Literary Love

by Gabrielle Vigot

He probed gently with his member until he easily entered her sheath with no barriers to obstruct his loving intentions.

  Lucy sighed and closed her eyes as he slowly filled her vessel. She would never tire of his lovemaking, ever.

  Once fully encased, George stopped to savor the moment as though tasting the fruits of the gods. When he could not bear it any longer, he began to thrust, keeping time with the rising demand of her hips.

  “Dear George. My Dearest George.”

  He let out a manly sigh as he worked to and fro, keeping her pleased.

  “Don’t stop, don’t ever stop,” she said breathlessly.

  He kissed her lips and nuzzled his way to her bosom, snatching one up into his mouth and clasping the other with a hand.

  With his thumb, he began to massage the tip of the bosom, while suckling the other as though drinking wine. She ebbed and flowed as he glided in and out of her sheath, thrusting to her delicate and subtle commands.

  “Oh, George,” she cried repeatedly as he continued to heighten her pleasure.

  Before long, he thrust more gallantly, to which she cried, “Yes, yes!” Her head rolling back and forth as she luxuriated in the pure, raw pleasure.

  “Oh, my Dearest,” George finally said, moving his lips to the other breast.

  Lucy stopped and opened her eyes.

  “George?”

  Pausing, he looked at her.

  “You said something?” she said softly.

  “Yes. I said, ‘My Dearest’,” he whispered. He rarely spoke in their moments of passion, as he was typically too overcome for words.

  “How I do love you so.” She rolled her fingers through his wayward locks of hair.

  “How I love you,” he said.

  “Then don’t stop,” and she urged him to continue.

  And he began thrusting again until he had situated himself above her in a seated position and from there he brought her hips to his liking and continued to make love to her. With her pearl now exposed, he drew a finger to it and began to caress it as he continued to stroke in and out of her vessel of love. With the other hand he grasped the tip of her bosom and squeezed and massaged.

  “Oh, oh, George.”

  Her body was like a fine instrument to which he composed symphonies of love. The more he played, the more inflamed her passion grew, until at last, her body grew so tight with expectation that there was no turning back.

  He knew she was near as she grasped his thighs, anticipating the moment as he raced through his symphonic finale from Rondo toward the Coda.

  He thrust faster and faster until they reached the final section of his lovemaking piece, to which she released in those last moments of the Coda, cresting with such great tumult that her body convulsed and quivered as never before.

  Engulfed by her release, George thrust deeper and harder until at last he spilled his seed, filling her with the hope of their life together.

  Pulling her next to him, he kissed her with great fervor, and when their lips finally did part, they stared lovingly into each other’s eyes, sharing the same breaths, as it was always meant to be.

  The cabman called out from the street below, capturing their attention. Together, they glanced over their shoulders and looked out the window, but the man was already gone. Lingering, they looked into the distance until Lucy sighed, clearly filled with peace.

  Turning back to each other, she spoke first. “The view is perfect.”

  To which George said, “How divine that it should go on forever.”

  Lucy smiled. “Kiss me, Dear George.”

  The Age of Innocence

  The Wild & Wanton Edition, Volume 1

  Coco Rousseau

  Edith Wharton

  Avon, Massachusetts

  Copyright © 2014 by Coco Rousseau and Edith Wharton.

  All rights reserved.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.

  Published by

  Crimson Romance

  an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

  10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

  Blue Ash, OH 45242. U.S.A.

  www.crimsonromance.com

  ISBN 10: 1-4405-7490-1

  ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7490-0

  eISBN 10: 1-4405-7491-X

  eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7491-7

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

  Cover art © istockphoto.com/Arpad Benedek; Orietta Gaspari

  Dedicated to Edith Wharton

  “The air of ideas is the only air worth breathing.” ~ Edith Wharton

  “The air of love is the only air worth breathing.” ~ Coco Rousseau

  Avec amour,

  Coco Rousseau

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you Crimson Romance for enriching the world with stories of the heart. Without love, we would be mere flesh without soul. As Mahatma Gandhi says, “Where there is love there is life.” Thank you, Tara Gelsomino, Julie Sturgeon, Beth Gunn, Jess Verdi, and the tireless staff of Crimson Romance who helped make this adaptation of Edith Wharton’s The Age of Innocence another shining star in the world of romance.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Part 1

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  About the Authors

  Part 1

  Chapter 1

  On a January evening of the early seventies, Christine Nilsson was singing in Faust at the Academy of Music in New York. The pleasure of Newland Archer’s company was expected. But he had not yet made his appearance for his attention had, as usual, been diverted elsewhere—or more accurately, he had been seduced. The lady, married within the ranks of New York Conservatives, would best remain unnamed at present for the sake of preserving subtlety among friends and others who might be predisposed to cast a disapproving frown. In Newland Archer’s mind, tonight would be his final rendezvous with the lady, for the greater of society that of New York, the élite not to be catechized in the slightest, had called him to account. It was time for Newland Archer to settle down.

