catacombs resided under Cirque du Nuit, catacombs that started under the club and stretched out underneath New York City like underground tentacles. Legend had it that all of Kingsley Edge’s various clubs could be reached through the catacombs.

  “Didn’t know that then,” Derek said. “It was a year ago. I was waiting for Ireland to show up—”

  “Dude, I’m so glad you got rid of her,” Mark interjected.

  “And I saw this girl,” Derek continued and felt his mind leaving the present and swimming back into the past. “This amazing girl with wet hair.”

  At his first glance of the girl, he thought she was one of those women who went bat-shit crazy with the hair gel. But when she moved, her hair moved with her. Not hair gel, just water. The white camisole she wore reached only to the bottom of her ribcage and had gone nearly transparent from the water in her hair. When she stepped into the blue light, he could just make out her pale pink nipples under the fabric. That alone would have held his attention all night except for one thing—she wasn’t just wet and wearing transparent clothes, she was beautiful. Her dark brown hair hung in dripping ringlets over her face and down her back. She looked young, maybe only twenty or twenty-one, too young for this club anyway. Her large dark eyes and light-olive skin sported no makeup that he could discern. Watching her, he noticed she moved uneasily. A noise came from the edge of the club and she flinched, her eyes flashing wide open like a startled animal’s. Twisting her hands together, she seemed uncomfortable in her surroundings and utterly out of her element.

  Derek hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her. Other than her little white camisole she wore a white skirt that rested low on her hips and revealed the full expanse of her flat stomach and lower back. The skirt clung tightly to her slim legs, all the way down to her ankles.

  She must have sensed his gaze because she turned and stared back. Derek knew he shouldn’t be staring, that he must seem like a psycho to her. But the look she returned wasn’t angry, only inquisitive. Cocking her head to the side like a curious cat, she watched him watch her.

  “So she was wearing all white and was wet from head to toe?” Christian asked.

  Derek nodded. “I know. Sounds crazy, right? Gets crazier.”

  “What happened?”

  “My table caught on fire,” Derek said. “She saved me.”

  A man of about thirty-five with dark hair pulled back into a roguish ponytail sat with the girl. He wore a dark grey Victorian-era suit and riding boots. Derek rarely noticed other men, but he couldn’t deny that the unusually handsome man the wet-haired girl sat with had an aura of power and mystery about him. The man snapped his fingers and the girl immediately turned her head to the sound. She drew close to him and the man whispered something in her ear.

  Smiling, the girl pulled away. Derek’s stomach tightened as she left the VIP area and walked gingerly down the steps, headed toward his table. In her skintight skirt she came to him, her steps nervous and delicate. As she walked, he noticed for the first time that she wore no shoes.

  “Hello,” Derek said as she sat across from him.

  The girl stared at him for a moment. “Your table’s on fire,” she said.

  Derek tried to discern if she was joking. He saw nothing in her eyes but innocent sincerity.

  She pointed at his centerpiece. A black candle and a blue rose decorated every table in the club. His rose had dipped its head too near the flame and now quietly smoldered.

  “Holy shit.” Looking around wildly, he started to reach for his glass, but it contained an Old-Fashioned. Alcohol plus fire would equal a nightclub in ashes.

  The girl laughed a soft tinkling laugh. Slowly she rose and leaned over the table. Taking her long brown hair into her hands, she twisted it, wringing just enough water out to douse the burning rose.

  Because he didn’t know what else to do, he laughed. “I’m glad this club has such gorgeous firemen on duty.”

  She ran her hands through her wet hair and separated it into three sections. “I’m not a fireman,” she said, humming as she braided her long hair with nimble fingers.

  “What are you then?”

  “A mermaid.”

  She stretched out her leg toward him. Derek didn’t know what he was supposed to be looking at but then he saw them. At first he thought her feet sported silver foot jewelry of some kind. But no, metallic silver tattoos of fins adorned the tops of her small, pale feet.

  “No way,” Mark interrupted. “She was one of those mermaids?”

  “She was,” Derek said, taking a sip of his drink. “I didn’t think they were real either. Not until that night.”

