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Their wedding had been a quaint little ceremony, held in the cool, misty morning of New Year’s Day. It was attended only by Joseph and Nelly—the latter declaring herself the happiest woman in all England, and embracing them both with tearful eyes, overjoyed by their union and the promise of new beginnings.
They’d moved to the Grange just four days after, settling fast into their new home. Catherine delighted in showing Hareton about the fields, surrounded by the flowering gardens she’d so loved in her youth. In the mornings they walked long about the moors, reveling in the simple joy of each other’s company. Their love seemed an unending source of warmth—a fondness deepening by the day, and growing brighter still.
Hareton took to tending the garden in the afternoons, and they continued their lessons by evening, often devolving into a showering of sweet kisses for any small reward. Catherine saw Hareton had become becoming increasingly distracted in his work, yet she couldn’t help herself from giving into his affections, scarcely able to resist such loving gaze. He spoke in nothing short of pure admiration for her, and every part of his being seemed enamored by her presence; Catherine was sure she felt the same for him.
As time passed, Catherine had grown increasingly appreciative, if not desirous, of the way he often watched her; she sensed a certain yearning in his gaze—a desire tinting his features, though checked and well-restrained.
The subject of their consummation had gone unmentioned, and Catherine thus decided to take the matter upon herself. She found means to acquire a manual on the act, and spent many afternoons in silent study, discovering much about the intricacies of pleasure in the process. By the height of her research, she was burning to see it through herself; yet she wanted to be absolutely certain that Hareton felt the same. For all his former crudeness and vulgarity, he seemed ill-informed of such matters of sex—the idea was never brought between them, and Catherine always discerned a sense of shyness ere she seemed to suggest it. She thus resolved to be more bold in her initiation.
Her first attempt had followed their evening supper, with Hareton ready for their usual teaching lessons. He was learning rapidly, and his improvement had been spurred much by Catherine’s encouraging acts and loving words.
She rested a hand atop his shoulder as they sat in the parlour, turning to where they had last left in their reading. After short instruction, Hareton recited the passage aloud, his eyes never failing to stray upon Catherine’s hand. This was perfect opportunity, she had thought to herself; Nelly had been called to the Heights to help with preparations for the new tenant, and she would not be back for some time. They were in perfect company of none but each other, in a scene livened warmly by the fire before them.
She admired the glow of Hareton’s features as he finished reading, his eyes bright with accomplishment. He’d managed very few blunders, and she told him thus that she saw no reason not to end the night’s study there.
“Should I not continue?” he asked.
Catherine hummed, her hand brushing lightly along his shoulder. Hareton swallowed as her fingers began wandering, drawing along his side and brushing gently at his waist.
“I’d like to retire early, perhaps,” she said.
“Are you unwell?” he asked softly.
“No, I’m just gay! You’ve done so well—I thought our time might be occupied elsewhere, instead.”
She drew closer, moving to lavish him with kisses. Her hands wandered more freely along his person, and she could feel a slight catch of his breath as she drew lower. Recalling such acts that she had read of, she made an effort to slip herself into his lap, sitting and drawing her arms around him.
Hareton seemed surprised, yet he did not protest. She kissed him deeper, and a noise escaped his throat; his hands held to her waist, soft and uncertain.
“Come now, shall we retire upstairs?” Catherine asked, a playfulness in her eyes. Hareton colored; he stared, as if he were unable to fathom that it was her upon his lap, and asking him such a question.
Catherine moved further, and looked down to discover a stiffness in his trousers, straining attentively at her thigh. She flushed at the sight, and Hareton himself had flushed deeper, looking embarrassed.
“Nay, it’s—I ought go,” he stammered.
“Why?” Catherine asked, at once confused.
“I need—check on the horses.”
Before she could react, he had shuffled away and out of the house, leaving her alone. She waited on him for a quarter hour before being forced to retire to bed, wondering when and if they would engage it for its more amorous purposes.
“He is more ignorant of such acts than I ever was!” she thought to herself; yet she could detect that his hesitation was more out of shyness than aversion, and resolved to approach him again the following day.
Hareton spoke little of it the next morning, and seemed to color up whenever she came near. By noon he’d gone out again, and Catherine was left only to read and ponder such acts in idle fantasy. She imagined what it might feel to have his prick in her hand, or perhaps inside her, and she explored such a notion until she was near burning with curiosity and excitement.
She was determined to discover it for herself, and thus took extra care in her presentation and toilette, freshening and dressing in her finest gown. She then called Hareton in for supper, having prepared a bread and stew, and Hareton followed shortly after.
