Page 62 of Desperate Proposals
It felt good.
“This,” he hissed, reaching up to the neckline with one hand, the other holding the length of the gown rucked up at her thighs. He attempted to work the buttons, but the frenzy of his movements achieved the opposite of their intent, slowing him down.
“Fuck,” he cursed, and dropped the skirts.
Using two hands now, the work was still unbearably slow; he had only two buttons undone.
“Be careful,” Evelyn chided. “If you’ll only allow me—”
Do it, his body insisted. Marcus grabbed the neckline with both hands and pulled.
The mother-of-pearl buttons hit the floor with delicate plinks before rolling away.
Evelyn exclaimed in protest, exasperation on her face. But he didn’t care. For now the gown hung open, exposing her to him. Marcus pulled it aside, baring one lovely breast in its entirety.
“Mr. Hartley!” Evelyn scolded, her voice halting.
But when he reached for her and caressed her, she moaned, forgetting to be angry. Marcus chuckled and kneaded her breast, rougher now as his mouth returned to hers, possessing it greedily. He pushed the gown off her shoulders. She wasintoxicating like this. Wanton. Needy. Desirous of him, and him alone. He teased at her nipple with two fingers, swept his tongue through her mouth and she bucked against him, pressing into his cock.
Now it was Marcus’s turn to moan, breaking their kiss.
“The bed… shall I? Should we?” Evelyn said, her voice breathy as she gasped for air.
“No.”
He took her by the hips, far from gently, and turned her about so she was backed up against him. He dragged kisses along her shoulder, then her neck. With one hand upon her hip he pulled her lush bottom harder against his cock, and was rewarded with an absolutely maddening groan from that prim and polished mouth of hers. Her hair fell loose, the ribbon lost somewhere upon the floor. With his other hand he combed it out, long and shining, smelling so clean and feminine. His center seized in pleasure.
He was going to have her like this, untamed and desperate, up against the looking glass. The cold, removed princess of Methering Manor, the spinster who’d refused the warmth and pleasure of the marriage bed.
But she hadn’t refused him. She wanted him.
And he’d have her like this, her hair loose, breasts swinging, nightgown falling from her shoulders as he drove into her from behind. And all while he watched her in the mirror.
With a gentle kiss at her neck he walked them both forward, then eased her down, her knees atop the cushioned ottoman she’d been sitting upon only minutes earlier as he’d brushed her hair.
“Brace yourself on this,” he murmured, placing her hands atop the dressing table so that she was in a penitent position, as if she begged for succor from her own reflection.
“What—” she started, but cut herself off with a startled gasp when he lifted the hem of her nightgown, depositing the swaths of fabric at her waist.
“Hold that,” Marcus grunted.
“I thought I was to brace myself!” she huffed.
Marcus leaned forward, covering her body with his.
“I thought you wished for more frequent assignations?” he teased, his lips brushing her ear.
She shuddered and sighed, her eyes fluttering closed as she dropped the gown. It pooled atop the dressing table. Her reflection was exquisite: her face and neck both bright red, fading into pink as the flush dissipated somewhere near the tops of her heavy breasts.
Marcus took that as assent.
“I’m quite pleased with that,” he crooned, his touch slowing as he drew the moment out, stroking the small of her back, her plump bottom, her thick thighs. “The notion only just came to me as I was brushing your hair. Suddenly I knew I must have you like this, watching me in the glass. Watching me have my way with you.”
He grabbed her rear harshly, underlining his point. She cried out.
In his frenetic state the sound was so delicious he couldn’t bear it, he had to lift his own nightshirt and dressing gown to take himself in hand.
Evelyn watched him, her reflection intent upon his. She bit her lip.
