Estella Haynes is an architect specialising in the restoration of historical buildings, and she uses her work to help escape from her stifling, dull marriage. But when an overnight stay in Copford Hall leads to a steamy erotic dream encounter with the dashing Mr Huxley her life and lusts are reawakened. Can passion resonate from one century to another? And can her intense sexual adventures with Huxley set her on the course to fulfilment?
A very explicit Victorian erotic romance from the author of Amazon bestsellers Bad Again, You and Private Journey, and paranormal erotica Letting Go and The Touch.
"Mr Huxley? Is that you?"
Estella sat at the end of the four-poster bed, wearing only a pair of knee-length white bloomers and a whalebone corset pulled tight, emphasising her narrow, waspish waist. Her dark hair was bundled up at the back of her head and held in place with a long pin. Her skin was almost as pale as her underwear, so much so that it appeared to glow luminously in the dim light from two candles and a small oil lamp by the bed.
The door, which had opened a crack and then stopped, now opened fully and a tall man entered the room. He had thick, salt and pepper hair and bushy mutton-chop sideburns, and his eyes burned passionately, like black coals.
A sheen of sweat on his brow caught the light and she saw that he was breathing heavily. He held a riding crop in one hand, and his cream riding breeches were spattered with mud from his ride.
"Mr Huxley," she said again, no longer a question.
"My dear Estella," he said in that knee-trembling baritone. "I fear we do not have long."
Her father was out, but Estella's maid Hannah must have seen Mr Huxley's arrival. Estella would have to have words with Hannah later; she must impress on her again the importance of loyalty.
"Then be quick, Mr Huxley," Estella said now, looking back across her bare shoulder at him, knowing the effect that exposed skin would have on a man accustomed to far more restrained behaviour from a lady. Glancing down his body again, she saw the telltale bulge in his breeches and smiled.
"Come to me," she said. "Now."
She remained sitting, so that when he came to stand before her that bulge was at the level of her head. She reached out, took the crop from his hand and rapped it lightly against his groin, smiling again as the bulge continued to grow.
"Expose yourself, Mr Huxley. As you rightly say, we do not have long..."
The riding crop continued to rap gently against Mr Huxley's steadily growing erection as it strained against his riding breeches.
Tap, tap, tap.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
He had one hand on a bed-post, his grip tight. She could see his fingers flexing and suddenly thought that this might be all he needed, that he would come right now like this if she carried on.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
She paused. He looked down, she smiled, and then she hooked her fingers into the waist of his breeches and drew him close.
Discarding the crop, her hands stole round to his hips, his buttocks, and suddenly her mouth was on him. The fabric of his breeches was coarse, thicker than she had expected, and so she pressed hard, let him take the pressure of her face on his hard cock. When she started to rock her head from side to side the fingers of his free hand buried themselves in her hair, freeing the pin, letting her long locks tumble.
She found buttons, freed them, peeling his breeches away to reveal his white flannel undergarment. The drawstring at the waist was easily loosened, the buttons a little stiff and hard to release, largely because his swollen manhood was placing them under such strain.
Buttons finally released, the flap at the front fell open and with an almost animal twitch, his cock was free.
About Polly J Adams
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Published January 15, 2012
by James Grieve Press.
Erotica, Literature & Fiction, History.