Improper Proposals (10 page)

I looked at my lap and picked at a stray thread. I smiled, which made my face hurt, and said, “Hmm.” I didn’t dare look her in the eye.

Tom had been too attentive to me at dinner. His behavior had been perfectly proper, but all the signs had been there: the way he hung on my every word, the praise he had for my talent as a writer, his description of how I hadn’t so much as blinked when I’d first encountered his giant of a dog. How delighted he was that Grendel had taken to me so quickly.

So of course she wondered, and hoped, and would do everything she could to encourage her brother. And she had no idea—I prayed would never know—of the shameful truth. Tom and I were lovers, but we were not in love. We would not marry. There would be no children for him to spoil.

I did not love him. I refused to love him.

She tried, unsuccessfully, to stifle a yawn. “I beg your pardon. I am so enjoying our evening, but the baby makes me awfully tired. I do apologize.”

“Shall I fetch your husband?”

“Yes, please. I’ll need Eli’s help with the stairs. But you mustn’t leave, not on my account.”

I went to the dining room, where the men still sat, engrossed in their conversation, and cleared my throat to warn them of my presence. Both shot to their feet.

“Is it Alice?” Mr. Keating asked.

“She’s fine. Only quite tired and ready for bed. I think we ought to be on our way.” This last pronouncement I directed at Tom.

“Yes, of course. Let me say good-night to Alice.”

We said our farewells in the sitting room, exchanging Christmas wishes and promises to soon meet again. We left the two of them huddled together, still as entranced with one another as the day they had met, Mr. Keating’s head bent close to Lady Alice’s as he whispered words of endearment to her. I looked at them and thought I might expire, then and there, from the surge of envy that overtook me.

It made no sense, for I didn’t want what they had. I didn’t want a husband to love and babies of my own. For with love came fear. Fear of pain, of heartache, of death, of loss. Of loneliness that seized at one’s soul and left one blind to the light in the world.

The Keatings were happy, yes, but their love made them foolish. I, too, had been foolish, before John had died. I had believed that love would conquer all.

I had been wrong.

Chapter Thirteen

It was quiet in the carriage, both of us lost in our thoughts. Too quiet, for it let my doubts fester, my anxiety blossom. If only he would reach for me, show me how to obliterate the words in my head with the opiate of passion.

“Tom?”

“I know. Come here. Let me hold you a moment.”

He hugged me close, as tightly as was possible in the shaking, jolting, narrow seat of the lightly sprung brougham. I lifted my face to his, wordlessly requesting a kiss, and he obliged, his lips caressing mine so tenderly I thought I might cry. I couldn’t bear for him to be so kind. So I set my hand between his legs, squeezed his growing erection, and prayed he would take up my offer.

“Were you thinking of this all night?” he whispered in my ear.

“Yes.”

“The roads are too rough for me to fuck you, not without one of us suffering an injury. But I could...”

His right hand caught at my skirts, gathering them up, delving beneath the folds and layers until it rested against the thin fabric of my drawers. It moved higher and higher, so slowly I had to bite my lip to stop from crying out my frustration, and then his fingers brushed against the slit in my drawers, slipped through and discovered the truth of my desire.

“My God, Caroline, were you like this all night?”

“Yes. Before, too.”

“Can you spread your legs any wider?”

“Yes.”

“Then do it.”

As soon as my legs were parted his hand was between them, petting me, soothing me. So cruel of him to tease.

“I need more,” I told him. “Put your fingers—”

“I know. You want my fingers
here.
” He pushed into me, penetrating me roughly. “You’re so wet...I can’t believe it.”

“Deeper,” I begged, and he obeyed.

“What shall I do with my thumb? Is there anywhere you wish me to touch? You have only to say.”

“You know very well where to touch me, you wretch.”

“How shall I touch it? Softly, like this?” He brushed his thumb over the straining pearl of flesh, but so lightly I barely felt it.

“Insensitive, unfeeling wretch.”

“Harder, then. Like this?”

Oh, God. Exactly like that. “Yes. Perfect...it’s perfect.”

“Do you want to come? Or do you want to wait until we’re back in our rooms?”

“I want to come. Please, Tom.”

“Very well. But only if you promise to show me what you wrote about in your last chapter. You know what I mean. Say it.”

“You want me to fellate you.”

“Yes. Suck me off.”

