Ch. 12

So much of the action of Gaskell's book is centered around preventing young women like Molly and Cynthia from making too close of an acquaintance with young men before marriage. The first major plot twist occurs when Mr. Cox, Mr. Gibson's medical apprentice, falls in love with Molly. Fearful for his daughter's reputation or protective of her heart (it is not clear which is the doctor's primary motivation), Mr. Gibson sends Molly to stay with Lord and Lady Hamley, making sure that neither of their two eligible sons are at home in the meanwhile. Later in the book, Molly's reputation is almost ruined because she is seen meeting with the Cumnors' land agent, Mr. Preston, in secret.

Given the care to keep young women away from young men, I found it curious to imagine what it must have been like for them have sex for the first time in the 1830s. There were so many conventions to keep men and women apart before marriage—to keep the women separate, it mostly seemed—that I imagine that the moment in which they finally could act out their passions would have been a very powerful, even overwhelming, experience.

I have been researching 18th and 19th century erotica to write this section, so I hope that this strikes the right balance between my modern sensibilities and the tone of the era.

-Emma de los Nardos

The guests left early, according to Roger's and the Squire's designs. The new couple ate a simple supper with the Squire and Aimée, before Aimée excused herself to care for her son and the Squire claimed exhaustion after a long day.

Roger had barely left Molly's side all day, but he had always been in the company of others. Once they were alone at the table together, he found himself growing nervous. Despite Molly's assurances that he had not offended her by kissing her and pressing himself against her in the woods, he was worried that she might be scared if he tried to go any further. He remembered his father's advice to let her take the lead tonight, but to himself he hoped that she would be as eager as he was to explore this new territory together. It probably didn't help to calm Roger's desire that he had been scouring his father's library for any book, any verse at all, that would rouse his passions. He thought especially back to John Donne's erotic verse, which he had been surprised to find, given the poet's metaphysical reputation. There was one poem, in particular, that spoke to Roger's adventurous spirit:

Licence my roving hands, and let them go
Before, behind, between, above, below.
O, my America, my Newfoundland,
My kingdom, safest when with one man mann'd,
My mine of precious stones, my empery ;
How am I blest in thus discovering thee !
To enter in these bonds, is to be free ;
Then, where my hand is set, my soul shall be.
Full nakedness ! All joys are due to thee ;
As souls unbodied, bodies unclothed must be
To taste whole joys.

He repeated the verses to himself: "Before, behind, between, above, below." Where else might he go with Molly that night?

Molly, for her part, looked down at her hands, wishing that Roger would say something.

"We must go upstairs ourselves now, Molly," he said, quite gently.

"Please show me where and I will follow you," she replied. He took her hand in his and they left the dining room.

Roger led Molly up the stairs and into his old quarters, which had been outfitted anew to match a more feminine taste. His mother's bed, carved in dark oak, had been moved in and Roger's narrower bed was relegated to another wing. Roger had already visited the room several times that week, overseeing the servants as they put out the new linens and painted the walls a light green. Roger had moved his mother's large mirror into a small room adjoining, which Molly might use as a dressing room. Holding his wife's hand, Roger led her in to the bedroom. It was uncommonly warm in there for that time of year; he knew that his father must have had the first lit early on purpose, to keep the room comfortable for the two of them.

"This is our room, Molly," he said. "And there—" pointing to the door—"is where you will find a wardrobe with your things. Your stepmother's maid brought them over earlier today and Betsy has been busy unpacking them." Molly looked around the room. For all the time that she had spent at the Hall, she had only ever caught quick glimpses of Roger's room, which she largely remembered as a sort of extra laboratory for his studies. Now the walls were bare; no insects or butterflies littered the surfaces. Roger put his arm around her waist.

"I hope that we will be happy here together, Molly," he said. She looked up at him.