  The Manhattan Mermaids. Believed to be the most beautiful women in the city, they entertain
ed the wealthiest, most powerful men in the world. Kingsley Edge didn’t just own Cirque du Nuit. He owned four or five other clubs, some of them so secretive they didn’t even have names. One of the most exclusive was known as Fathoms. Fathoms supposedly had the usual sort of chic-chic nightclub stuff—cocktail waitresses, ridiculously opulent decor. But in addition to that, Fathoms had one thing no other club in the city had—mermaids. One could tell a mermaid if you met her on the street by two things, Derek had heard—they wore little silver mermaid pendants around their necks, and they had silver and blue metallic tattoos on their feet and ankles. Derek looked the girl up and down—check and check.

  “You’re a real mermaid?”

  She gave him a mischievous grin. “Come find out.”

  Just then, Ireland decided to make her appearance—an hour late. For almost the entire hour, he’d been desperate for her to show up. Now that he saw her breezing through the door and heading his way, he fervently wished he’d been stood up.

  “I can’t,” he said.

  The tiniest glint of disappointment shone in the girl’s midnight blue eyes. In such an open innocent face, the sadness rebuked him. He felt as if he’d knocked a baseball through a stained-glass window.

  “Then goodbye,” she sighed. “I’ll never see you again.”

  She said the words with such earnestness that Derek knew he would be the idiot of the century to miss this chance. It wasn’t only that The Manhattan Mermaids were so legendary that he still couldn’t quite believe he’d been talking to one. It was her—this girl—not the rumors and legends who’d gotten to him. She’d saved his life…or at the very least his centerpiece. And she had such an innocence about her. He didn’t meet innocent people in his line of work. As a defense attorney, he was often called a shark. He briefly wondered if sharks and mermaids were natural enemies or allies.

  As Ireland reached the table, Derek made up his mind.

  “You’re late,” he said.

  “Couldn’t remember if we were meeting at nine or ten,” she said, shrugging. He couldn’t recall just then why they were dating. Brainy and beautiful with her white-blond hair and her legs that went on for eternity, Ireland was fantastic in bed and—unlike his ex-wife—wasn’t afraid to try anything. But she could also be cold and arrogant when she wanted to be. Tonight, she apparently wanted to be.

  “We’ll meet at your place at eleven and then I’ll be an hour late.” He stood up. “See you at midnight.”

  “Wait, where the hell are you going?” Ireland demanded. “I just got here.”

  “And I’m just leaving.”

  Derek raced to the VIP table and found it depressingly empty. His mermaid and the dark-haired man had vanished. The only sign the girl had even been there was a small puddle of water on the floor by the chair she’d been sitting in.

  Water…. Derek stopped looking around and started looking down. Not far from the VIP table he found the watery outline of a bare footprint on the floor. A few feet further, he saw another tiny puddle of water glinting on the shiny dark blue tile. The drops led to a door tucked in a corner.

  A metal Employees Only sign decorated the door and gave Derek pause. In a club owned by Kingsley Edge, breaking the rules led to unpleasant consequences. But he’d abandoned one of the sexiest women in New York at his table for this chance, and he wasn’t going to miss it.

  He threw open the door and found a stairwell. Racing down the stairs, he prayed the water on the floor had come from her and not some clumsy waitress. At the landing two levels below Cirque du Nuit, he knew he was on the right track. Breathing in, he inhaled warm wet air scented with a trace of chlorine. He passed through another door and stopped immediately when he discovered he wasn’t in Cirque du Nuit anymore or even the club’s basement.

  He was in Fathoms.

  Looking around the dimly lit club, Derek couldn’t believe the legend was true. The underground catacombs did connect all of Kingsley Edge’s clubs.

  Derek hid behind a column and studied his surroundings. The club had dozens of interconnected swimming pools scattered about the large room. Between and about them sat tables and chairs—chairs occupied by the highest of high society. Derek recognized several faces—with a real estate mogul for a mother and the deputy mayor for a father, Derek could recognize the wealthy and famous on sight. And everywhere he looked he spied money and power.

  At the center of the room stood a two-story high transparent column about twelve feet across. In it swam a girl completely naked but for a silver belly chain. The silver fins tattooed on her feet, ankles and thighs glinted in the light. He tore his eyes from the column to another corner of the room. Another girl equally beautiful and equally naked, sat on a large rock at the edge of one of the pools. A man Derek recognized as a city councilman said something to the girl. She rolled her eyes and splashed water in his face. The gesture made the man laugh as if it was some sort of honor to be splashed by such a woman.