“Oh, God—”

“We’re almost there. You had better come now, else the coachman will find us like this. My hand up your skirts. You, moaning like a cat in heat. Come now, and be ready for me when we’re alone again.”

* * *

I was naked. I was on my knees. Tom stood before me, wearing only his trousers. He’d said I must remove them. Said it was part of the demonstration.

I had only the haziest notion of what I must do, although I had affected a fine degree of knowledge in the pages I’d sent him. I wasn’t a complete novice, for in the early days of our marriage I had taken John’s cock into my mouth a few times, and had liked it well enough. But he’d never seemed particularly enthused by the act, preferring to make love to me in a more conventional fashion, and as a result my skills as a—what would the term be? A fellatrix?—had all but evaporated. I decided to abandon my pride and tell Tom the truth.

“Will you tell me what to do?” I asked. “I haven’t...that is, I’m not sure...”

“Shh. Don’t fret. Begin by unbuttoning my trousers. That’s it. Now do the same with my drawers. Push them out of the way. Just enough to get your hands on my cock.”

I had trouble with the buttons, for he was fully erect already. As I undid the topmost fastening of his drawers, his cock sprang free, pressing tight and high against the ridged muscles of his abdomen. It was beautiful and intimidating in equal measure.

Rather than wait for his instructions, I grasped him and, after easing his drawers past his hips, reached between his legs and cradled his stones with my other hand.

“Does this feel good?”

“Wonderful. Are you ready to put your mouth on me?”

Rather than answer, I wrapped my lips around the head of his cock and sucked, hard. A drop of semen welled from the slit at its tip and dropped, salty-sweet, onto my tongue. I was suddenly greedy for more.

He was too big for me to swallow whole, so I compromised. I stroked the base of his cock, just as I had seen him do before, my grip firm and steady. At the same time, I kissed and sucked the top four or five inches of his member, timing my movements to the rhythm of my hand, all the while massaging his stones.

“Can you go deeper? I want to see how much of me will fit in your pretty mouth.”

I nodded, willing to try.

“Try to relax your throat. If you feel like you’re choking, push me away.”

He took my hands and set them on his hips, then pressed forward slowly, carefully, letting me grow used to this strange invasion, inching away when my throat began to spasm. Forward again, deeper still, until the crown of his cock was wedged against the very back of my throat and my jaw was trembling in suppressed agony.

“This is the most erotic thing I have ever seen,” he whispered. “Thank you.” He pulled back, almost out of my mouth, then forward a few inches, no deeper. “Grasp hold of me again. Yes, but tighter than that. And suck as hard as you can. See how hard you can make me come.”

After his deeper invasion, it was easy to take only half his length in my mouth. His cock felt so familiar to me, as if I’d done this to him countless times before and knew exactly how to wring an orgasm out of him. Once or twice I faltered and let my teeth graze his length, but he didn’t seem to mind. In fact, I thought he might even like it, those moments of pain and surprise so quickly soothed by the balm of my tongue and lips.

“I want to come in your mouth, Caroline. Will you let me?”

I couldn’t answer, for I would have to take his cock out of my mouth, and that I would not do. Not now, not when he was so close. I closed my eyes and sucked him harder, stroked him faster. Belatedly I remembered his stones, which I’d neglected for the past few minutes. I cupped them in my left hand, let them roll against each other, felt them rise and tighten. He was close, so close.

His hips jerked forward once, twice, and he groaned as if he were dying. A burst of semen filled my mouth, hot and surprising, and I swallowed it quickly, hungrily. His cock kept pulsing, even after I’d licked him clean, but I wouldn’t stop, not if it brought him pleasure.

“There, now. That’s enough. Come here, my darling,” he whispered. He scooped me up, soothed my trembling limbs and carried me to the bed. We lay entwined, atop the coverlet, until our bodies cooled, our heartbeats had slowed and rational thought was again possible.

“I did detect a problem with your pages,” he said presently.

Nothing else could have woken me from my stupor so effectively. “You did? Whatever was the matter? Did I not prove that fellatio can be a pleasing experience for a woman?”

“It’s not that. The problem is that it’s incomplete.”

“I don’t understand.”

Had I somehow missed some vital part of the equation? I had assumed it was as straightforward as it appeared. Remove a man’s trousers and extract an orgasm by using one’s mouth. The end.

“You spoke only of fellatio. And that only applies to a man. What of a woman’s right to receive pleasure?”

