Improper Proposals (7 page)

“Were you wondering about your chapter?” he asked.

“Wha...what?” I mumbled. Why on earth did he wish to speak of the guide now?

“I thought it nearly perfect. Just so you know. But I think we should consider assessing your work directly. Testing it out. For instance, you say that men often find it arousing to watch women undress.”

“Was I wrong?”

“No. God, no.”

“Do you wish to watch me?” I asked, not truly knowing how I wished him to answer. I rather hoped he would say yes, but I was afraid, too. Would he like what he saw? How could I be certain?

“Yes,” he said, pulling away so I might look him in the eye. “Yes, Caroline, that’s what I want.”

We walked to the bed, hand in hand. He sat, while I stood a little distance away, perhaps two feet, far enough that he could not easily touch me. For now he would look, only look.

I unbuttoned the bodice of my gown, glad to be free of it, and eased the tight-fitting garment from my arms. I tossed it on the floor, not caring how wrinkled it would be in the morning. Next, I unfastened the buttons at the waistbands of my skirts and petticoats, as well as the ribbon tie of my crinolette, and let all of it drop to my ankles. I stepped out of the discarded mound of cambric, bombazine and sprung steel hoops, only then noticing that I still wore my boots.

I crouched down and unlaced them as quickly as my trembling hands allowed. Above me came a soft, almost pained groan. I looked up, wondering what I had done to provoke such a reaction, and followed Tom’s line of sight back to my bosom, which was mounded precipitously against the edge of my corset, confined only by the thinnest layers of cambric and
broderie anglaise.

“Are you done with those damned boots yet?” he grumbled.

“I am,” I said, standing up. “What shall I remove next?”

“Your corset cover,” he answered firmly. I tossed it atop the rest of my garments.

“Now?”

“Your drawers.”

I shimmied free of them, relieved that my chemise still covered my bottom, though only just.

“My stockings?” I asked.

“Leave them be. Get rid of that corset.”

I took a deep breath and unfastened the metal hooks of my corset busk, relishing that moment of relief when I could breathe freely and easily after a day of respectable confinement.

“This feels lovely,” I said, stretching my arms high and wide. He said nothing in return, at least nothing intelligible. But his hands had taken hold of the bedcover, gripping it so tightly that it would be marked with creases until washed and ironed again.

“Pull the pins from your hair. I wish to see it unbound.”

I had plaited and bound my hair in several sections that morning, not wishing it to become mussed on the journey, so it was a few minutes before all the pins were out and the various braids unraveled. It looked quite pretty, I thought, flowing over my shoulders and down my back.

“Now your chemise.”

My last garment. I pulled at the ribbon bow that held its gathered bodice shut, let the fabric gape wide and then, without allowing myself to imagine what would come next, let it slip down over my shoulders and the swell of my breasts to fall silently to the floor.

I was naked before him, before a man I hardly knew, a man other than John, and all at once I felt uncertain and horribly self-conscious. My hands fluttered at my sides as I fought the impulse to cover myself, to hide from him.

“Please, no—not now. No doubts, Caroline,” he said. “You are lovely. So lovely I can barely stand it, and you must know I am dying to touch you. But I won’t, not just yet, because if I do I won’t be able to stop long enough to undress.”

He stood, keeping well clear of me, and moved away from the bed. “Lie down, now. It’s your turn to watch.”

Chapter Nine

I stretched out on the bed, praying that I retained some measure of dignity as I did so, and settled on my side, one arm supporting my head, the other curved over my hip. For an instant I considered pulling my hair forward so it would veil my breasts, but almost as quickly abandoned the notion. I could see that he found my naked form pleasing, and that in turn pleased me. And why else had I come here, if not to experience pleasure?

In quick succession Tom cast off his coat, removed his waistcoat and shrugged off his suspenders. He loosened and tossed aside his tie just as quickly, then stripped off his shirt in seconds, pausing only to detach his cufflinks, which he set on the bedside table.

His shoulders and arms were lean but densely muscled, his skin pale but for his forearms and a golden vee at his neck. An upended triangle of curling brown hair decorated his chest, its bottommost point narrowing to a thin line that disappeared into the waistband of his trousers.

The silence between us had begun to feel oppressive, so I said the first thing that came into my head. “No tattoos?”

He had crouched down to take off his boots, so I couldn’t see the expression on his face. “You mean like Elijah’s? When would you have seen his tattoos?”

“I haven’t. Of course I haven’t! John told me about them. He said Mr. Keating’s forearms are covered with them. Some sort of exotic tribal markings.”

