Reviews

Sherlock the Seducer was a wonderful twist on the life of the detective Sherlock Homes.
The book is more than spicy and will have you feeling like a heat wave has moved in.
Rating: 4/5
Tammie, Night Owl Reviews

Rating: 4.5 hearts: Sensuality rating: explicit… Oh, my goodness! I can honestly say that I will never, ever think of Sherlock Holmes in the same way ….extraordinary… Ms. deMello’s enchanting tale of sexual chemistry is captivating and totally up to par with her former works. The characters are all so involving and so believable that it promises to captivate (and delivers)!
Brenda Talley, The Romance Studio

Excerpt

Sussex, 1922

Though “A Scandal in Bohemia” was one of my friend Watson’s most popular stories, I feel compelled, now that I am in the sunset of my life, to correct the numerous falsehoods he willfully published.

Forgive me. I had assumed you knew my identity. I am Sherlock Holmes, formerly of 221B Baker Street, London. My not-so-faithful chronicler, physician John Watson, described me in flattering terms as history’s most famous consulting detective.

But, forced by the mean, narrow confines of the Victorian age to censor his chronicles, he never spoke of or alluded to my relationships with the gentler sex. However, as the nineteenth century turned into the twentieth, conventions changed. Now, in the freer year 1922, I can reveal the truth.

Watson did write of my fondness for a seven percent solution of cocaine I occasionally used to ease my boredom between cases. But he never breathed to a soul, not even to his beloved wife Mary, a word about the dalliances in which I indulged due to both the influence of cocaine and my natural inclinations. Though I am not a naturally gregarious man, I have always enjoyed the company of women. I must say that my desire increases to uncontrolled randiness when I use cocaine.

I sampled the delights of many females, but never found one with whom I wanted a permanent connection. My attitude hardened and became somewhat cynical, which was reflected in Watson’s writing…it is true that I rarely referred to the softer emotions save with a gibe or a sneer. Looking back, I realize that the Victorian woman deserved my pity. She was expected by society to present a stern face of propriety while men want a Maenad in the bedroom. And unlike most of my fellows, I prefer my companions to provide intellectual stimulation as well. I despaired of finding a woman who could tickle my cock as well as my mind.

In “A Scandal in Bohemia,” Watson reported that on the evening of March 20, 1888, he stopped by to visit me at 221B Baker Street, London. He had moved out some months before, upon his marriage to the former Mary Marston, but occasionally would stop in for a cigar and a chat.

We were visited by a peculiar man who insisted upon wearing a mask. I quickly deduced that he was none other than the King of Bohemia, who brought to our attention a most important and delicate matter. The king wished to marry a Scandinavian princess, and her family was quite strict. The king, however, had engaged in many misadventures while he was a bachelor. One of them involved Irene Adler, an operatic star, residing in London.

When I heard her name, I involuntarily started, but the King in his arrogance did not notice, but told us that a photograph had been taken of him with Miss Adler.

I winked at Watson and said, “Your Majesty has indeed committed an indiscretion.”

Watson bit his lip to keep from laughing, while trying to scowl with disapproval.

I continued, “What does the lady want? If it is money, it must be paid.” Even as the words left my mouth, I knew the solution would not be so simple. Irene Adler could not be bought.

“Worse,” the King said. “She wants revenge.”

“Revenge?”

“She wishes to ruin me.”

I laughed. “I will not ask why.” No doubt the king had rogered his way across Europe, and Miss Adler was not one to hesitate if any man she found pleasing caught her eye. And if he had betrayed her…

“She threatens to send the photograph to the newspapers on Monday, the day my betrothal is announced. She will do it…you do not know her, but she has a soul like sharpened steel.”

I would not tell him the truth, of course. “So, we have three days,” I said.

“I am lodging at Grosvenor House under the name Baron von Krumm. You will keep me notified, ja?”

“Of course. And as to my fee?” I loathed the sordid subject, but…

The King waved a negligent hand, naming a sum which made Watson’s mouth drop open while I stifled a grin.

* * *

So we were approached to retrieve a photograph of the King taken with Miss Adler. Watson wrote that I discovered the hiding place of the photograph and attempted to steal it, but was thwarted by Irene Adler herself, who fled the country with her new husband.

