The Tenant of Wildfell
Hall
by Tanith Davenport
by Tanith Davenport
and Anne Bronte
Genre: Erotic romance
Publisher: Total-e-Bound
Date of Publication:
6 September 2013
ISBN: 978-1-78184-444-1
Cover Artist: Posh Gosh
Available Here:
Blurb:
Into the quiet village of Lindenhope comes Helen Graham, an
attractive young widow and mother. Living alone with her son at Wildfell Hall,
her seclusion attracts curiosity from the local people, in particular Gilbert
Markham, whose interest in her is soon edged with desire—and Helen, despite
herself, begins to reciprocate his love for her.
But when scandalous rumours begin to circulate about Helen’s
behaviour, Gilbert is filled with anger and jealousy. Helen attempts to clear
her name by offering Gilbert her diary, which reveals the dark, passionate
story of her former marriage to debauched rake Arthur Huntingdon, whose sexual
and sensual desires fill her with excitement and pleasure but precipitate a
gradual descent into hell.
Gilbert believes he could forgive her anything, but the lies
continue to spread, threatening Helen’s peace of mind and, above all, her
physical safety. Will the secrets of Helen’s past get in the way of their
future?
He
was already in the room when I entered. I felt his hands rest on my shoulders
from behind and he gave a low chuckle at my gasp of surprise. I was in my
nightgown—Rachel had helped me disrobe before retiring herself—and his breath
heated the nape of my neck as he teased his fingers along the silk edging. I
had chosen the material deliberately. It clung to my body, the sheen of the
fabric highlighting every curve.
“Would
you like me to undress, Arthur?” I asked.
“No,
Helen,” he answered, pressing a kiss to my shoulder and sending a chill along
my spine. “I want to undress you myself.”
My
heart quickened, but I held myself still as slowly he slid the gown from my
shoulders. The cool air on my skin made me shiver, my nipples hardening as the
soft material dropped past my waist to land lightly around my feet, exposing my
naked body to his gaze. I closed my eyes, feeling conscious of my bare skin,
the curls at my quim, the growing wetness inside me.
“Don’t
move,” he commanded, and with his fingers he began a slow, tortuous glide along
the curve of my spine. I felt one hand slide around my ribs to cup my breast,
his thumb brushing against my nipple, and I was unable to suppress a moan as
sparks of pleasure radiated from that tender spot. Instantly the movement was
repeated, his other hand mirroring the motion until I cried out, overwhelmed by
the unfamiliar sensation.
“I
love that this is all so new to you, my Helen,” Arthur whispered in my ear as I
let my head fall back onto his shoulder, my body weakening as he continued his
sweet assault on my breasts. My knees began to tremble. I clenched my fingers
tightly, aching for his hands to move lower, to touch me where I had touched
myself so often while thinking of him, but afraid he would think me too wanton
if I asked. So new to me, indeed! What would he think if I touched myself in
front of him? Would he be surprised? No—he would not, I was sure. But he might
insist on pleasuring me himself, and my clit pulsed at the thought, imagining
myself on the edge of ecstasy, him removing my hands and holding them until I
begged him to bring me to completion.
He
slid his hands down to my hips, leaving me moaning at the loss, and turned me
to face him. Before I could stop myself, I reached my hand out to touch his
swollen member, which jutted towards me, almost brushing against my stomach. He
groaned as I closed my hand around the tip, which was glistening and sticky
with moisture, hardening farther under my touch.
How
strange it was to know that I had such power, that I could bring him such
pleasure with only a simple touch! I tightened my grip, feeling the skin move
as I tugged, but before I could continue he had caught both my hands in his and
was holding them at my waist.
“My
darling,” he said, with a smile, manoeuvring me backwards as he spoke until my
calves hit the edge of the bed. “If I let you do that, I shall lose all
control, and that will never do. Lie back for me—let me see you waiting for
me.”
Trembling,
I lay back on the bed, my breath coming faster as he stood watching me, his casual
gaze lowering to rest at my quim. Instinctively I parted my legs, blushing as I
felt the moisture seep from inside me and dampen my folds.
The
smile on his face took on a possessive, lascivious quality.
“How
beautiful you are,” he whispered. Slowly he placed one knee then the other on
the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight as he moved towards me. He laid
one hand on my breast, my heart beating rapidly beneath.
“Arthur,”
I gasped.
He
lowered his head and kissed my nipple, laving it with his tongue, then trailed
more kisses down my body—my ribs, my stomach, my hips—until I was trembling
with anticipation. His breath rushed over my quim, and for a moment I thought
he would kiss me there—oh! How I wanted that!—but instead he paused, watching
me with desirous eyes, and slowly slid one finger inside me to the second knuckle.
“So
pure,” he whispered, caressing me as I moaned. He reached forward with his
thumb and swept it back and forth over my clit. I cried out at the sensation,
my body convulsing. It was so much sweeter, so much more pleasurable than when
I had touched myself, and I longed for him to continue.
“Helen,”
he growled, “tell me you want this.” I recognised the words from our first
kiss, and felt my heart bound and my quim tighten at the knowledge that now I
could be truthful. Now I could tell him what I wanted.
“I
want this, Arthur.”
“Tell
me how much you want this.”
“I
want this more than anything,” I moaned. His finger was still moving inside me,
his thumb still applying delicious pressure, and my wetness was leaking onto
his hand and the bed.
“How
long have you wanted this, Helen?”
Oh,
he was torturing me! “Since I first met you,” I whispered, shifting my hips to
match his touch. He smiled and crooked his finger inside me, touching a spot
that made me clap a hand over my mouth and shriek—the pleasure was exquisite,
and I was on the verge of begging him to take me.
“Tell
me what you want, and I’ll do it.”
I
arched my back, aching for him. “Please, Arthur, take me.”
Tanith Davenport began writing erotica at the age of
27 by way of the Romantic Novelists' Association New Writers' Scheme. Her debut
novel "The Hand He Dealt" was released by Total-e-Bound in June 2011
and was shortlisted for the Joan Hessayon Award for 2012.
Tanith has had short stories published by Naughty
Nights Press and House of Erotica. She loves to travel and dreams of one day
taking a driving tour of the United States, preferably in a classic 1950s pink
Cadillac Eldorado.
Tanith's idea of heaven is an Indian head massage with
a Mojito at her side.
Thanks for having me on here!
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