"I am very sure we will be, Roger." She felt her voice about to tremble and she stopped speaking, looking around the room instead. It was a pleasant space and Molly was surprised that Roger had known how to create such appealing quarters. Passing in to the smaller room, she briefly admired herself in the large mirror before opening the wardrobe. It was strange to find her own dresses and trinkets arranged neatly in a room that did not yet feel like hers. For just a moment, she wished that she were at home at her father's house. But then she turned and saw Roger looking at her expectantly.

"Do you like it?" he asked. She looked up at him and walked back towards where he stood in the doorway.

"More than I had thought I would," she said, coming close up to him. "You must have worked hard to get it ready, I see."

"I could hardly wait for this day," he said. "You cannot imagine how much I missed you when you were in London. And then, when you came back and I could only see you once by yourself—Molly-" He paused, overcome with sentiment, and took her hands in his.

She noticed, suddenly, how warm it was in the small room, and how hot Roger's fingers were. Roger brought her hand to his mouth, turning it over to kiss her palm. She smiled and looked away, pressing her back against the doorjamb. Roger's breath caught in his throat. She looked so beautiful standing there, caught between the two rooms. Had he been right to ask her to share his bedroom so soon? Mightn't she have wanted this smaller room to be her own quarters?

There in the doorway, Molly seemed unable to decide whether to continue to search for her things in the wardrobe, or join Roger in the bedroom. He could not tell if she wanted either his company or his attentions that night. His father had warned him that this night might be awkward, if he didn't take his time. But Christ, I want her so much! he thought, stilling his kisses on her hand and letting it drop again to her side.

As for Molly, Roger's mouth on her hand was quite as pleasant as she had remembered, and she felt its loss when he let her go. He was very close to her, there in the doorway—closer, almost, than he had been all day, barring the dancing.

The day had been so busy, the trip to the church and back had passed in a flurry and Molly could hardly keep it all straight, when she tried to remember how she had gone from her own bed in the morning, to the church, to the dance at the Hall, then to supper, and finally to these new quarters. For the first time, she was completely alone with Roger. This is how it will be for the rest of our lives, she reminded herself. We have to start somewhere together. Roger still held her hand in his. He smiled at her and looked at her face expectantly.

"May I kiss you now, Molly?" He asked. She nodded, both hoping and fearing what might come. He drew her close to him, resting his hands on her hips as he kissed her gently, again and again until she felt her mouth turn hot and she opened her lips to breathe more deeply. He brought one hand up to the nape of her neck and ran his fingers through her black hair, looking for the pins that would pull down her curls. He wanted to see Molly with her hair loose, to see all of her without her frills and ribbons. But Roger also wanted Molly to want him that way. He wanted her to want his body as much as he wanted hers at this instance.

"Oh, Molly!" He burst out, holding her out at arms' length. "I must tell you—I love you—and I want to make love to you now, for you are now my wife." Molly looked at him, surprised. She had not expected him to speak so plainly. "But I am also afraid of what you might think of me for saying this so boldly." Her face grew still as she thought a moment. Roger continued: "It need not be tonight. I can wait. I don't know if it is possible, but I want you to love me back, so that you also wish me to share your bed."

"I do love you back, Roger. You know that." Molly blushed. She was thinking of the other thing that he had said. She had also waited for this night, to know that she could be with Roger for uninterrupted hours, to have his company and his body to herself. Always before, during their engagement, she had feared lest someone see them together. Their kisses had felt provisional, like gifts that could suddenly be taken away. With him now, his arms around her in their own rooms, there was nothing to come between them except themselves. Molly did not know what to think. She had expected Roger to take the lead, to show her what he expected of her. Now, as he had done when he had given her the flowers and asked for one in return, he was asking her to choose.

"I love you, too," she whispered. "Sometimes, these last few months, I could hardly believe that it was my life that I was living. You must know—" Molly practically choked on her words—"I had been so miserable, ever since you fell in love with Cynthia and then left for Africa. I wrote to you never expecting that you could ever return the affection and esteem that I felt for you; I knew that you looked on me only as a sister, as you had always done. But I think that I loved you ever since you first comforted me, long ago, when you found me crying over my father's marriage." Molly began to sob jerkily, overcome with the relief of telling him that she had loved him for so long. It was not enough to be married to him; she must tell him how she had felt or she feared that she could never be close to him.

