Sense and Sensibility (The Wild and Wanton Edition) (11 page)

“But … I want … ” she protested, trying to find the right words.

“I know what you want, Miss Dashwood,” Willoughby responded. “You told me. You want me to make you feel the way I made you felt on the hill.”

Oh, yes
, Marianne thought,
I do want that
. She nodded eagerly and he chuckled, kneeling down on the floor beside the sofa and swinging her body around so that her knees were on either side of him.

He ran his fingers over her slickness, parting her folds to tease her. He just continued to rub, his fingers getting closer to the place at the top of her sex that was begging to be touched, circling just around her center but never quite getting there. Marianne raked her hands through her hair in frustration, sending pins flying, arching her hips towards Willoughby. “Please, Mr. Willoughby … ” she moaned.

He gave her that amused smile once more. “Please what, Miss Dashwood? Tell me what you need.”

“I need … ” She swallowed. “I need you inside me. Now.”

His fingers crept closer to her opening.

“No, not your fingers,” she said, panting with want. “
You
.”

He laughed softly. “But I thought you wanted me to touch you the way I touched you on the hill … ” He was teasing her. He was doing this to her on purpose. She hated him for it — and she loved him for it.

“I was wrong,” she screamed as his fingers finally grazed across her pleasure spot. “You. Now.”

With that final plea, Mr. Willoughby growled with his own need and thrust himself inside Marianne’s moist, warm center.

At first, she was confused. Was he doing something wrong? Why did it hurt so? It wasn’t supposed to feel like this, was it? How could her body be begging so ceaselessly for something that would cause her such pain?

She yelped softly with agony and her body froze. “Mr. Willoughby,” she gasped. “It … it hurts.”

He pulled out slightly and then pushed in again. “I know, my dear, I know. This happens the first time. Just try to relax. It will get better.”

She nodded and held on to his shoulders as he slid out and then in once more. She concentrated on loosening her muscles and imagined her body stretching to accommodate him with each thrust. It began to work. She began to open up, her body learning to accept his manhood. A few more thrusts, and the pain subsided and was replaced by a version of what she’d experienced on the hill but much, much better.

Marianne moaned softly, and Willoughby knew that she was enjoying herself now. And dear Lord in heaven, so was he. She was so tight, so wet, so open for him. Of all the women he’d been with, Marianne fit him like a glove. He began to work his hips more creatively, rocking into her in tempo with her heartbeats, thrusting in hard, pulling out soft, teasing her opening until she was begging for more.

He pushed himself inside and as far as he could go, then moved around within her. He felt his release coming, and needed it as desperately as he needed air to breathe, but he needed to mark this woman well, to make certain she enjoyed her time with him so much that she would always be begging for more. He licked his thumb and then ran it over the ripe bud peeking out from just above where their bodies were conjoined.

The combination of Willoughby pleasuring her internally and his finger teasing her externally pulled Marianne to a level of ecstasy she hadn’t known possible. Her body exploded into a million pieces of pulsating energy, her release blasting into her so hard she thought it entirely possible she would faint. She screamed Willoughby’s name until the windows shook, and as the sensation finally began to recede, his hand pulled away and he began to thrust harder, more rapidly than he had before now.

“Oh, Marianne!” he groaned, his eyes red hot and his brow beaded with perspiration.

“Oh, Willoughby!” she moaned back, holding his gaze and spreading her legs wider for him.

Their hips were colliding with unbelievable force and she felt his body tremble as he exploded into her.

Willoughby collapsed on top of Marianne, and she ran her fingers lightly over his moist back. She never wanted this moment to end, but after a few long seconds, he withdrew from her and began to dress.

She did the same, her body feeling light and billowy, as if it were made of water.

When they were fully presentable once more, Willoughby grabbed Marianne and kissed her hard. He placed his forehead against hers and breathed, “You are perfection. We are not finished.” And then he left, leaving Marianne alone in the cottage once more.

She hugged herself tight, filled with joy and satisfaction and love, and watched him gallop away. “No, my Willoughby. I dare say we shall never be finished.”