These falsehoods were perpetrated to sell the story and protect Watson’s writing career. What really happened truth is even more scandalous--dare I say salacious?--than the fiction.

I had first heard of Miss Adler some years before, in 1880, I believe. Being a lover of music, I read of the young American contralto’s debut at Milan’s La Scala in Rigoletto. Her reviews were devastating. Not of her singing, which was said to be impeccable. But the acting…one critic wrote, ”Bursting with American joie de vivre, Miss Adler could not convince a blind, deaf old man she was the manipulative Maddalena.”

She rebounded from that unfortunate debut and made her name as a Mozart stylist. I like joie de vivre in my opera singers and went to see her in Le Nozze de Figaro. Her impersonation of the amorous page, Cherubino, intrigued me, immediately seizing my attention when she pranced across the stage dressed in Cherubino’s breeches, her fine arse wonderfully limned by the tight garment. I wanted nothing more than to bend her over, tear off the manly trousers and plough her quim long and hard whilst spanking that sweet bottom.

After the performance, I purchased a bouquet of red roses from one of Covent Garden’s ever-present flower-sellers and posted myself at the stage door to see if I could meet the lady. When she finally emerged, she had cleaned her face of stage makeup and changed out of her costume into a stunning gown of midnight velvet. I am no connoisseur of women’s fashions, but I will never forget the sight. Her décolletage was fetchingly displayed by a lace-trimmed bodice cut so low it exposed her admirable bosom almost all the way down to the nipples, which I promised myself I’d lick that night. She must have bound her breasts for the role, I realized hazily, trying not to stare.

I cleared my throat. “Good evening, Miss Adler.” I offered her the flowers.

She took them and buried her face in the petals to inhale their scent. I hoped her open enjoyment of the fragrance betokened a sensual nature. She looked up, saying, “Thank you, Mr. Holmes.”

I lifted my brows, fixing on her full lips and large, sparkling eyes in order to avoid crudely ogling her breasts.

“Of course I know who you are.” Off-stage, her American accent was pronounced but not unpleasant.

“I am most flattered.” I offered her my arm. She took it, and we strolled to the kerb, where a hansom waited.

In the intimate interior of the cab, I could scent her perfume, a flowery aroma that blended delightfully with the roses she still clasped. “May I invite you to a late supper?”

“Thank you.” She daintily arranged her skirts, favoring me with a glimpse of one neat ankle.

My member hardened, and I blessed my dinner suit’s loose, comfortable trousers. I drew a deep breath, hoping to calm my hot blood and racing pulse. “Uh, uhm, Sampson’s?”

“Beefsteaks? A fortifying meal for so late in the evening. Will I be in need of fortification, Mr. Holmes?” she asked. Her eyes were partially shadowed by lowered lids.

“Yes,” I said. “You will.”

She raised her gaze, boldly meeting mine. I leaned closer and put a finger beneath her chin. Her skin was soft over a strong jaw, testimony of a determined character.

My chest clenched in a most peculiar manner. Had I met my match?

It was rude, and crude, and forward, but I could not resist. I had to taste her mouth. I touched my lips to hers, pressing firmly but not savagely. That would come later, but for now, I did not want to frighten her off. I believed her to be a woman of sensual experience, but that was merely a deduction on my part. My deductions are often true, but I did not wish to take a chance on the delectable Miss Adler. I had to have her. A single blunder on my part, and the doe could flee into the night.

Her lips trembled beneath mine, and for a moment I wondered if I had mistaken her character. Then her mouth opened, and she sucked, forever trapping me in her web of love. Eagerly following her lead, I let my tongue wander into the deepest recesses of her mouth, delighting in the flavor and scent of her. I caressed her delicate neck, which reminded me of the frail stem of a flower, then lowered my hand to seek her bosom, thrusting my fingers beneath her bodice to cup one quivering globe.

I was already at a cockstand, for Miss Adler’s hands were not idle. Through my trousers, she gripped my tool until I could not repress a groan of pure desire. She gave me one pump, and I thrust her away, perhaps too brutally, since she stared at me with bewilderment in her beautiful dark eyes.

“Miss Adler, unless you wish me to embarrass myself--“

She laughed. “Let’s not visit Sampson’s. I’m hungry for a different meal.”

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