They ate together in pleasant conversation, Hareton’s cheeks seeming to glow in the light of the hearth. He appeared to have been washing himself, as his hair was slightly damp about his ears; Catherine found it terribly charming, and she urged him after supper to forego their studies to sit together by the fire. Hareton complied; they came into the drawing room, and as he moved to light the hearth, Catherine could not help but delight in the way his eyes lingered upon her, admiring her collar and the form of her dress. She returned his gaze and stretched back on the couch, watching him with expectant eyes. Hareton, instead of joining her, drew a chair and sat opposite from the fire; his hands turned nervously in his lap.
“…How are things in the garden?” Catherine asked. Hareton paused, his eyes drawing along her figure before snapping away.
“All’s well,” he said with great delay. “And—Catherine, I must tell you—you’ve done yourself so beautifully. Your hair and dress is angelic.”
“I’ve done so for you,” she said sweetly.
Hareton nodded, and seemed at a loss for words, staring dumbly before forcing his gaze back to the fire.
Catherine was no longer sure how to proceed. She had no doubt that he wanted her, as she had so learned from that male signifier of excitement and desire; yet she wished dearly for him to engage her directly. She thus made an effort to cross her legs, lifting her petticoat in such a manner that Hareton might catch a glimpse of what was beneath.
Hareton pretended not to notice it, his gaze at once absorbed in the detail of the hearthstones. Yet Catherine had drawn her dress further, exposing the curve of her calves, and an unmistakable blush began creeping along his neck, tinting his ears. He cleared his throat, making a sort of coughing sound as she crossed and uncrossed her legs.
Impatient now with his remarkable self-restraint, she entreated him to sit with her, and he did so with some hesitation. He seemed to fear meeting her eyes, and shyed softly away from her gaze.
“You did well in your studies yesterday,” she whispered, moving to place a kiss upon his cheek. She caressed his face lightly, and he returned the gesture, tender and nervous.
They sat long in the warmth of the fire, their eyes aglow and now fixed wholly on each other. After a moment of sweet kissing, Catherine again drew herself into his lap, lavishing him in soft touches. Her hand trailed along his back, and she was certain she felt the jump of his pulse then, the quick catch of his breath.
At a glance she saw his hardness, stiff and straining beneath her.
“Hareton,” she said teasingly.
“I—I’m sorry,” he stammered, flushed up to his ears. “I cannot help it.”
She laughed playfully. “Why is that?”
“When you touch me there, I—“ he colored deeper, and moved away. “Nay, don’t make me speak of it, for it’s hard enough to resist you at any waking moment.”
Catherine tilted her head curiously, creeping closer to run a hand along his thigh. Hareton made a noise in his throat.
"But you do like it, don't you?" she asked. “Do you not want it?”
“Yes, of course—and have dreamt of it oft," he managed, swallowing, "But I don’t feel myself worthy of it.”
“Nonsense,” Catherine cried. "Hareton, I could think of no one I cherish and esteem more than you." She had been ignorant of his insecurities, and wanted to dispel any notion of them from his mind. “Come Hareton, you must believe me, and how dearly I want you. I’ve read much about it, and how it can be a wonderful experience for the both of us.”
Hareton was quiet. "I fear tarnishing you,” he said gently. “You are a thing of perfection—and I don't deserve such a thing. And I am afraid I may hurt you, and I could not possibly bear that."
He held her cheek, seeming torn. Catherine was moved by his distress; yet his soft, intelligent gaze gave no doubt in her mind that it was all she ever wished for.
"Hush. I trust you will not hurt me, and I love you for all you ever were, and all you shall ever be," she said softly, and she embraced him, slipping into his lap again. Hareton hesitated a moment before easing to her, brushing his fingers gently through her hair.
Catherine’s hands worked to undo his cravat, exposing the flushed skin of his neck. She kissed along his ear, trailing down to the collarbone, and Hareton groaned slightly beneath her.
"Catherine—I want only to please you,” he uttered hoarsely. Catherine pressed her hips forward, drawing herself teasingly across his prick.
“You will, by allowing me this,” she replied, her hands reaching to undo his waistcoat. She slipped it off, and Hareton was left only in a soft undershirt, the line of his chest visible beneath. Catherine ran her palm beneath it, trailing over the warm skin, and Hareton sighed. He seemed at last to ease completely to her touch, finally summoning the courage to bring a hand along her thigh.
