Sherlock, the Case of the Ripped Bodice: The Casebook of a Salacious Sleuth, #1

By Liz Adams

Your client fears he may be Jack the Ripper? Terrific. 

"If you're seeking a racy romp for simple dripping pleasures, this book was written just for you. If you're interested in a deep exploration of Sherlock Holmes reminiscent of the original character told in an epic style, you may be disappointed. Just sayin'." ~Liz

 

In this steamy, hot romantic short, the story starts in 1891 London, where a man emerges from the shadows of his own forgotten past. With no recollection of his identity, he embarks on a journey laced with debauchery to uncover the truth. A chance discovery sends shivers down his spine—the ripped bodice hidden in his closet, a chilling relic of a recent murder. 

 

As fate intertwines his path with that of Mary Bettencourt, a fiercely independent consultant to the police, the stakes and his libido soar to unimaginable heights. Drawn to her enigmatic presence, he finds solace and dangerous temptation in her embrace. But as their connection deepens, so does his primal hunger, hinting at a dark secret lurking within. 

 

With each step forward, he unearths damning clues that cast a sinister light upon his own existence. Could he truly be the monstrous killer who haunts the city? The answer lies within the shadows of his fragmented memories. 

 

This may be Sherlock Holmes' most challenging case yet! 

 

WARNING: Contains explicit solo M, M/f, and M/m in a bedroom, living room, alley, and carriage. Some consensual bondage and creative use of an eggbeater may contribute to symptoms of reading while wet. Detailed CWs are viewable on the author's website.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brave Pleasures
• Release date: Jun 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9781944841577

Book preview

Sherlock

Sherlock

THE CASE OF THE RIPPED BODICE

A SPICY ROMANTIC SHORT STORY #1

LIZ ADAMS

Brave Pleasures

For all of us who must unlock who we are to truly heal from love’s past wounds.

In the Universe, everything is made of atoms. In the Lylaverse, everything is made of stories.

Find the courage to dream a better reality.

—Lyla Katz

Contents

About Sherlock, The Case of the Ripped Bodice

Sherlock, The Case of the Ripped Bodice

Something Wicked

Seeking Fond Memories

The Crime Scene

A Saucy Cab Ride

Coming to Conclusions

Conclusions in Coming

Cuckolding the Cad

Smoke and Mirrors

Whisking the Truth

Finding Fond Memories

Making Fond Memories

Author’s Note

Sherlock, the Case of the Invisible Lover (Book #2, Book Description)

About the Author

Acknowledgments

Also by Liz Adams

About Sherlock, The Case of the Ripped Bodice

Your client fears he may be Jack the Ripper? Terrific.

In 1891 London, a man awakens with no memory of who he is, so he examines his surroundings and finds a ripped bodice in the closet. When a consultant to the police, Mary Bettencourt, knocks at the door and, upon learning of his amnesia, offers emotional and intimate support, an uncontrollable hunger stirs within him. He learns that the bodice belonged to a recently murdered prostitute. More and more clues reveal that he is likely the murderer newspapers are calling Jack the Ripper. Might he truly be as evil as the papers report?

This may be Sherlock Holmes' most challenging case yet!

Coroner Dr. Jamie Jones is working to rekindle the spark in her marriage, but even succumbing to her husband Danny’s twisted bedroom needs may not inspire him to love her again. During her examination of the victims of Jack the Ripper, she meets and opens up to a smart and handsome gentleman afflicted with amnesia. Will she regret her newfound lust?

Warning: Contains explicit solo M, M/f, and M/m in a bedroom, parlor, alley, and carriage. Some consensual bondage and creative use of an eggbeater may contribute to symptoms of reading while wet. Detailed CWs are viewable on the author's website. Detailed CWs are viewable on the author's website.

Baker Street MapOpium Dens Map

Sherlock, The Case of the Ripped Bodice

A Spicy Romantic Short Story #1

By Liz Adams

Something Wicked

Waking up, his bed felt hard.

A bed? That was wrong. He wasn’t lying in his bed, he was lying on the floor. A carpeted floor but a floor, nonetheless. But whose floor? Where was he?

Who was he?

The sun streamed into the window. He sat up. Ouch. The little room spun. He pressed his hand against his forehead to diminish the throbbing pain. The room stank of cigar smoke. Did he smoke cigars? The outdoor wind howled an indecipherable answer.

If this place was his home, he could learn about himself by inspecting the area.

While sitting on the floor, he scanned his surroundings.

This parlor was messy. A variety of folded newspapers were strewn all over the floor. According to the newspapers, the year was 1891. By the bend of the bookshelf’s horizontal planks, the bookshelf held more books than it could handle. Some books lay open on the coffee table, beside an ashtray and copper flask.

He gasped. There was something important. Something urgent. What was it?

He closed his eyes and focused. Nothing surfaced in his foggy mind.

He balled his hand into a fist and struck the crown of his head, again and again.

Remember, damn you. Remember!

An image came to him. A woman, lying on the ground in a pool of blood. Was that the past or a vision? He couldn’t remember. Only that it was urgent and needed his attention.

But what exactly? What did he need to do that was so important?

He squeezed his eyes shut.

Remember!

He waited, willing for a memory to return.

None came.

He sighed and opened his eyes. The nearby ash-gray armchair looked a lot more comfortable than the floor. He reached for it as a crutch to cling to. With a grunt, he tried getting himself into the armchair, but the dizziness took over, and he returned to the floor. Oh, well. Staying down here was a good plan. Harder to fall when you’re already on the floor.

Also on the floor, lay a notebook and pencil. On the page read, The Old Nichols.

With the pencil, he copied the words on the same page. That proved helpful.

No drapes covered the windows. No sign of a woman’s touch, thank heavens.

What was the last thing he remembered?

Damn. He didn’t remember anything. Nothing at all.

He checked his hands. They were the hands of a man in his early twenties, fingernails trimmed, clean and soft, lacking calluses. He must not work in hard labor. A good sign. Only idiots had to rely on the disgraceful employment of menial tasks such as moving crates from one place to another. Earning a living from his mind was a sign of proper intelligence.

A red thread was lodged in the tip of one of his fingernails. He plucked it free and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger. Silk.

He checked his clothes. Nothing made of red silk. A single-breasted lounging jacket, trousers, ankle-length boots, and no hat. He was dressed as a middle-class man. Perhaps his hat was by the front door, ready for facing the windy weather.

A wet stain streaked from the side of his trousers to the side of his shirt. The soles of his shoes were also wet. He patted the damp area of his trousers, and it was cool to the touch. He tasted the dampness he’d collected on his fingers. Mostly water with a strong addition of dirt and grit.

How did he know that taste?

At last, a memory came. Running from a dragon, staggering out of the creature’s breath of smoke. He had lost his footing and fell to the ground, his cheeks and lips covered with dirt. The taste of that, the dirt, the fear, it returned to him.

As did the image of the dead woman. There was a specific time when he had to get something done. What was it? When was it?

Curse it all to hell. He couldn’t remember.

The priciest items in the cozy parlor were the copper flask and a small replica of a statue of Venus on the mantle. They didn’t look familiar. But then, nothing about this place looked familiar. If this was indeed his apartment, those items were more clues that he was middle-class. Did he have a job? Were coworkers missing him at work?

Sitting here was