You know what's even sexier than Edward Rochester?
Edward Rochester proposing to you.
And you know what's even sexier than that?
Well, it involves rain and corsets and sex (obvs.)
He was shaking the water out of my loosened hair when I heard the footsteps. A flash of a lamp and a dark dress, and I knew Mrs. Fairfax had seen us. I hoped she didn’t misunderstand—but taking into account the things Edward and I had done together these past two months, a wet kisses was fairly innocent.
“Damn these servants,” he growled, bending to take my earlobe in his teeth. “I have to have you. I must have you.”
“Sir, we have all the time in the world,” I said. But inside, I thrilled that he wanted me as much as I wanted him. He awoke something within me all those weeks ago, something insatiable and living, something that prowled my dreams at night and made parts of me ache to be touched.
“Now,” he breathed. “It has to be now.”
He pushed me back out the door and into the rain. Lightening streaked across the dusky sky, the flashes slicing through the crepuscular light and giving everything a sharp surreality. Rain pounded on the paving stones of the drive, and Edward led me across the courtyard to the garden. The garden contained a small stone folly, and once inside, we were curtained by the downpour, the rain coming down along the sides like silvery sheets. It was as private as a bedchamber.
He kissed me again, his lips hot after the cool rain, and as he kissed me, he unhooked my dress, hook by hook. He shrugged off his jacket and pulled off his cravat, and let both drop carelessly on the damp stone floor. I pressed myself against him, feeling the warmth of his breath, of his lips, of his tongue. I unbuttoned his waistcoat and then his shirt, marveling once again at his athletic frame. I trailed my fingers down his bare chest and stomach, and he let out a hiss as my fingers brushed over the waistband of his pants.
“You forgot to ask me,” I murmured.
“Ask you what?”
“If I trusted you.” The past two times we’d been this close, touching and tasting each other, he’d vowed to keep me intact for my future husband.
He searched my eyes with his own, immobilizing me with the force of his gaze. “I didn’t forget. But I’ve already proven myself untrustworthy. I meant to be your bridegroom all along, you see. I was only saving you for myself. And now you are mine, body and soul, and I will have all of you.”
Heat rushed to my cheeks—and to my womb—at his words. “Then, sir, please. Take me.”
I could feel his erection even through the stiff fabric of my corset. “See what you do to me, Jane,” he said in between kisses, his hands roaming from the firm swells of my breasts to my hips, all contained by the corset. I unfastened my petticoats, so that only my short chemise and my corset remained between us.
“One day, I’d like to take you in that dress,” he said. “Would you like that, Jane? Perhaps in the drawing room? Against the wall or with you bent over the pianoforte?”
I shivered. He said such unthinkable things—such shocking things—but they made that prowling thing inside of me hungry. I found myself answering. “I would like that very much.”
“But for now,” he said, “I want to see all of you. Take off your corset and your chemise.”
I obeyed; he was impossible not to obey. I watched the way the ridge in his pants swelled and twitched as I slowly unhooked my corset and laid it aside, followed by the chemise. I stood before him, feeling unexpectedly vulnerable. Though we’d touched each other before, we’d never been fully exposed. I'd never been fully exposed to anyone, even the girls at Lowood, and I found myself worrying that I wasn't as buxom or soft as the women Mr. Rochester had likely known in his past.
He let his eyes rake down my body and then swore to himself.
“Is something wrong…with me?”
He stepped closer, and I could clearly see the narrow trail of hair that led down his flat stomach and into his breeches. “You are perfect,” he said. “Too perfect. I wanted to wade in slowly with you, but I don’t think I have the control.” He palmed my breast, the muscles in his jaw jumping, as if it took all he had not to throw me down and have me like a bar maid. His hand slid down from my navel and found the center of my desire. He slipped a finger inside without warning and then groaned. “You’re already so wet. And your cunt is so tight.”
I repeated my words from earlier. “Take me.”
He swore again.