  Derek tore his eyes from the scene and searched the club for his mermaid. Looking up, he saw a metal walkway at the top of the large column and a flash of white skirt. He found a staircase behind him, and at the top of the staircase he came suddenly face to face with his mermaid.

  “Hello,” she said, standing in a private alcove next to the top of the central swimming pool. “I thought I would never see you again.”

  “I forgot to thank you for putting out my fire,” he said, wincing at how stupid he sounded.

  She ran her fingers through her hair, freeing it from its braid. “I’m waiting,” she said, humming.

  “For….”

  “For you to thank me. You said you forgot to.”

  Derek shook his head. “Right. Thank you for putting out my fire. I didn’t mean to stare at you upstairs. I’ve never seen a mermaid before.”

  “I stared back,” she said simply.

  “You did. Why?”

  “I like your face.”

  “You like my face?”

  “I do. It’s pretty. But not girl pretty. Handsome prince pretty. And you have hair that’s wavy like water. Even your eyes are water-colored, and your shirt. I probably thought you were a merman.”

  Derek looked down. He wore black slacks and a black vest over his French blue Oxford shirt. A little too GQ for him, he only wore these clothes because Ireland liked them so much.

  “I’m not a merman. But I am a prince. Derek Prince,” he said and held out his hand to her.

  “Xenia.” She ignored his hand and instead leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek. He shivered as her warm soft lips pressed into his cheek. “I have to go now, but you can stay if you like.”

  “Go where?”

  “Underwater.”

  At that Xenia took a step back and pulled her camisole off. Her skirt came off next, and she stood before him completely naked.

  Derek felt his eyes go as wide as hers. Although a sight to behold, the club paled before Xenia’s naked flesh. Thin but with soft girlish curves, Xenia barely looked human to him. The silver metallic scale tattoos graced not only her feet and calves but the sides of her thighs and the edge of her hips. Her breasts, the perfect size, appeared designed to rest in the palm of his hand. A healthy red-blooded man, he couldn’t help but stare at her breasts and between her legs. Completely smooth and hairless she seemed a being of eternal youth. His body tensed at the sight of such pristine flesh so unashamedly on display.

  The girl, Xenia, reached for a silver chain and fastened it around her stomach. Little silver scales hung off it and dangled around her hips. She clasped silver bracelets on each wrist and connected them to the silver rings on her fingers. Around her forehead went a heavier silver chain like a small circlet. The body jewelry shimmered in the low light and rendered Xenia a creature of ethereal beauty.

  She strode to the edge of the tall pool and dove gracefully into it. Derek ran back down the stairs and up to the side of the column. Around and around she swam, her long brown hair flowing behind her. She spun in s
low graceful circles, arched under and around, and seemed to need almost no air. Derek watched her, unable to look at anything else. She swam to the edge of the column and smiled at him through the water. He pressed his hand to the glass and she laid her hand against the inside to meet his. But she pulled back quickly and swam off again.

  “Ahh…that little one. She may be my favorite,” said a lightly accented man’s voice from behind him. Derek turned around and saw the man from Cirque du Nuit, the one in the Victorian suit and the ponytail standing behind him with a cocktail in his hand.

  “She’s amazing,” Derek agreed. “She’s the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen in my life.”

  “Merci. I found her myself.”

  Derek stared at the man. Merci, he’d said. Found her…

  “Oh my God. You’re Kingsley Edge,” Derek said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to barge into your club. She told me I should—”

  The man shook his finger and tsk-tsked him in a manner that was infuriatingly French. “I know who you are, Mr. Prince. And I know who your parents are. Consider yourself on the guest list.”

  Derek followed Kingsley to the bar. They sat on stools side by side and said nothing until the bartender—a beautiful young blonde woman wearing a shimmering sea-green dress—brought them both fresh drinks.

  “Ah, Urs,” Kingsley said to the bartender as he took a drink of his Sidecar. “You are too good to me.”

  “Nothing’s too good for our King.” She leaned up to kiss him on the cheek as Xenia had to Derek.

  “So you really are Kingsley Edge?” Derek asked. While Kingsley Edge’s clubs were famous, the man himself was infamous.

  Kingsley shrugged, a small smile playing over his lips. “It’s a living.”

  “A very good one. My God, these girls are incredible.” Derek counted at least a dozen stunningly beautiful naked girls swimming about the club or lounging on large rocks with their decorated feet tucked to the side. Not even the mermaids of lore could be more spectacular than the ones right in front of him.