Free Fifty Shades of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde Page B

wasn’t pulling away!
    â€œPerhaps I have been foolish in imagining that there was anything between us beyond friendship. If I am so foolish, you must not be angry with me, Dorian, for what I have told you.”
    Biting her lower lip as she knew he liked, she at last brought her eyes to Dorian’s. She was surprised by what was looking back at her in those gray, hooded eyes: sheer, primal hunger. His hands were still clutched against her when he wiggled them loose and felt her breasts freely.
    â€œDorian,” she said, both uncertain and completely certain of where this was going.
    He brought a finger to her lips.
    â€œShh.”
    With slow, predatory caution, he regarded her mouth, his finger tracing the curves of her lips.
    â€œI’ve thought about this moment, Rosemary,” he said. His other hand was now slid fully into her cleavage, gently kneading the ample, milk-white flesh. Her knickers felt on fire, and she closed her eyes, letting herself get lost in the ways of his touch. He leaned forward, and she felt his breath on her lips. She quivered in suspense. But he did not kiss her.
    â€œNo one has ever made love to you, is that so, Rosemary?”
    She nodded rapidly. He could ask her anything and she would tell him the truth—as long as he just kept touching her. His hand circled her nipple and it stiffened, became alert. He brought his mouth to her ear and lightly licked her earlobe. She let out a small whimper of arousal at the feel of his tongue.
    â€œWould you like me to make love to you?” he asked in a low whisper.
    She nodded again. What was happening? She’d waited so long, she thought she would wait forever. And this was indecent! They were not married; he wasn’t even courting her. I am so sorry, God! But, oh, as he tugged delicately on her hard nipple, nuptial statuses really ceased to matter.
    â€œCome,” he said, and fishing his hand out of her bodice, took her hand. He led her back up the stairs, but this time they turned into the left wing of the house and entered a magnificent bedroom. Oh, my, she was in his bedroom! It was as large and lavish as she had dreamed it would be, with flowing satin curtains along the beveled bay windows. In the center of it was the bed itself. It was not as tidy as she had dreamed it would be. The covers were tousled about. Usually they didn’t look that way until the end of her dream.
    He led her to the bed where she sat, somewhat awkwardly, on the very edge.
    â€œJust a moment,” he said, and abruptly left the room.
    So this was it. Dorian was going to take her. At last her dreams were to come true! But the dark stuff of her dreams . . . the times when he tied her down or gagged her with knotted cloth and spanked her . . . that wasn’t going to take place, was it? No, such terror would be an unbearable crime! Surely, it was just the stuff of nightmares. People didn’t really do that. Well, maybe in Helen’s world they did, but this was their world now: hers and Dorian’s.
    Watching the dying storm through the curtains, she heard him talking in the hall with the valet.
    â€œVictor,” he said, “Would you fetch me the red towels?”
    â€œSorry, Monsieur?” replied the valet.
    â€œI don’t know where you’ve put them. They were a gift from Lady Henry Wotton. A beautiful set.”
    â€œAh, yes!” said Victor. “I had them laundered. They are just over here, Monsieur.”
    Their footsteps pattered down the hall.
    Rosemary crossed her legs and chomped down on her lower lip. A gift from Helen? In her mind flashed the napkin he’d used at breakfast. Helen had a set of napkins with the same design, though it bore the initials H. W., of course. What a devil that Helen Wotton was, showering Dorian with gifts, seducing him with a wealth that had come to her by way of a faithless marriage!
    Dorian appeared in the doorframe holding the sought after Helen Wotton-tainted