She let herself sink backward among the pillows, and already Mr. Palmato was on his knees at her side, his face close to hers. Again her burning lips were parted by his tongue, and she felt it insinuate itself between her teeth and plunge into the depths of her mouth in a long, searching caress, while at the same moment his hands softly parted the thin folds of her wrapper.
— Edith Wharton, from Beatrice Palmato, a prose fragment. Happy Birthday Edith! Who wants to finish her erotic incest novel as a present?