"I loved you and I was angry at you at once, Roger. There were times that I prayed that you would come back from Africa and times that I wished that you would not. Please don't think I wanted you to die; the idea of you living in Africa in some native village for the rest of your life was sometimes easier to bear than the thought of you returning to Hollingford to marry my sister. And other times I thought that I might be happy seeing you and Cynthia at the Hall, if only because I could be an aunt to your children and you would be near."

Molly wretched herself out of Roger's arms and walked to the edge of the bed, sitting down. She thought that should have had this conversation with Roger weeks or months earlier, but she had been so overcome with the wonder of him loving her, that she had pushed aside her own anger once again. Roger, for his part, looked stricken. One minute, she had let him kiss her, the next, she was crying and raging at him—And with good reason, too, he thought bashfully. He did not know how to make it up to her, and he said as much.

"It is true that I loved Cynthia—once. But I hardly knew her; she was an idea more than an actuality. I know now that we would never have been happy together. She has not the loyal heart that I so admire in you, nor your quiet wit and grace." Roger came towards her, standing over her next to the bed. She looked up at him, rubbing at her eyes. "May I?" he asked, sitting down next to her. She nodded and let him take her hand in his again. "Molly, I love you. I know that you may doubt this now, but I will work to show you just how much I love you. Over time I hope that you will trust my love for you and know that it is as steady as your own. Molly, you are the first woman that I ever made my friend, and you will be my first lover as well, if you let me." Molly pondered this statement with surprise.

"You have never been with a woman before?" she asked, surprised. "Why ever not?" Molly was curious; she had always assumed that men like Roger, members of the gentry, could make free with any girl whose family paid them rent.

"I am afraid that I am what they call a 'late bloomer,' Molly. You must know what I was like, as a boy, even if we had not met; my mother and father used to tease me often enough about my awkwardness and my fondness for plants and beasts. They never thought that anything would come of me. Osborne was always the family hope. But I'm not like Osborne at all! He always knew what to say to the girls, or how to invite them to walk with him without giving a hint of what he intended. I was a strong boy, as tall as I am now, but I didn't know how to carry myself like a man. I was like a young colt who didn't know how to walk yet, all legs and arms! And to make matters worse, I was afraid of women! You were the first young lady whose acquaintance I did not flee from, probably because you had the patience to interest yourself in things that no other woman cared a damn for."

"That was a young girl's infatuation," Molly said. "I thought that you were the best and the nicest man that I had ever met."

"And do you still think that of me, Molly? After you know that I could love another who was so inferior to yourself?"

"I still think you are the nicest man," she said. "I know that you would not do anything to purposefully vex me. But you are not perfect, Roger. I cannot put anyone in that 'best' place anymore. I am no longer a child." Her voice grew solemn.

"I am sorry I cannot be the best man in your eyes," Roger said. "I expect that that would be too much to ask, given my inconstancy in other quarters. But, at the least, I would ask that I keep being the nicest man of your acquaintance."

"Roger, you are only ever the most pleasing of men." Roger leaned his head close to Molly's, as he had done that day in September when he had peered over her shoulder to look into the microscope. He hoped to take this conversation in another direction, and she had given him the opening.

"I am pleasing, am I?" he whispered mischievously. "And just how would you like to be pleased, Molly Hamley?" Molly caught her breath and tried to put a couple of inches between the two of them. She was not sure if she moved away to coquette with him or to hide her own feelings, because she knew at once that she wanted Roger to make love to her, now, as her husband.

"How would you suggest pleasing me?" she asked him back.

He shook his head. "No, no, Molly. You must choose. Tell me what you would like."

She spoke boldly and firmly. "I want you to make love to me, Roger. You are not a boy any longer, and I am not a girl." She stood up and moved again. He watched her, wondering what she would do.