She bid him remove her stockings, and he did so gently, caressing her legs all the while. His palm was warm and rough, yet the touch was soft; Catherine felt a rush of anticipation as it traveled along her thigh, stroking the delicate inside.
At her urging he removed her silks, leaving her bare beneath her dress. She felt the outline of his cock against her, and she drew her hips to elicit a groan from the man below.
“Won’t you remove my dress, now?” she whispered in his ear. Hareton blinked and managed a half-reply, before lifting it off to reveal only a thin chemise beneath.
He stared at the sight of her form, seemingly entranced by it; one hand touched tentatively at her waist.
The air seemed still. Then, Catherine pulled him to her, until their bodies were flush and her senses were none but the heat of his skin, the scent of his hair.
Catherine breathed a long moment before reaching for his prick—palming it through his clothing and marveling at the thick, heady heat of it. Hareton groaned.
“Catherine, can I—please?” He looked into her eyes, earnest.
“Let me help you,” Catherine whispered. She reached to unfasten his trousers, easing him at once from the confines of his breeches.
Hareton hissed out a breath. His cock strained thick and full at attention, the foreskin drawn back from a dark, shining head; a bead of wetness gathered heavy at the tip.
The sight of it, hard and leaking, made Catherine positively flush.
“Hareton!” she marveled, taking its size into her hand. She gave it an experimental stroke, and Hareton gasped slightly, raising to the touch.
Catherine slid the skin of her palm along him, rubbing the pink, flushed head.
“Catherine, don’t tease me,” Hareton groaned, “I’ll perish.”
She brushed the skin beneath the head, and he let out a choked sound, grabbing her hand weakly. Catherine saw he was trying, with some difficulty, to restrain himself, so she resolved on another act to occupy him instead.
“Come here,” she told him. She leaned back on the couch, parting her legs and pulling back her chemise. The act exposed her entirely to Hareton, who sat afixed at the sight; his eyes drew along her stomach to the full mound between her legs, covered in light brown hair.
“I would like you to stroke it as well,” Catherine said. She reveled in Hareton’s expression, bright-eyed and flush with desire. She guided his hand to herself, placing his thumb upon the bud.
“This is my clitoris,” she said, “and you may stroke and lick it as you please, and it will bring me very much pleasure.”
Hareton nodded, and, after a moment longer in staring at her, stooped down to bring his head between her legs. His hand trembled slightly as he brushed a finger through her folds, wet and flush with heat.
“…May I?” he asked, circling around her slit. He looked up at her with cautious gaze, dark and sincere.
“Please,” Catherine said, leaning back as he slipped a finger into her. His thumb rubbed her clitoris gently, the other working through the silky curls surrounding. Catherine gasped as Hareton pushed his finger deeper, curling it slightly and sending a spark of pleasure through her.
“That’s very good,” she told him, slightly breathless. He did not once take his eyes off the sight of her wetness, watching it with a low-burning hunger. His face drew closer to it still, until he had bent down to lick at the soft, heated flesh. His tongue lapped gently at the bud, causing her to shiver and grasp at his shoulders.
“Is it to your liking?” he asked, looking up. Catherine gave him a breathless assurance, and he resumed, working a second finger into her. He was a fast learner, and discerned quickly what she most enjoyed; soon he was licking her clitoris in earnest, working her deftly with his fingers and drawing a cry of delight. Catherine gasped in ecstasy above him, her breath catching at each brush of pleasure that his tongue afforded her. Her legs gripped him encouragingly, and he shuddered, burying his face further at her flesh.
He appeared to be enjoying it, as he licked her increasingly ravenously, circling her clitoris and lapping at the warmth. Catherine could barely restrain herself, quivering excitedly about him; Hareton grunted as her hips pushed him forward, bringing his fingers deeper and his tongue faster along her leaking slit. Catherine cried out, grasping desperately at his hair.
Hareton paused. “Did I hurt you?” he asked, looking up.
“No—no, please, do exactly as you were,” Catherine panted. Hareton soon resumed, and Catherine was left awash in the warm pleasure of his mouth, trembling with need. The feeling swelled, until she peaked in a deep gush of warmth, letting out a cry loud enough to be heard throughout the house. Hareton held her legs firm, lapping at her pleasure and drawing from her a low moan. Eventually she was spent, and pushed him gently off of her, too dazed to speak for a moment.
“Hareton,” she breathed, her cheeks high with warmth, “I could scarcely begin to describe such pleasure as that you’ve just afforded me.” Hareton blushed, and seemed to hold her in silent admiration and gratitude for her words.