“No, I haven’t any tattoos. I wasn’t on that particular trip with Elijah. Not that I would have been brave enough. Must have hurt like hell, having those marks hammered into his skin one by one.”

“I’m glad. I like you just the way you are,” I said, sounding like a smitten schoolgirl.

Barefoot now, he approached the bed, looming above me. From his trouser pocket he produced a small tin, which he set on the bedside table. Then he began to unbutton his flies.

“Are you nervous?”

“Yes. You’re only the second man I’ve ever seen undressed.”

“Please don’t ask me to turn down the lights.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I said, smiling up at him. “Aren’t you going to remove your trousers? Put us on a more equal footing?”

“Since you ask so prettily, yes.”

He pushed his trousers and undershorts down and off in one abrupt motion. Standing tall before me, he grasped his erect member, which pointed upward to his navel, and pulled at it once, twice, in long, lazy motions. The sight of it mesmerized me, even made my mouth water. There was nothing for it but to wriggle forward on the bed and wrap my hands around him.

“Do you like the feel of my cock?”

“Yes, Tom,” I answered, liking his name for it. Much less clinical than
member.
“I like your cock perfectly well.”

“Do you know how often it’s been like this for you? So hard I can scarcely think?”

It didn’t seem as if an answer were required, so instead I squeezed his cock tight in my hands and moved them up and down, just a little, to see what sort of effect it would have on him.

“No more,” he groaned. “Not yet, at least. Let me lie next to you.”

He settled on the bed, propping his weight on one elbow as I had done, his head parallel to my breasts. “If you only knew how long I’ve wanted to touch these, to test the weight of them in my hands.”

“How long?”

“Since our first meeting. Since the moment we first shook hands. You were irritated with me, justly so, for having made you wait so long. Your chest was heaving up and down in the most eye-catching fashion. Of course I couldn’t see a thing, for that damned gown had you covered up to your chin. But I wondered what your breasts would look like.”

“And? Describe them to me.”

“Perfect. So pale. I can tell they’ve never been touched by the sun. And your nipples are the prettiest I’ve ever seen. What color are they usually?”

“They’re lighter. Not such a dark pink.”

“I promise they’ll be much darker by the time I’ve finished with them. How do they feel?”

“Swollen, almost sore. And they’ve been tingling for ages.”

“That’s because they’ve been stiff, likely since you got up this morning, and all that time they’ve been rubbing against your chemise. Am I right?”

“Yes,” I admitted. It had been tormenting me for hours. For months now, to be honest.

“If I do this, how do they feel?” he asked, taking one nipple between his thumb and forefinger. He rolled it gently, almost but not quite pinching it, and the sensations he provoked were perfectly marvelous.

“Good,” I moaned.

“And what about this?”

He dipped his head to lick at my other breast, his tongue soft at first, then stiffening into a point, then soft again. Even better, his mouth then covered my nipple entirely, sucking hard, withdrawing only so he might admire how tightly puckered the areola had become, how red and swollen and distended was the peak at its center.

As his mouth worked at one breast, his hand was at the other, kneading it softly, mounding the flesh high, letting its weight fall against his palm, then catching its nipple between two fingers. Pinching it softly at first, then far less gently, the shock of almost-pain so welcome I moaned my need for more.

His hand trailed down my body, his fingers skimming over my hip and belly, dipping unexpectedly into my navel. Then lower, touching at the back of my knee, tickling it until I wriggled in protest. Higher again, tracing the line where my thighs pressed together, his fingers delved deeper, teasing my legs apart.

I let my legs fall open, loving the grunt of satisfaction he made. He touched me where I was softest, on the skin at the very top of my thighs, his fingers soothing the creases between them and my woman’s mound. Cupping the triangle of hair between my legs, he let his hand rest in place, unmoving, for long seconds. I enjoyed the sensation, but I also wanted more.

“Is anything the matter?” I asked.

“No,” he muttered, burying his face deep between my breasts. He inhaled deeply, his beard and mustache rubbing most delightfully against my cleavage, then emerged so he might direct a smile at me. “I’m merely enjoying the moment. Hoping I can make it last.”

“I feel so restless, Tom. I feel—”

“I know. Does this help?” He began to stroke me, petting me soothingly, the pressure of his hand deepening slowly, surely, until he had parted the folds of my mound and was at my entrance. “Can you feel how wet your pussy is?”

“Yes.”

“I can’t remember now—do you tell your readers that such a reaction is to be expected?”

“Yes. Ohh...”

“And do you tell them how it makes a man feel?”

“I can’t quite remember,” I groaned.