  Over two winters, the lady had captured his attention in conversation. In the beginning, he did not fully understand her intentions; her words were simply stimulating. But in time, she invited him to experience pleasures that he had not yet known as a young man. Naturally, he was intimidated by her frankness, although his guard eventually crumbled in the face of her sensual lure. He was tempted by her in a way he found irresistible, and thus, allowed her to guide their friendship beyond the intercourse of mind and spirit, until finally, she revealed to him the pleasures of the flesh.

  Newland lingered before an open fire in his library, reading the summons he had received from his paramour earlier that evening. He drew on his cigar, and then dropped the perfumed Parisian paper, scripted with her elegant penmanship, into the fire. He watched the flames consume the white parchment. What had once been pristine no longer possessed even a remnant of purity.

  An hour later, he arrived at the entrance to a magnificent home, which spared no amount of money in its finery. Before he could lift a hand to knock, a butler opened the door and greeted him.

  “This way sir,” the butler said, and th
en showed Newland to an upstairs chamber. The butler opened the door to reveal a darkened boudoir, and stepped aside to let Newland enter the room. Though he might have hesitated had he allowed his rational mind to control his actions, this was not to be. His manly urges forced him to set reason aside. He stepped through the door, sauntered across the room, and stopped near the fireplace mantle.

  “You have kept me waiting,” the woman said. She rose from the bed and walked to him. Her dark crimson hair flowed down the length of her back. She was dressed only in her dark emerald peignoir trimmed in gold braid, the fabric so thin that she might not have been wearing anything at all.

  “We’ve been through this,” he said. “I wasn’t to come again.”

  “I had to see you one last time.” She stood before her lover, her face turned to his, her expression sultry, her lips irresistible. Newland’s thoughts of resistance diminished, and the heat from the fire melted his restraint.

  He raised a hand to her cheek and slowly stroked the length of her face, considering. The woman standing before him had been his one and only mistress. From her, he had learned the ways a man might please a woman. Though he appreciated her charms and cared for her, he did not love her. Nor she him. In his mind, the affair was over, bittersweet as the ending was, but time had closed in upon them.

  Newland was torn. He realized it would be best for all, including those not present who were weighing upon his sensibilities, if he simply departed. Yet, the urge to ravish this woman was exceedingly strong—no, overwhelming. Her eyes danced madly, anticipating his move. He did not kiss her, but grasped the cloth that clung to her otherwise naked body. He pulled it from her with such violence that it tore off completely, exposing her fully to him. He clasped her hand and brought it close to his mouth. He turned her wrist to admire the creamy tone of her flesh and then brought her wrist to his lips, slowly kissing the delicate skin above her palm.

  “Come,” she whispered, urging him toward the bed.

  But he resisted, holding her back. Not there. Not this time.

  “Newland?” He had never before resisted her wiles. “It will be the last time. Then I will release you.”

  He seemed to relax, knowing that she had given him leave to pursue that which was pressing upon his spirit, the favor that decent society was urging upon him. Instead of taking her, he stood waiting for her to understand what he was offering her this evening.

  She nodded sensuously and encouraged him to sit down on the settee. She eased him down and he reclined, lying against the seat-back. She kneeled between his thighs, and with ease and experience, freed his manhood to the night. With gentle fingers, she grasped his member, slid her hands down the length of it, and began to stroke. She slowly ran her hands upward to envelop the crown. She pulled his member toward her, and with the fingers of the other hand, began circling the sensitive flesh until he melted into her touch. From the beginning of their companionship, she had always known how to relax him, and though this evening was different, her touch was as familiar as his own. He had always succumbed to the desires of the flesh, though not the heart. But he knew that he had done her a great favor with his company.

  He felt his heart pounding as he anticipated her deeper touch. He leaned forward and grasped her hair with his fingers, guiding her closer. He felt the tension in his body yielding to her demands.

  When she drew her lips to his crown and began gliding them softly over his flesh, he closed his eyes, finding himself lost in lust. When she opened her mouth and touched him with her tongue, an electrical impulse shot through his limbs. Her tongue was like velvet. She began to swirl it, lightly at first, but the harder she licked, the greater his manly desires grew.

  Unable to help himself, he groaned, as though suffering the agony of loss. A series of immeasurably deep sighs were expelled one after another, blending into the crackle of the wood burning in the fireplace.

  The lady did not yield. She slid her tongue underneath his crown and along its tender flesh. His skin rippled with erotic sensations, and he felt his member arching with the need to be released. However, she took her time, working her tongue upward again and through the divided folds of his crown, licking and probing the tip. There, she began to dab lightly with her tongue around the opening, an erotic dance of a sensuous pair.