• • •

Marianne Dashwood was in love with John Willoughby. And there was every indication he felt the same for her. Their need for each other was so unquenchable that they began to devise ways to see each other. While out on a shopping trip with her sisters, Marianne, having informed Willoughby of their agenda for the day, would duck away and meet him in a secluded alleyway or a shop’s back room.

They would go on rides together and as soon as they were out of sight of the rest of their party, they would make love up against a tree or in a field of high grass.

Marianne had stopped telling Willoughby what she wanted when they were together, because he always seemed to know what she needed even before she did. It was as if he could read her thoughts. Or, perhaps, it was just that they were perfect for each other in every way — linked even in spirit.

When he was present she had no eyes for any one else. Every thing he did, was right. Every thing he said, was clever. If their evenings at the park were concluded with cards, he cheated himself and all the rest of the party to get her a good hand. If dancing formed the amusement of the night, they were partners for half the time; and when obliged to separate for a couple of dances, were careful to stand together and scarcely spoke a word to any body else. Such conduct made them of course most exceedingly laughed at; but ridicule could not shame, and seemed hardly to provoke them.

No one seemed to suspect their connection was anything beyond innocent flirting. Their public behaviour, while revealing a certain level of their affections for one another, was perfectly appropriate and mannerly. Marianne and Willoughby didn’t mind the act — it served to build up the tension between them so that when they finally did come together, the release was that much greater. And so their dance continued.

Mrs. Dashwood entered into all their feelings with a warmth which left her no inclination for checking this excessive display of them. To her it was but the natural consequence of a strong affection in a young and ardent mind.

This was the season of happiness to Marianne. Her heart was devoted to Willoughby, and the fond attachment to Norland, which she brought with her from Sussex, was more likely to be softened than she had thought it possible before, by the charms which his society bestowed on her present home.

For a time, she worried about becoming with child, but it never happened. She would not have let that fear stop her from being with Willoughby anyway — her love and need for him was much too strong. And though they never discussed marriage, Marianne was confident of his feelings for her and she knew in her heart of hearts that should a pregnancy ever happen, he would marry her in an instant. So she carried on, blissful and without a care in the world.

Elinor’s happiness was not so great. Her heart was not so much at ease, nor her satisfaction in their amusements so pure. They afforded her no companion that could make amends for what she had left behind, nor that could teach her to think of Norland with less regret than ever. Neither Lady Middleton nor Mrs. Jennings could supply to her the conversation she missed; although the latter was an everlasting talker, and from the first had regarded her with a kindness which ensured her a large share of her discourse. She had already repeated her own history to Elinor three or four times; and had Elinor’s memory been equal to her means of improvement, she might have known very early in their acquaintance all the particulars of Mr. Jennings’s last illness, and what he said to his wife a few minutes before he died. Lady Middleton was more agreeable than her mother only in being more silent. Elinor needed little observation to perceive that her reserve was a mere calmness of manner with which sense had nothing to do. Towards her husband and mother she was the same as to them; and intimacy was therefore neither to be looked for nor desired. She had nothing to say one day that she had not said the day before. Her insipidity was invariable, for even her spirits were always the same; and though she did not oppose the parties arranged by her husband, provided every thing were conducted in style and her two eldest children attended her, she never appeared to receive more enjoyment from them than she might have experienced in sitting at home; and so little did her presence add to the pleasure of the others, by any share in their conversation, that they were sometimes only reminded of her being amongst them by her solicitude about her troublesome boys.

In Colonel Brandon alone, of all her new acquaintance, did Elinor find a person who could in any degree claim the respect of abilities, excite the interest of friendship, or give pleasure as a companion. Willoughby was out of the question. Her admiration and regard, even her sisterly regard, was all his own; but he was a lover; his attentions were wholly Marianne’s, and a far less agreeable man might have been more generally pleasing. Colonel Brandon, unfortunately for himself, had no such encouragement to think only of Marianne. He watched Marianne and Willoughby closely and privately suspected their relationship had long ago passed the “innocent courting” phase, though, apart from his simple observation of the way the couple behaved around one another, he had no tangible proof that Willoughby was taking advantage of the lovely Miss Marianne Dashwood.