Roger let out a long breath of air as she pulled her dress up around her knees and straddled his lap with her hips, bringing her mouth down to reach his in a kiss as she held his face in her hands. Roger was so astonished that it took him a few seconds before he could respond in kind, kissing her back urgently and pulling her down to rest on his thighs. He reached out to span her waist with his hands, without breaking the kiss. He could feel the tops of her buttocks under his fingers and, looking down, saw how she was tantalizingly spread out on top of him, her legs parted as if she were riding a horse. Layers of petticoats and silks still kept her from him, but in the heat of the room she had already removed her Indian shawl and her shoulders were bare. Roger moved to kiss her neck, like he had done in the woods that day when his lust had almost overcome him. Knowing that there was no urgency this time, he took greater delight in noticing the shade of Molly's skin, the play of shadows across her neck, and the small cooing sounds that she made as he sucked at her throat. She grasped at his own neck with her fingers, and he felt her pull and loosen his cravat.

Roger leaned back on his hands and let Molly remove his cravat and unbutton his waistcoat, leaving him in his loose white shirt. She put aside his cravat and waistcoat carefully, and then wrapped her own hands around his hands, leaning forward to kiss him deeply. His heart pulsed in his temples as he tasted her mouth and smelled the sweet rosy scent of her skin. His wife! His! He was taken aback for the second time that night as Molly opened her mouth to his and ran her small tongue against his lips. He let out a moan, suppressed it, and then thought better of it. He didn't care if Molly knew what she was doing to him. She was more of a vixen than he had dared to imagine, and he wanted to know what she might do next. But first, he had some ideas of his own.

Roger reached around her hips and grabbed Molly snugly by her bottom, pulling her to him again. She bucked against him, startled by his touch. In all her life, no one had ever touched her there, and she was surprised at how it gave him an air of control, even as she was hovering above him, when he grasped her by each spread buttock and moved her closer. She was intensely conscious of his movements now, his every breath and shiver telling herself something new about him and what he liked.

"Is there any way that we could get you out of these silks?" Roger whispered. Molly mumbled in affirmation.

"You will have to help me," she said, pointing him towards the dresser, where the maid had thoughtfully left a buttonhook. Roger stood up, gently pushing her off, and asked her to turn around. She stood facing the dresser. Roger quickly removed his own shirt before retrieving the hook. His chest and arms were bare, but Molly did not know that until he started to open the thirty white buttons that ran down the back and she felt his naked arm brush against her elbow. She tried to turn around to look at him but he held her still so that he could finish his task.

He started with the top button, running the hook backwards through the hole to extract the tiny pearl and loosen the gown. Molly felt his breath on her neck as he worked and imagined what he might look like, how his muscles in his arms would move as he did this delicate task. Roger was precise in his movements, always; there was nothing of the clumsy boy left in him. Molly was anxious to turn around and see him, but did not want to delay her own disrobing. She was sweating under her arms and, strangely to her, between her legs. She wanted to see and to feel more of her husband; she had dared to imagine him thus, from almost the first moment she had met him. That it was he, Roger, who was doing such things to her, she could still hardly believe.

When Roger was done with the buttons, he slipped his hands in between her dress and her stays, then moved them upwards to rub lightly along the top of her breasts, where her skin was exposed above the bodice. She cried out, delighted, and put her hands out to brace herself against the dresser as Roger kissed the nape of her neck. His hands moved back to loosen her stays. As he did so, he leaned his hips into her back and she could feel him, for an instant, grown hard against her. Then he moved quickly again to pull her dress and the bodice down to the floor. She was still left in her chemise, her petticoats and her drawers, but he had acted so quickly that she did not have time to feel ashamed. She looked down and noticed how her own nipples puckered and pushed out at the thin cotton of the chemise. The fabric was very light against his chest. He kissed her neck again, moving to her right ear, which he took in his mouth, caressing the shell-like shape with his tongue. As it moved deeper, Molly began to cry out and bucked against him again. It was such pleasure to her, to feel his mouth on her ear and his hands holding her bare arms securely.

