Chapter Twenty-One

 

My entire body felt alive and rejuvenated.

I sighed and pinned my hair, catching myself smiling in the mirror for no reason.

I felt like a schoolgirl, crushing on someone. The memory of his lips and hands and thrusting body changed my breath. It hitched and rushed from my parted lips as I swallowed hard and relived it all.

The firelight and the way our bodies had writhed against one another in the crisp white sheets would be a top memory for my entire life.

He created feelings inside me I never knew were possible. As a married woman who had loved her husband dearly, I never realized how plain our sex life was until this moment. I never knew it could’ve been more, had I asked for more, had I known to ask.

I regretted not living like that with Jonathan, wrapped in him and sheets and gasping for air and needing food. I’d never been properly fucked before.

It changed everything.

I craved it. I craved Wentworth. I contemplated our marriage, more so our honeymoon and how much sex we would have once freed to have it regularly and not sneaking around. I longed for the way his fingers felt against me.

Then I paused, wondering something so ghastly and awful that I hated myself instantly. I closed the thought off, pushing it away. But it refused to go. If the strong hands of Captain Wentworth felt as good as they did, what did the rough hands of Mike the carpenter feel like?

I brushed a hand along my neck, down into my neckline, imagining it. I cupped my breasts, all the while watching myself in the mirror.

I had strayed and dishonored Jane Austen in every way but I wasn't going back. I wondered often, had she been alive in my time, if Jane Austen would have become quite the sexual woman. Had she been allowed to write it, maybe she would have even described some of it herself. Though it was better the way she left it up to us, the reader. We decided what Mr. Darcy’s cock looked like. We chose the tautness of Mr. Bingley’s ass. We imagined the feel of Mr. Tilney between our thighs, suckling at our breasts.

And I knew the feel of Captain Wentworth thrusting into me, forcing words and sounds from me I did not recognize.

I exhaled through pursed lips and nodded. I needed a cold shower or a cup of tea.

I left the room, dressed and ready for dinner, though I suspected I might have been a bit too glowing.

Catching Charles in the hallway confirmed it. “Jane, are you quite well? You’re flushed.”

“I was struggling with my gown actually, Charles. Worked up a bit of a sweat.” I winked and hurried down the stairs, leaving him mouth agape and eyes wide.

When I got downstairs Captain Wentworth’s eyes met mine from the library where he proposed, the first time.

I smiled coyly and walked in a different direction, wondering if he would follow.

I hurried to the garden, walking more swiftly than was considered ladylike but enjoying the prospect of him chasing.

When I got to the arches, arms circled around my waist from behind, making me cry out with laughter. I spun, gasping for air and longing to be pinned to a bed again by the large man holding me captive.

“Did I really startle you?” he asked with a grin.

“No and yes. I expected I would get a little farther before you caught me.”

“Did you?” He pressed my back against the rough brick archway and forced himself up against me, roughly. “I have been thinking about you all afternoon.” His hands traveled my arms to my chin, tilting it up and lowering his face.

“And what were you thinking of?”

“I’d rather show you.” He kissed. The gentleman was long gone and in his place was a madman, desperate for the very thing he shouldn't have had, not yet.

I broke the kiss off and whispered, “Someone might see us.”

“Not likely. Mary’s come down with another cold and poor Charles is stuck tending to her. Miss Anne and Mr. Elliot have gone for a carriage ride to see another school friend of hers who lives nearby. And the girls are occupying the captains with billiards. Apparently, they play quite well.” He grinned. “So you see, no one will come upon us out here.” He lifted my skirts, pausing when he felt no undergarments. I’d opted for no pantalets when I dressed earlier.

His fingers pried, roughly exploring my exposed body. The wetness I was producing long before I even met with him, sparked urgency in us both. He slid a finger inside me, pushing and drawing, sawing in and out of me.

I grabbed at his pants as soft moans escaped my lips, freeing his cock and rubbing my hands up and down it.

He moaned as I gripped firmly, squeezing as I drew near the tip. He lifted me, scraping my back against the rough wall and rested me on his parted thighs.

I grabbed his shoulders, helping him nestle his cock between my lips, and he shoved himself into me. I cried out softly in the cool air, clinging to his shoulders as he lifted my dress more, gripping my ass and thrusting in.

Each jerk brought with it a breathy sound from me.

I took no care of the gardens or the public nature in which he ravished me. I ignored the scraping of my back, or the muslin tearing as he pushed himself farther into me.

We made no love and confessed no feelings. Instead, we acted on primal instinct and need, behaving as animals would, defiling his beautiful garden like Eve and her snake.

He pummeled me, bouncing my body off his, spearing me with pleasure and passion until I climaxed, moaning and biting into his shoulder, trembling and twitching. His orgasm was similar, unbridled and violent.

When it was over, again we clung to one another, shocked by our own actions and lack of propriety shown. The respect a wife and husband demanded of one another in this time, didn't match the aggression we both showed sexually.

 Slowly, he lowered me, removing himself from my body. “Forgive me.” He stepped back, clearly horrified by his actions. His face—his expression—hurt me, making the act not just something naughty, but a regret. He regretted me, this moment.

“No, please, forgive me.” My voice waivered and I pushed off the wall, fleeing for my room in my ruined dress. My shame wore heavy on my shoulders as I slumped them in the safety of my room.

It wasn't bad enough that we had bastardized the language of the Regency era, but also the morals. I prayed as I stared at the girl looking back at me in the mirror, the one trembling and flushed from pleasure, that Jane Austen wasn't rolling in her grave.

Though none of this story was Jane’s. Characters and a few traits perhaps, but the rest was me.

I was driving the crazy train.

I was the one in charge.

I had tainted it all.

“Jane?” A knock at the door startled me. I winced as Wentworth opened it, remorse clouding his eyes. “I will not ask for your forgiveness again. I do not deserve it.” He stepped inside and closed the door. “The lust I feel for you is insatiable. I fear I am unable to control myself with you.”

“You wish to call off the engagement,” I said, knowing it was I corrupting him and only a matter of time before he realized it. I was not the virginal girl he would’ve wanted to marry.

“No.” His eyes widened. “I could never. I love you. I just wanted to assure you that I will work on remaining a gentleman at all times.” He wasn't angry with me? He didn't want to know where I’d learned to have sex? He was truly disgusted with himself?

“No.” It was my turn to speak. “If you aren’t opposed to it, I prefer how things stand between us.” I tried to think of a way to say it without actually saying it, the art of the era. “I enjoy the way we are together. You are a gentleman in every aspect of your life; if you wish not to be one when we are alone, I have no reservations about that.”

“But you were so horrified.” His eyes narrowed.

“Only because you apologized. I thought you didn't—”

“Think nothing, because my actions and my words are at war.” He stepped to me, bringing me into his arms, cradling my head against his chest. “I have never felt this way about any woman, and I dare say I never will again. The way you awaken the man inside me, pleases me as much as it scares me.”

I lifted my gaze, sighing into his jacket. “I love you, Frederick.”

It was the truth.

The half of a heart I’d brought into the book was in love with him.

While I’d destroyed the innocence and purity of Austen’s character, I’d used her story as a baseline to create my own. One I could live in happily. Even if it meant Captain Wentworth was now a bit of a sexual exhibitionist with an insatiable lust for fucking.

I mean, maybe she meant him to be that way all along. I wouldn't ever know the truth to that.