But, oh, how he wanted to wring that despicable Willoughby’s neck. It was clear as day to anyone truly paying attention that the man felt that just because he was handsome, young, and charming, he was entitled to take whatever he wanted, no matter the cost to anyone else. Brandon wanted nothing more than to see Willoughby taken away from this place before he could corrupt Marianne with his dangerously selfish sense of power.

Of course, if he were being completely honest with himself, Brandon would have to admit that his hatred of Willoughby, while thoroughly and primarily bedded in his concern for the innocent Marianne, also had much to do with jealousy.

Brandon had never felt this level of affection for another woman — not even Eliza. Admittedly, it had been Marianne’s resemblance to his poor cousin that had first caught his attention, but he’d soon come to realize that Marianne was an entirely different kind of special, a young woman with so much love and joy and enthusiasm for all the world had to offer, and he’d soon fallen deeper in love with her than he’d thought possible. She deserved to be worshipped, pampered, spoilt to her heart’s content. She deserved someone who would appreciate what he had and never forget that she was truly a gift. It seared his soul that the loathsome Willoughby should even be allowed in the same room as someone as wonderful as Marianne, let alone be bestowed the honour of her falling in love with him.

It was in conversing with Elinor he found the greatest consolation for the indifference of her sister.

Elinor’s compassion for him increased, as she had reason to suspect that the misery of disappointed love had already been known to him. This suspicion was given by some words which accidentally dropped from him one evening at the park, when they were sitting down together by mutual consent, while the others were dancing. His eyes were fixed on Marianne, and, after a silence of some minutes, he said, with a faint smile, “Your sister, I understand, does not approve of second attachments.”

“No,” replied Elinor, “her opinions are all romantic.”

“Or rather, as I believe, she considers them impossible to exist.”

“I believe she does. But how she contrives it without reflecting on the character of her own father, who had himself two wives, I know not. A few years however will settle her opinions on the reasonable basis of common sense and observation; and then they may be more easy to define and to justify than they now are, by any body but herself.”

“This will probably be the case,” he replied; “and yet there is something so amiable in the prejudices of a young mind, that one is sorry to see them give way to the reception of more general opinions.”

“I cannot agree with you there,” said Elinor. “There are inconveniences attending such feelings as Marianne’s, which all the charms of enthusiasm and ignorance of the world cannot atone for. Her systems have all the unfortunate tendency of setting propriety at nought; and a better acquaintance with the world is what I look forward to as her greatest possible advantage.”

After a short pause he resumed the conversation by saying —

“Does your sister make no distinction in her objections against a second attachment? or is it equally criminal in every body? Are those who have been disappointed in their first choice, whether from the inconstancy of its object, or the perverseness of circumstances, to be equally indifferent during the rest of their lives?”

“Upon my word, I am not acquainted with the minutiæ of her principles. I only know that I never yet heard her admit any instance of a second attachment’s being pardonable.”

“This,” said he, “cannot hold; but a change, a total change of sentiments — No, no, do not desire it; for when the romantic refinements of a young mind are obliged to give way, how frequently are they succeeded by such opinions as are but too common, and too dangerous! I speak from experience. I once knew a lady who in temper and mind greatly resembled your sister, who thought and judged like her, but who from an enforced change — from a series of unfortunate circumstances — ” Here he stopped suddenly; appeared to think that he had said too much, and by his countenance gave rise to conjectures, which might not otherwise have entered Elinor’s head. The lady would probably have passed without suspicion, had he not convinced Miss Dashwood that what concerned her ought not to escape his lips. As it was, it required but a slight effort of fancy to connect his emotion with the tender recollection of past regard. Elinor attempted no more. But Marianne, in her place, would not have done so little. The whole story would have been speedily formed under her active imagination; and every thing established in the most melancholy order of disastrous love.