Next he worked his arms downwards, running his fingers along the outside of her hips, dipping underneath the chemise, then moving upwards again. Roger was astonished at how much skin Molly had under all of those layers, and how hot she was when he touched her. He could discern a small gleam of sweat forming at her temples. He could hear her cry out again as his moved his fingers over her ribs; he made a note to himself that she liked that particular form of touch. Molly leaned back against him, lifting her arms upwards so that he could slide her chemise over her head.

"Please, Roger, help me take it off," she whispered. As she had done with his clothes, he slowly removed the chemise and folded it, leaving it on the dresser in front of them. Roger sighed deeply. He could see all of Molly's back in front of him, bare and trembling. He paused before touching her again.

Molly wondered why he had stopped. She tried to turn to look at him, to kiss him again. She missed his touch already and yearned for him to touch her breasts, which were fuller and more sensitive than she was accustomed to. Love-making made Molly consider her own body as she had never considered it before. Her ears, for example—she would never have imagined that she so liked to have her ears kissed and suckled at. She imagined what it would be like if Roger did the same to her breasts.

On his side, Roger had never been happier. For all that he was a man of ideas, he was not immune to the pleasures of the flesh. This night was going better than he had even hoped. He felt no rush to consummate the marriage just then. It was much more interesting to take his time explore the body in front of him, to see what she liked and what she wanted from him.

Roger pushing his bare chest against her back, skin on skin for the first time. She felt his hard part between her buttocks, and she was reminded of when she had first felt it, that day in the woods. But she didn't have time to consider what it meant, for Roger's hands moved upwards to cup her breasts. She gripped the dresser even more tightly so that she wouldn't fall when his fingers found her nipples, and made them hard and dark with his touch. He rubbed gentle circles around them, pleased to find her so warm and pliant under his hands.

Molly couldn't control herself any longer. She turned and revealed her chest to Roger, grabbing his hands and placing them back on her breasts, inviting him to continue to play with them. She had never liked that part of herself before; her breasts had always seemed so insignificant to her. But the way that Roger obviously delighted in them, and the way that her legs shook under her as her touched them, made her reconsider their importance. She examined Roger's bare chest carefully. He had nipples too—she knew that men did, but it was shocking to see, nevertheless. Coarse blond hair ran down the center of his chest and down into the top of his trousers. Molly did not know where to put her hands, so she grabbed at his shoulders, pushing her chest even closer to him.

She thought that he might keep touching her but he pulled away momentarily, only to dip down and lift her up, supporting her torso and under her knees. She put her hands around his neck as he carried her across the room, setting her down on the bed. He let her lay down, her petticoats splayed out around her, as he removed his shoes and stockings. He lay down next to her and leaned his head on his hand, watching her chest move up and down with her ragged breath.

"You are so beautiful, Molly," he said.

"Roger," she said. "Roger, I—" He put his fingers on her mouth to hush her.

"No need to say anything. I know I'm not the beauty here," he joked. But he noticed how Molly was looking at him, too.

"Have you ever seen a man's half-naked before, Molly?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, somewhat bashfully. "The laborers in the fields, when it is hot—they take off their shirts. But you are not a common laborer," she hastened to add, reaching out tentatively to caress his face.

"I am not, Molly, and yet with these fine clothes off, you and I are hardly different from the peasant folk." He smiled tenderly at her. "Molly, I thought you might do something for me. I have touched you all over—" he pointed to her naked torso—"and I think that I am beginning to get the lay of the land a bit." She nodded. "I'm right, then. You like what we are doing, then?"

"Oh yes, Roger, very much, more than I had thought."

"There's more to come, if you want it." She looked away. He grasped her hands in his, turning her bee ring around her narrow finger. "I thought you might touch me a bit too, Molly," Roger said, leading her hand down to press between his legs. She probed the swell in his trousers as if she were examining a rare and unusual species that might run and hide if she were too sudden. Roger groaned and lay back on the bed, closing his eyes. She continued to trace the contours of his erection underneath the fabric. Before he knew what she was doing, she had loosened the belt that held his trousers up and slipped her hands inside. He sat half-way up in surprise.

