The Dashwood sisters love too passionately…and, it seems, without reciprocal feelings from the men they choose. But lust can change a man…and a woman.
If love is never sane, then lust certainly is all passion. Elinor Dashwood cannot explain her affection for polite, reserved Edward Ferrars. In contrast, her younger sister Marianne endlessly extols the visage and virtues of dashing John Willoughby. Frustrated and lonely, Elinor yearns for Edward’s touch and some declaration of his regard. Yet she loves him.
Marianne eagerly surrenders to rapture in Willoughby’s arms—and cannot even consider the constancy of quiet, compassionate Colonel Brandon. Neither sister can escape the draw of lust. But as they learn more about those men they adore, they learn that love can be both sensible and sensational.
Copyright, 2012-2013, Jane Austen and Cerise DeLand.
The carriages were then ordered; Willoughby's was first, and Marianne never looked happier than when she got into it. He drove through the park very fast, and they were soon out of sight; the entire party, save Elinor, laughing at their departure.
Marianne exulted in Willoughby’s dashing act. Curling her arm through his as he drove, she settled against him.
“I daresay, my dear girl, I feel your body purring like a cat’s.”
Gazing up at his striking face, she admired his roguish beauty and the fact that he was hers. “When I am with you, I am a cat.”
He reigned the horses to a halt and caught her against him. “I like you wild and clawing at me. Shall I encourage you to do that?”
She tossed him a saucy glance, her shoulder up, her chin to one side. “Do as you will, Willoughby. I am yours.”
Capturing her hand, he pressed it to his chest. But she was not satisfied with so staid a sample of his charms, she trailed her hand downward to his flies where her fingers cupped his swollen flesh and kneaded his manly attributes.
“I say,” he gasped, his hand covering hers, “You are a minx. I lose my breath, my mind.”
She arched a brow. “But not your erection.”
“Never. Not with you in my reach.”
“I pray you, show me this proud declaration of your regard for me.”
“No. You are but a girl.”
“Your girl, you rogue.” She massaged his cock and balls. “This package must be unwrapped.” She worked at his buttons and soon his red warrior stood straight up, the helmet bold and proud, droplets of delights oozing from his slit. “Oh, this is quite perfect, Willoughby. I have never seen anything so tall and thick. Oh. And he moves! He jerks for me. Shall I reward him?”
“Do, do,” Willoughby encouraged her, sighing and biting his lower lip. “He awaits your fine touch.”
She rubbed her thumb over the pearls dribbling from his seam. “He gives more and more. I am enchanted, Willoughby. What more can I do to show him my enthusiasm?”
“Oh,” she enthused and bent to the act. “He is luscious. Hot and hard, the skin soft and yet so malleable. How do you do this, Willoughby?”
Laughing, he collapsed backward to the seat and let her have her way. “It is natural, my pet. I give all to you. That is my fondest pleasure.”
“Do you, dear sir?” Teasing him, she kissed his cock once more, licking her lips between her blessings to his member. “Show me your aunt’s house then.” She took all of his fine manhood down her throat, hearing him groan his approval of her act.
“Shall I?” he seemed to ask himself more than her.
“Of course. We need more…room for our pleasures, would you not say?” She let her eyes dance at him. The merry idea of a couch, a bed, a carpeted floor to lay him down and suck on his marvellous member filled her heart with rapture.
“I do, I do.” He pushed her up from him, fumbling to button his flies. “I need to have your mouth on me until completion.”
“Completion?” She sat back, allowing him his haste and preening that she had led him to it, even though her breasts ached and her lower body pulsed with need of him. “What is that?”
He caught her chin. “Heaven.”
“Take me there,” she entreatied him. “Now.”