She smiled, and came to kiss him once more. Her tongue moved softly at his lip, and Hareton groaned, low in his throat. His breathing was strained and shaky, and Catherine, upon looking down, could see why; his cock was flushed and leaking down to the shaft, throbbing in what looked to be an aching desperation.
Catherine’s breath caught. “I apologize; I’ve been neglecting your needs,” she whispered, reaching to stroke the velvety head with her palm.
“It’s naught,” Hareton managed, his voice rough at the edges. Catherine could feel him pulsing in her hand, blood thrumming with low-burning need.
“Would you like to put it in me now?” Catherine whispered.
Hareton made a soft, strangled noise.
“Would you?”
“Aye,” he breathed, “but—Catherine, are you sure you wish to—give such a thing to me?”
He exhaled as Catherine circled the tip with her finger, herself feeling a rush of arousal at the thought. “Very much so,” she replied, and laid back, spreading her legs before him.
Hareton aligned himself between her, bringing his prick to her entrance. His eyes were deep with admiration, and in that moment Catherine could not have hoped to dream of a gaze so loving and pure; she brought him down for another kiss, guiding him gently forward.
Hareton seemed almost afraid to touch her; his hands rested tentatively at her sides, holding her as lightly as though she might break by his touch.
“I—I’ll take you now,” he whispered, and Catherine could feel the blunt head of his cock against her, pushing into her slowly.
She felt the stretch of his entrance, a slight stinging around him; yet she was set on braving it, and burning fast with anticipation for what was to come.
“Does it hurt?” Hareton asked, stopping with some difficulty. He watched her expression; there was anguish on his face in the thought of causing her pain.
“An amount only negligible,” Catherine insisted. “Continue.”
Hareton did so, pushing forth until he was flush inside her; his breath caught as he pressed to her skin, his eyes closed in soft ecstasy.
Catherine gasped at the stretch of his prick, the bloom of heat that seemed rising within her. Slowly, unthinkingly, Hareton pushed his hips forward.
“Oh, Catherine, I’ve died and gone to Heaven,” he groaned. He began rocking into her, the movement as gentle as he could allow; his hands held soft to her waist, and he seemed to be gritting his teeth, set hard in self-restraint.
Catherine grew slowly accustomed to the feeling; she shuddered at a particularly deep stroke, the warmth of its pleasure easing any traces of pain. Her hand reached to circle her clitoris, and with it rose a deep, richer sweetness in each of his thrusts; she gasped, bidding him to quicken his pace, and he did so without second thought.
Catherine panted as he pushed faster into her, his breath beating softly at her neck. She reveled in the newfound pleasure of each thrust, encouraging Hareton further with a grasp to his shirt, a raise of her hips. Hareton groaned, spreading her legs further. The feeling was unlike anything she had known—heady, sweet, and entirely consuming. Hareton’s thrusts grew ever more desperate, himself mumbling half-coherent words of love and admiration, and Catherine was awash in delight and pleasure. She pulled Hareton closer; she was trembling hard, stroking her clitoris with fervent need.
Hareton groaned, his thrusts growing urgent still, as though he were losing himself in that glorious feeling.
“Catherine—I cannot hold myself any longer,” he managed. Catherine flushed, raising her hips; she was beside herself, and aching to reach that point of completion once more. Hareton gave a hard thrust within her, and at last the feeling mounted in a shuddering cry. She was near mindless in pleasure, insensible as Hareton clung fast to her body, letting a soft curse at her ear; his hands gripped her thighs, and she could feel the hard push of his hips as he filled her, the warmth of his release spilling forth.
After a long, shuddering moment, he pulled away. There was a fresh glow on his cheeks, and he watched her in breathless amazement, his eyes shining brighter in the warmth of the fire.
Catherine shivered as his seed leaked out from her, running down to her thighs. She was exhausted, and awash in a hazy glow that seemed to overtake her mind.
“Hareton,” she breathed, pulling him closer. Hareton laid down beside her, drawing her to his chest; their breaths mingled in the crisp, cooling air.
Hareton swallowed. “When I first saw you—never would I have dreamt…”
He breathed out, seeming still in awe at the fact of having her in his arms.
Catherine smiled, and leaned up to place a kiss upon his cheek. A warmth gathered in her throat, a love for him that seemed near impossible to express in its breadth; and as Hareton drew her closer, she had no doubt he felt the same.