  She had captured Newland’s breath with her touch. She controlled him, his movement, his every desire, and she seemed to want to torture him with the anticipation of being released. She teased him with that delicious tongue of hers, making him wait, circling it around, stimulating his appetite. Finally, she drew the crown into her mouth and gently pulled against its flesh, suckling, drinking as if savoring the finest wine.

  He released her hair and fell back, letting her have her way. She engulfed a great length of his member, drawing him all the way into her mouth and deep into her throat. She moved him in and out. His rampant member throbbed, arching more urgently as she suckled more and more vigorously, until his jewels, which were gathered in one of her hands, tightened, his release imminent.

  “Ah-h,” he groaned repeatedly, his arousal heightening. He panted audibly as she drove him toward the moment. He lost all control. Fire raced through his loins, and finally in a reckless burst, he was overcome and released the fruit of his seed in her mouth.

  “My God, woman, your charms,” he said, gasping for breath, his member still throbbing against the continued suction of her mouth.

  He rose and took his paramour into his arms, kissing her gently. “How may I please you tonight?”

  “Come to the bed with me.” She rose and led him to the bed.

  Though their last night together was brief, she did not complain. They both knew that once Newland was married, the affair might become too public. Prancing around while married tainted reputations in a new regard. After he brought his lover to her own passionate heights, he bid her a final farewell and found his way to the Opera House, where the best of society gathered.

  As to be expected, the conversation of those seated above in the privacy of their club boxes was dull. Though there was already talk of the erection, in remote metropolitan distances “above the Forties,” of a new Opera House which should compete in costliness and splendour with those of the great European capitals, the world of fashion was still content to reassemble every winter in the shabby red and gold boxes of the sociable old Academy. Conservatives cherished it for being small and inconvenient, and thus keeping out the “new people” whom New York was beginning to dread and yet be drawn to; and the sentimental clung to it for its historic associations, and the musical for its excellent acoustics, always so problematic a quality in halls built for the hearing of music.

  It was Madame Nilsson’s first appearance that winter, and what the daily press had already learned to describe as “an exceptionally brilliant audience” had gathered to hear her, transported through the slippery, snowy streets in private broughams, in the spacious family landau, or in the humbler but more convenient “Brown coupe.” To come to the Opera in a Brown coupe was almost as honourable a way of arriving as in one’s own carriage; and departure by the same means had the immense advantage of enabling one (with a playful allusion to democratic principles) to scramble into the first Brown conveyance in the line, instead of waiting till the cold-and-gin congested nose of one’s own coachman gleamed under the portico of the Academy. It was one of the great livery-stableman’s most masterly intuitions to have discovered that Americans want to get away from amusement even more quickly than they want to get to it.

  When Newland Archer opened the door at the back of the club box the curtain had just gone up on the garden scene. There was no reason why the young man should not have come earlier, for he had dined at seven, alone with his mother and sister, and had lingered afterward over a cigar in the Gothic library with glazed black-walnut bookcases and finial-topped chairs which was the only room in the house where Mrs. Archer allowed smoking, and then there was the perfumed letter to consider. But, in th
e first place, and much to Newland’s delight, New York was a metropolis, and perfectly aware that in metropolises it was “not the thing” to arrive early at the opera; and what was or was not “the thing” played a part as important in Newland Archer’s New York as the inscrutable totem terrors that had ruled the destinies of his forefathers thousands of years ago.

  The second reason for his delay was a personal one. He had dawdled over his cigar and then partaken in the more pleasurable company of his lady friend for one last time, because he was at heart a dilettante, and thinking over a pleasure to come often gave him a subtler satisfaction than its realisation. This was especially the case when the pleasure was a delicate one, as his pleasures mostly were; and on this occasion, when he felt satisfied with life itself, the moment he looked forward to was so rare and exquisite in quality that—well, if he had timed his arrival in accord with the prima donna’s stage-manager he could not have entered the Academy at a more significant moment than just as she was singing: “He loves me—he loves me not—HE LOVES ME!—” and sprinkling the falling daisy petals with notes as clear as dew.

  She sang, of course, “M’ama!” and not “he loves me,” since an unalterable and unquestioned law of the musical world required that the German text of French operas sung by Swedish artists should be translated into Italian for the clearer understanding of English-speaking audiences. This seemed as natural to Newland Archer as all the other conventions on which his life was moulded: such as the duty of using two silver-backed brushes with his monogram in blue enamel to part his hair, and of never appearing in society without a flower (preferably a gardenia) in his buttonhole.

  “M’ama … non m’ama … ” the prima donna sang, and “M’ama!”, with a final burst of love triumphant, as she pressed the dishevelled daisy to her lips and lifted her large eyes to the sophisticated countenance of the little brown Faust-Capoul, who was vainly trying, in a tight purple velvet doublet and plumed cap, to look as pure and true as his artless victim.