"Lie back down, Roger," Molly whispered. "Lie down and wait."

Her fingers were like warm water over him as she pulled his trousers down past his knees and helped him to slip them off. This time, neither one cared where they ended up. Molly purposely did not look at Roger as she quit him of the last of his clothes. He was completely naked, and soon she would be as well. She reached behind herself to loosen her petticoats, pulling them and her drawers down at the same time. Roger pushed himself up on his elbows to watch her naked backside emerge from the layers of white cotton. Her buttocks were formed as he had imagined, small yet round, and her lovely legs fell straight down from them. She had dimples at the base of her back, which he stared at even as he felt himself become even harder at the sight of her nakedness.

Molly turned around and came back towards the bed. Her pubis was covered in the same dark curls as those on her head. Roger was transfixed by that dark space between her legs; all of the shadows in the room seemed to get lost in their midst. Sitting on the bed again, Molly reached over and touched his swollen penis, her face wearing a neural expression. She was curious about this organ, which had remained hidden from her for so many years; not just Roger's, but that of any man. His was long and thick and sprang forward at her touch, as if pulled by a magnet. She was surprised at its softness and pliability; from what she had felt pressing her against the tree, she had surmised that it had a rock-like core. But this object moved where she pulled it and bounced right back to its upright position if she let it go. She experimented with this a few times before Roger said,

"God good, Molly, keep your hands fast around me or it will be your turn very soon!"

Holding him tight and moving her hands up and down, he responded by crying out loudly. Molly stopped lest the Squire or the servants hear him.

"Shhh, Roger," she said.

"I will not be quiet tonight!" he fairly shouted at her. "Let them hear us, it is our right to have each other here! My father's room is too far away for the sound to reach and if any servant is lurking about, what do I care? They will know that their master and mistress are pleasuring each other, as well we should on our wedding night!" His vehemence aroused Molly's own desire. Unconsciously, she opened her legs slightly and felt, with some amazement, that her inner part was wet and throbbing.

Roger rose up and pinned her down with his body, spreading himself flat above her. For an instance she thought that he would take her right then, before she had time to waver. But after he rubbed his body against hers for a minute, kissing her lips deeply and running his fingers over her breasts, he moved down to spread her legs apart. His hand fumbled for her sex and he ran his fingers over her folds, parting them to dip one finger more deeply in.

"This is your maidenhead, Molly," he told her. "Will it hurt you if I stretch it a bit now, with my fingers?"

"I used to ride my father's horse as a child," Molly whispered. Roger laughed, not quite understanding her meaning. "With his saddle," she said as a further explanation.

"Are you saying that you'd like to ride me that way?" he asked her jovially. "For that is very much the activity that I had in mind right now!" Molly shook her head but laughed anyway.

"No, Roger. I mean, yes—I mean—yes, I do want to ride you. But no, that wasn't why I mentioned it. I meant that as a way of explaining that I think that you will find that my maidenhead is not so tight as to forbid you entry."

"Thank God for saddles!" Roger said in a sly whisper. He returned his attention to the place between her legs, feeling for the aforementioned part. He placed two fingers inside her and she cried out underneath him. He stroked her more completely, running his fingers over all of her mound, touching her inner thighs and her wet lips and watching her face as she sighed and moaned. She felt a tension building in her that she had never felt before; it grew stronger and practically pulsed with expression. What pleasure she felt, what sweet headiness was concentrated between her legs, in that place where Roger was touching her now! Roger's hand drew circles over her pubis, searching out the places that gave her the most delight. He toyed with her lips, darting his fingers in and out, before finding out that he could make her cry his name if he touched her just above them. There, the folds came together in a sort of knot, or "button," as his father had put it. In his eagerness, Roger pressed too directly on that knot and Molly cried out sharply, as if pained, lifting herself off the bed and away from his hand.

