Improper Proposals

by Juliana Ross

Tom fetched his hat and coat, not bothering with gloves, and whistled to Grendel, who sprang to his feet as if a rabbit had just bounded past his nose. We all processed along the hallway and down the flight of stairs into the carriage, my valise having been transferred directly from the care of Mr. Randall to the coachman. Or so I hoped.

  It was rather a tight squeeze in the brougham, which had been designed for the comfort of two normal-sized human passengers. Although there was room for Grendel to stand at our knees, he was such a large creature that he couldn’t help but press against our legs. As the carriage began to roll down the street, jouncing here and there over patches of rough pavement or cobbles, I found my legs pushed ever more firmly against Tom’s. He didn’t seem to mind, for not only did he make no move to pull away, he instead set his near arm across the back of the seat, almost as if to cradle me.

  In any other circumstance, such an embrace would have felt comforting, even soothing. Tonight, it was not far short of torture. Had I been parched with thirst, and had a cup of water held only inches away, I could not have suffered more. We touched, yet were cruelly separated. We breathed the same air, yet could not dare a kiss, not here, not yet.

  And when would that moment come? He had told Mr. Randall we would be dining out. Were we truly going to sit across a table from one another, in public, and attempt to engage in conversation? I should rather be flogged than endure such sustained agony.

  I had paid no heed to our destination, conscious only of the man sitting so near to me, and was taken aback when the carriage suddenly pulled to a halt in front of Tom’s townhouse. Did he mean for us to dine at home and then proceed to his bedchamber upstairs? Deep within me, a flicker of shame stuttered to tremulous life.

  “No, don’t get out. I have other plans for us. Come, Grendel.”

  The dog leaped out of the carriage, transparently glad to be home, and ran inside as soon as the front door was opened. Tom disappeared inside, too, emerging moments later with a small leather bag. As soon as he was seated next to me, the carriage set off again.

  “Where are we going?” I asked, still apprehensive. If he were to say he had a set of private apartments—the sort of apartments where a mistress might be kept, for instance—I decided I would risk a broken neck and leap out of the carriage.

  “Brown’s Hotel. It’s in Mayfair, on the far side of Green Park. I thought you would prefer it to my house. My servants are discreet, but I think we’ll both feel more at our ease there. Is that agreeable to you? If not, we could go somewhere else. Though I’m at a loss...”

  “I think it’s a fine idea. Thank you,” I assured him, secretly delighted by his evident uncertainty. A man with a string of lovers as long as his arm would not be so nervous over the arrangements for his latest affaire de cœur.

  It was a short ride indeed to the hotel—we might have walked there with ease, if not for the driving rain. I only had time to form the vaguest impression of the building we were entering, for as soon as the carriage had stopped, a pair of footmen came forward, huge umbrellas at the ready, to help us down. What little I saw of the hotel bespoke luxury, calm, comfort and wealth. There were finely paneled walls, shining marble floors, tastefully arranged furnishings.

  We hurried through the foyer and up the main staircase, Tom having taken my arm, and were shown to our rooms without his having so much as signed a piece of paper.

  And then we were alone.

  We stood in a sitting room, not overlarge, its small table set for dinner. On the far side of the chamber was a door, only half open, which I took to lead to the bedroom. At least I very much hoped it did.

  Not knowing what to say, I removed my bonnet and shawl, both quite damp, and drew off my gloves. These Tom took from me, setting them on a table by the door before removing his own hat and coat.

  He walked over to the dining table and lifted the silver covers one by one. “I think we both ought to eat. I don’t want you to wilt away on me.”

  Though my appetite had vanished, I obligingly took my seat and allowed him to fill my plate with a slice of cold game pie, cod in oyster sauce, a slice of roast mutton, some buttered potatoes and French beans. He took at least double that for himself and, after filling our glasses from the bottle of white wine that had been left on ice, proceeded to methodically inhale his dinner.

  I picked at my food, wishing I could do it justice, and tried not to drink too much of my wine. I wasn’t hungry, nor was I thirsty. I only wanted one thing.

  “They’ve left an apple tart for pudding. Would you like some?”

  “No, thank you,” I said, shaking my head adamantly. “Tom—”

  “I know. Enough torture.”

  He took my hand and we walked together from the sitting room to the bedroom. The bed had been turned down, the gaslights aglow in their sconces, and coals burned merrily in the hearth.

  I stood in the middle of the chamber, as ignorant as a virgin bride of what was to follow. Should I approach him? Should I say something? If only I could be certain of what to do.

  And then he was before me, his hands in my hair, and he was tipping my head, bending me back so I felt unsteady on my feet and ready to swoon from the anticipation of this moment. His lips hovered so close, his breath a whisper on my skin, and then his mouth covered mine, the touch of it so lush and enthralling that I forgot to breathe.

  He moved from my mouth before I was nearly done with the kiss, but then he pressed his lips to the curve of my brow, the indent below my ear, the hollow of my throat, and those caresses were so distracting and delicious that I couldn’t bring myself to complain. His mustache and beard were soft against my skin, wonderfully so, and yet just abrasive enough to set my nerves alight.

  “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.
<
br />   “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.