He kissed her, deeply. Through the thin fabric of her chemise, he could feel every curve of her body, every tempting, choice corner of secret flesh.
“I find you exactly as I wanted to,” he murmured, “Almost completely unclothed and willing to greet me with a kiss.”
“I—was thinking of you.”
He looked down into her eyes and saw a confession there. Arousal flared in him at the possibility of her suggestion.
“You were touching yourself?”
She merely cast her gaze downwards in response, her cheeks pink.
“Right here?”
“Yes,” she nodded. “In front of the mirror.”
He groaned. And then he knew he had to see it for himself. He turned her to face the mirror. Her back was towards him but he could see her fully in the glass before him.
“I was imagining that you were the one touching me,” she said, her eyes closed. “That you were bringing me to ecstasy.”
“Show me. But, first, take this off.” He gestured towards the chemise.
She nodded and removed it, now naked except for her stockings, baring her body to his view.
God, he loved her body. Her full calves and thighs formed such breathtaking curves—her silhouette in the mirror threatened to unman him. The lushness of her arse pressed against him and teased his cockstand mercilessly. He took satisfaction, too, in the roundness of her belly, how its pretty swell tantalized him. And then there were her breasts, which he knew from experience overran his grasp—they were large and perfect, an overwhelming, delicious feast. The apricot brown of nipples, the areoles large and inviting, made his mouth water. He adored that every part of her was ripe and overflowing. Nothing about her was strict and taut—and he reveled in it. He could not imagine anything more beautiful, more bountiful, than her.
He watched, his heart pounding, as she brought her hand to the cluster of curls at the apex of her thighs. Delicately, she spread herself open and, in the candlelight, he could see the delicate pink flesh of her core.
She began to rub herself, lazily, as if she were not in any particular hurry. Her little intakes of breath sent him into a frenzy. He felt himself harden even further and pulse against her backside.
“You are so beautiful, Olivia,” he said, unable to help himself from speaking when such a sight was before him. “You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”
“Touch me. Please.”
He didn’t need to be asked twice. While he loved watching her pleasure herself, he yearned to take over, to be the one delivering her satisfaction, and to feel her wetness against his fingers. When he slid his fingers between her curls, he nearly hissed with satisfaction. He played with her, touching her clit and then dipping his fingers in and out of her, alternating with that same unhurried pace.
Soon, she was writhing against him in the mirror. He loved watching her become undone by his efforts. Between the candlelight and the flush that stole over her, her skin looked like burnished gold, glowing and precious.
“Do you want to come, my love?” he said to her softly, delving deep into her, watching in the mirror as his fingers disappeared into her beautiful pussy.
“Yes, please.”
He would give it to her. He would give her anything that she wanted. All he wanted in the world was for her to allow him to keep doing so.
Montaigne continued to plunder her. Her ass teased him, cushioning his swollen cock and making him bite back his own moan of satisfaction. But he kept his concentration on her.
She let out a ragged cry and then he felt her clenching and unclenching over his fingers, her orgasm coming in tight, rhythmic waves. He loved the feeling of her core on his fingers and yet he longed for it to be his cock that was there instead. It was clear what her core wanted, what it surged and worked to find. And he wanted to give that to her. His cock. His seed. To fill her up completely and make her his own.
But he shouldn’t allow himself such pleasures. Not when she hadn’t agreed to marry him. Not when taking such pleasures could imperil her or drive her from him further.
She quieted in his arms and he led her to the bed. She folded onto it and he followed, sweeping her into him. He held her like that for a long time, feeling utterly sated, or at sated as a man could feel with a raging cockstand that would not die down, no matter how much peace he had in his soul.
After a while, he was not sure how long, she reached down between them and put her fingers to his throbbing cock. Her soft touch felt so good that he had to stop himself from crying out.
“I want to please you. I want you inside of me. Tonight.”
“You have not agreed to marry me,” he said, his voice catching as her palm made contact with his cock. “I won’t let you take the risk.”
“I have not yet decided about the proposal.”