“You mean that men...that it’s common practice for a man to put his mouth
there?
”

“You truly are ignorant of it? Did you never—”

“No, never. I don’t know what to say. I mean, we were very happy in that respect, John and I. I never thought anything was lacking.”

“Nor was it. You were very young when you married, weren’t you? Perhaps he was as ignorant as you.”

“Perhaps. Still...I find it hard to imagine. I should think it very disagreeable. Rather, ah, lacking in hygiene.”

“No more so than you setting your mouth on my privates. Will you let me?”

“Oh, Tom...I’m not certain.”

“We’ll begin slowly. With my hand alone. And then we’ll see. If you feel uncomfortable, you need only tell me to stop.”

“Very well. You are certain you wish to do this?”

“I want this more than I’ve ever wanted
anything.
So, yes, I’m certain.”

“What shall I do? Am I meant to stand before you?”

“I think you’ll feel more at ease if we stay abed. Just let me touch you. Relax, now, and lie back against me. Let your legs fall open—yes, just like that. Look, Caroline.”

His hand was so large, so strong, his palm alone covering all of my pubic hair. I watched as his fingers delved into the creases at the top of my thighs, soothed and tickled them, set me at my ease.

“Your skin is so soft. Will you let me kiss it? Only your thighs for now.”

I nodded. He eased away, moving to stand at the side of the bed. He took me by my hips and drew me forward until my bottom was flush with the edge of the mattress. Then he knelt on the floor, set my legs on his shoulders and began to kiss my thighs. His mustache and beard were pleasantly abrasive against the delicate skin that flanked my pussy, a perfect contrast to the soothing heat of his tongue and mouth.

He paused and looked up. “Have you ever seen your pussy before?”

“Not really. It’s hard to see what’s there. Without being some sort of contortionist, that is.”

“So sit up a bit. Rest your weight on your elbows. You’ll see plenty.”

“Tell me what
you
see.” I loved it when he talked during sex, not only because he said the filthiest things, things that ordinary Tom would likely never dream of uttering, but also because I suspected most men weren’t nearly as voluble. Certainly John had rarely said anything much beyond my name.

“The hair between your legs is so soft, a perfect triangle, hiding the treasure beneath.” He blew at it, softly, and the rush of cool air was startling against my overheated flesh. “When I part your folds, like this, I can see what’s underneath.”

“Tell me.”

“Your inner labia, flushed and pink, almost red. Like an exotic flower. Here, at the top, your clit, just waiting for my touch.”

“What else?”

“I see the entrance to your vagina, just waiting for me to fill it. And I can smell you—no, don’t shy away, not now. You smell like heaven, better than any perfume. I’ll wager you taste every bit as good. Please, Caroline—”

“You don’t have to ask. Only do it.
Now.
”

He dipped his head, a smile tugging at his mouth, and then his tongue touched me, velvety soft, and it was better than I could ever have imagined. His fingers pulled at my labia, easing me open, urging my clitoris from its hiding place. He licked around it, circling it with slowly, dizzying strokes that were merciless in their growing intensity.

He penetrated me with the forefinger of his other hand, sinking deep, adding another finger, then another, bending them so they might rub against that maddeningly elusive spot inside me. I fell back, my arms no longer able to bear my weight, my hands scrabbling uselessly at the coverlet. Without thinking I reached down and tangled my hands in his hair, pressing his face ever deeper into my pussy.

The sensations he was provoking were almost too beautiful to endure. I pressed my hips higher, shamelessly begging for more, and he obliged. He drew his lips tight around my clitoris and sucked on it so firmly that it would have hurt had I been any less aroused. Instead, a bloom of consuming bliss wrapped around me, pulled the breath from my lungs and hurled me to the edge of consciousness. I came so hard that I saw stars, and I think I may also have screamed out his name a time or two.

He climbed back on the bed and held me as I thrashed and squirmed. Finally I settled into the circle of his comforting arms, more tired than I’d ever been. How could it be that I had never known? Never even imagined? How could it be?

“Tom?”

“Yes, darling?”

“Will you do that to me again? In the morning, if you have time?”

“As often as you wish.”

“I must make some notes,” I mumbled, already half asleep. “I must make a study of it, so I may tell my readers. Though I doubt they’ll believe me.”

“In the morning,” he whispered, and dropped a kiss on my nose. “I promise.”