Suddenly, I was on the floor, his discarded jacket the only thing between me and the stone. He was over me, kissing his way down to my chest, where he took a nipple into his mouth. I arched my back, the warmth and tugging so delicious that I couldn’t stand it. He moved over to the other breast, giving it the same attention, as one of his hands found my cleft again and began teasing it. My legs parted without me directing them to, and then parted even more when he pulled down his breeches just enough to free himself. He took his cock and pressed it against my opening, rubbing it up and down against me, until we were both slick and ready.
“Are you afraid?” he asked.
“Never of you,” I said. There was something untamable and frightening about him, and that was the inescapable lure that drew me to his side, but I knew that even in his wildness, he would never hurt me.
“You will be Mrs. Rochester,” he said. “And I will make you mine.”
And then he sank into me.
I inhaled sharply, the feeling of fullness and stretching too much to bear.
He closed his eyes and we both breathed together, his cock buried inside, the rain pouring down all around us. “You are so goddamned tight." A ragged sigh. "I can’t stand it.”
He pulled out to the tip, then slowly eased back in again. I realized that I was biting my lip, that my fingers were digging into his sides. “Do you trust me?” he asked.
“Yes,” I whispered.
“Then listen to me, pet. Remember my bedroom?” He moved in and out again, slowly…so slowly that I could feel every contour and curve of him. “Remember the first time I touched you? The first time we kissed? The first time I tasted you?”
My body responded to the memory, the feeling of being undone by the ministrations of his tongue.
“Remember the library?” He moved a little faster now. “Remember how you bucked up under me, begging me to take you? How you made me ruin my waistcoat, how you sat on me and made me come, all while my guests chattered and drank in the next room?”
I was breathing quicker now, my nipples hard and pointed. I found that the pain had smoothed away, leaving an unnameable sensation behind, something deeper than I’d ever felt before. A small moan escaped me.
“That’s it,” Mr. Rochester urged. “That’s me making you feel that way, the way I always have and always will.”
His hand found my clit once more, his skilled thumb moving against me and adding to the twisting tension building within my core. This was so much deeper, so much stronger than either of the two times we’d touched one another, and I couldn’t tell if it was the added confirmation of our love or the sensation of him stroking me from the inside.
He slid an arm under my waist and then lifted me up; without ever once separating our connection, he moved us so that I sat on his lap, facing him. The change in angle allowed me to grind myself down on him, to rub myself against him, leaving his hands free to possess my breasts and my hips.
Together, we moved in the damp silver-purple of the thunderstorm at twilight, with him guiding me, and with me abandoning more and more of myself as I wound up tighter and tighter…driven mad, hopeless, desperate by Edward—by his wide shoulders and narrow hips and impossibly hard cock. He tangled a hand in my hair and kissed me. “Mine,” he said, his lips pressed against my own. And then: “Oh, God,” as I moved faster and harder, chasing that tightening within me and chasing the memory of his climax in the library, the wicked, almost lazy way he’d watched the thick spurts stain his vest. I had to see it again or feel it again, and just thinking about it sent heat up my stomach, sent shivers to my core, and all at once, the tightening stopped.
And I unwound.
Quiver after quiver, I came around him, clenching and squeezing, gasping and grabbing at him, the strength and the duration of it terrifying. I’d been borne up on a wave and the only thing keeping me rooted to the earth were the dark and glittering eyes of Mr. Rochester, which closed as my orgasm subsided, leaving me limp and sated. He caught me in his strong arms as I began to slump forward, and once again, I found myself on the ground with him over me.
There was no restraint now, nothing bridling his raw desire. But now there was no pain, and each pounding thrust only stoked the embers of my passion. My body responded quicker, faster, and when he gritted his teeth and and groaned, pulsing inside me and filling me with his heat, I came too, shuddering as he said my name over and over again, his voice muffled by the low susurrus of the rain.
“Jane Eyre. Jane Eyre. Jane Eyre."