“I’ll tell you. It makes him feel like a king. Like a
god.
” He pushed two fingers deep inside me, as deep as they would go, and curved them upward in such a way that they brushed against one particular spot that made my thoughts dissolve and my limbs turn to water.

He dipped his thumb into the moisture at my entrance and dragged it to the little bead of flesh that surmounted it, though he didn’t touch it directly. My clitoris. I knew the word for it, though I wasn’t certain how to pronounce it. I would have to remember to ask him.

He traced a whispery circle around my clitoris, the pressure slowly intensifying as I melted into his touch. “Do you want to come? Do you want to have an orgasm?”

“Yes...but not now. Not yet. Don’t...don’t want it to be over.”

“It won’t be. I promise.”

His cock was pressed against my leg, as hot as a length of iron fresh from the forge, and though I wanted to feel it inside me
now
, I knew I couldn’t wait, for he had again increased the pressure, his thumb rubbing directly at that greedy pearl of flesh between my legs.

“I want you to come,” he breathed against my ear. “Let me feel you come.”

It hit me, a burst of bright light and consuming, enveloping joy, the sort of ecstasy I’d once feared would be lost to me forever. He thrust his fingers inside me again, the better to feel the pulse of my orgasm, and as he withdrew them I felt a rush of liquid that must surely have dampened the bedsheets.

“What was that?” I asked, worried that I had wet myself.

“It’s good, I promise. Nothing to worry about. Your natural response, no more.”

He held me close, soothing me with soft kisses to my face, then reached across to the bedside table. When he rolled back, the little tin was in his hand.

“What is that?”

“A prophylactic. So you won’t fall pregnant.”

“I’m likely barren. I’ve never once conceived.”

“Best to be careful,” he said, turning away from me. I could hear him fussing with the object in the tin, but couldn’t see what he was doing.

“I ought to have put this on earlier,” he said, facing me again. A thin, almost transparent sheath covered his cock.

“What does it do? Does it collect your seed when you ejaculate?”

“Precisely.”

“I ought to mention it in the guide.”

“No more guide, not tonight. If you say anything more, I want it to be about the way you feel. For instance, does this feel good?” He nipped at my ear, the sensitive tendon that ran down the side of my neck, the valleys and high ground of my collarbone and bosom. “I could lose myself in these,” he muttered. “I’ve never seen such gorgeous tits in all my life.”

“I’m very glad you like them.”

“Like them? I adore them. If only you knew what I wanted to do to them. With them.”

“Tell me,” I urged.

“I want to fuck them. Rub my cock between them until I come. Sorry—that’s likely the filthiest thing you’ve ever heard.”

“I like it,” I said, astonished by how arousing I found such naughty words. “
More
.”

“I want to pillow my head on them and sleep for hours. Most of all I want to put you on your knees and fuck you from behind while I hold your tits in my hands. Feel them bounce with every stroke.”

Oh, God—the thought of it was so exciting, I thought I might expire. Why had he made no move to enter me? When would he enter me?

“I can’t wait. Please—”

I hadn’t even finished before he was pushing me onto my back, moving atop me so his knees were between mine. His weight resting on one hand, he guided his cock to my entrance and pushed firmly, gently, willing me to accept him.

“Lift your legs. Wrap them about my hips.”

I obliged and he slid in deeper, so full and hard inside me that I wasn’t sure I could bear it. His hips moved back, surged forward again, and he was inside, completely seated within me, and it was wonderful.

After all those months of solitude, all those nights alone in my bed, this was the chiefest pleasure I could imagine. This utter closeness to another living being. I wrapped my arms around him, tears springing to my eyes, grateful beyond anything.

He pulled away, just enough so he might look upon my face, and seeing his tender expression, I was seized by another rush of emotion. I wanted to curl up, hide away, savor every sensation, but I couldn’t so much as shut my eyes. His gaze burned so brightly, ablaze with excitement, and I knew without asking that his delight was my doing.

He reached between us, his thumb finding my clitoris unerringly, and he rubbed hard, coaxing a response that ought to have been impossible after the climax I’d already experienced. Never in my life had I experienced two orgasms so close together.

“Harder,” I whispered, and he obliged by thrusting faster, rubbing me harder, urging me forward mercilessly. With no warning I convulsed around him, my crisis so intense I had to bite back a scream. Instead I kissed him, fiercely, only pulling away so I might see his face when he came.

I knew the instant it happened—a moment of wonder, a hitch in his breath, then his eyes went glassy from the shock of it, unfocused and unseeing, as if ecstasy had drugged him senseless. He kept thrusting into me, softly now, his mouth at my temple, his lips whispering a single word of praise over and over.

“Beautiful.”