"That was too much, Roger," she whimpered. "I don't know how to describe it – try again what you were doing, more gently this time."

He willingly followed her instructions, running his fingers in a loose circle over her knot. He continued this way for a few minutes, using his other hand to pinch gently at Molly's breast. She spread her legs out even further and grabbed at the bedcovers until her knuckles were white. Then, before either one of them knew what was going to happen, she began to cry out deeply, speaking in short burst:

"Roger—I can't—I'm going—I'm going to—kiss me! Kiss me!" She pleaded. Roger kissed her, as he removed his hand from her folds. She grabbed at it, insisting that he return it to where it was. He did so, as gently as before, as Molly felt the tension rise up again inside her and reach a high peak, bringing her up and out on waves of ecstatic release.

"Roger!—Roger!—Oh! What have you—yes!—again—yes!" Molly panted. She wriggled around his hand, pressing against him and then suddenly falling slack, appeased. It took her a few seconds to catch her breath. Roger smiled at her. She had had her pleasure first.

"Please, Roger," Molly said. "You must try it now yourself. I am ready for you." He felt how loose and open she was now, her slit transformed and waiting for him. Roger rolled on top of Molly and parted her lips with his fingers, leading his penis slowly inside her. She murmured his name as her body adjusted to his. Just as she had felt earlier that day, she marveled at what was happening to her, marveled that this was Roger who had put himself between her in this way, as close as a human being could possibly be to another.

Roger appeared as transfixed as Molly had, now that he was inside her and felt her tight core surrounding him. At first he seemed to not know what to do; he feared moving too quickly and hurting Molly, but she smiled up at him and spoke to him.

"It feels marvelous," she told him. "Keep doing that, what you were doing—moving in and out of me." She spread her legs as far out as they could go, and then wrapped them tightly around his back, pinning him closer to her.

"I am astonished by you, Molly," Roger said, pushing in more deeply. "You appear to take as much pleasure from this as I do." His words caught in his throat as he lost himself to the rhythm of his thrusts.

"Did you think this would be a chore for me?" Molly asked.

"I feared it might," he said, before losing the power of speech altogether. He ran himself into her and she gripped him even more tightly with her legs, leaning her back against the bed as he gained momentum and touched her even more deeply inside. She felt her body pulsing again, in response, but it was Roger's turn to be overwhelmed with pleasure. He felt it build up within him, flooding his groin and out into Molly.

"I am going now," he said. "I cannot wait—now—ah—Molly!" His body shook once, twice, three times, and he shouted out more loudly than before, speaking in tongues. Their bodies moved together for another instant, and then Roger collapsed on top of Molly, rolling quickly over so as not to crush her. He lay on his back next to her, breathing deeply and contentedly. He had never been happier.

Molly waited for him to speak first.

"Ah, my love!" He said excitedly. "My love, my love, my love! And to think that this is just the beginning—that we have our whole lives ahead of us. You are more than I ever expected. You are wise and you are virtuous—that I already knew. But what I didn't know was how adorable and willing a bed-partner you should turn out to be, woman-of-mine!" Molly smiled to herself. She would not have been this way with anyone else, that she knew. If she had married Mr. Preston or Mr. Henderson, for instance, she could never in her life imagine letting them touch her and pleasure her in the way that Roger had done that night. For Roger alone she had kept herself; for Roger alone she would open herself. That was, in part, why his love for Cynthia had pained her so, for it meant that she would never share all of herself with a man, if it could not be Roger. She would not tell him this now—she would never tell him how much she had saved for him—but she would tell him enough to assure him of her affection and great enjoyment in their love-making.

"Roger," Molly said. "I could not have dreamed it would be this way, this joy I felt when you touched me. Do you think that it is always thus?" He raised himself to lean on his elbow and look at her.

"I do not know if it will always be like this, Molly," he said, "but we can certainly continue the exploration tomorrow."

And so, dear readers, thus we end for tonight. But who knows what will lie in wait for Molly and Roger in the future?

-Emma de los Nardos