by Millie Adams
Then he began to loosen the ties at the back of her nightgown, and it fell, slid down her body in a slither of silk, and pooled at her feet. Leaving her completely naked. His touch was gentle as his fingers skimmed down the line of her spine, down to her backside, where he squeezed her tightly, an echo of what had occurred in the library of her brother’s house, though so much more intentional. And with no barrier between them.
Tears stung her eyes.
There was nothing between them. Nothing except for his own clothes.
And she thought that perhaps she should be embarrassed, but she wasn’t.
Physicians had seen her nude from the time she was a child. It had been a necessity. Part of a life spent practically bedridden.
But he was not examining her body like a thing. Rather he touched her as if she mattered. As if she meant something. Rather he touched her as if she was both fragile and strong all at once. And beautiful.
She was not ashamed. Not embarrassed.
He dipped his fingers between her legs, stroking her in the most intimate of places.
She was wet, but she found that did not shame her either. He had made commentary about that. About her wetness. And he had made it only sound like a good thing. Something that pleased him. And she did so wish to please him.
He turned her to face him, and all the breath left her body in an exquisite rush as he examined her. His eyes filled with an intensity that she gloried in.
This was not the cold examination of a doctor. This was the desirous look of a man.
He took two steps away from her, never taking his eyes off her as he sat down in a chair positioned by the fireplace in her bedchamber. Without taking his eyes from hers his hands moved to the falls of his breeches, and he opened them. And her throat tightened, went dry, as he drew himself from his clothing. He was... Well, as suspected, the statuary in the garden had nothing to recommend it when compared to Briggs.
He was large and thick, and... He was beautiful.
How she longed to see all of his body, completely uncovered for her pleasure. But she had a feeling it was something she would have to earn. And she would do her very best. He said he was going to teach her to pleasure him, and suddenly she wanted that more than she wanted anything else. More than she had ever wanted anything before.
‘Come to me,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Your Grace,’ he said.
She recognised that it was a correction. Firm and gentle. And it made her feel...everything.
‘Yes, Your Grace.’
A smile curved his lips, and she took that short trip to stand right in front of him, feeling deliciously exposed beneath the intensity of his gaze.
‘Get to your knees,’ he said.
She obeyed, without thought, going down to her knees in front of him.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘I’m going to teach you how to pleasure me. I want you to take me in your mouth.’
She was not shocked. After all, he had done the same to her in the garden and it had been exquisite. Why should he not enjoy the same intimacies? Their bodies were not the same, but surely there must be something in the taking of pleasure that they had in common.
And she wanted to... She wanted to give him some measure of what he had given to her. She did. She wanted him to feel the glory that she had felt. And if she could do for him what he had done for her, she would feel...
If she could make him shake, if she could make him cry out. If she could make his body unravel itself at that moment of release, then she would do so. It was all she wanted in that moment. The ultimate test of her strength.
And so she leaned forward, darting her tongue out over the head of his cock. He was lovely, and he tasted wonderful, something she would not have imagined. But she loved the feel of him beneath her tongue, beneath her hands. His skin soft and hot and hard all at once.
She had lived a life repressed. She had lived a life shut in. And this was her moment. The door was flung wide. And she was free. Running with no regard in the moonlight, her hair flying behind her as she swung as high as she wanted to on the swings. This was all of that, and it was more.
It was that thrill she had felt when she had first climbed a tree, when she had fallen. When she had sneaked away to be the person that she could only be when she was by herself. That girl who wanted to be daring. Who wanted to have everything that every other girl had.
She was that girl now. But she had Briggs. And she wasn’t alone.
She took him deep into her mouth, and revelled in the groan of pleasure that escaped his lips. She had him. She had him, as he had her.
And the realisation emboldened her.
He put his hand on her back, centred at her shoulder blades, then wrapped his fingers tightly around her hair, before twisting it around his hand, and tugging.
She cried out.
‘Don’t stop,’ he commanded. So she did not. She fought against his hold, and pinpricks of pain broke out across her scalp, delighting her, spurring her on.
And she found that his pleasure seemed to echo inside her. That his need was almost greater than her own, and the counterbalance of pain on an exquisite knife’s edge that kept her present.
He began to arch his hips up to greet her, the tip of him touching the back of her throat.
She welcomed that too.
She was lost in it. In him. The tug of her hair, the thrust of his arousal, the escalating need between her thighs.
She moved to touch herself, to get some sort of relief from that building pressure there.
‘No,’ he said, tugging sharp and hard. ‘You may not pleasure yourself. Not yet. I will take my pleasure first.’
She shivered, then went back to focusing all her energy on him. And then suddenly, the bucking of his hips became wild, and they both unravelled together. He growled his release, and she swallowed him down, as naturally as if she had trained for it.
And then, she found herself being propelled back, as he righted his breeches. Disguising himself from her.
‘You did well,’ he said. ‘But it is not enough to redeem you. You must receive your punishment.’
‘Must I?’
‘Yes. You must, because you were strong enough to withstand it.’
‘Yes, Your Grace.’
And then she found herself being picked up, turned over his lap. His large hand over the globe of her rear again. He smoothed his hand over her skin, before removing it. And when he brought it back down, it was with a resounding crack.
She cried out. Pain spread over her body, wildfire. And before she could catch her breath, he did it again, and again. But something about the pain brought her focus between her thighs, and the bright hot ache of pleasure there.
And she could not tell where the pain ended and the pleasure began. Where the heat turned from a violent fire to an unending need. For it was all the same. Twisting and curling through her body. A torture she never wanted to end. Except she couldn’t endure it. She was wiggling, shifting against him, trying to escape, and trying to get closer all at once. Trying to grind the centre of her desire for him against his muscular thighs.
‘I need...’
‘Not yet,’ he said, bringing his hand down on her hard.
She trembled, shook.
And she found herself going to that place, that glorious place in her that she had built as a girl.
Where no one could touch her. No one and nothing. Because she was the queen of the palace inside her. Because she could handle anything. She could withstand.
Because she was strong.
Because she was a warrior.
She was not weak. She was not broken.
She could take this. She could take him.
It went on and on, and she began to find everything fuzzy around the edges, both more and less real. She
felt wholly and completely connected to her body while also somewhere outside of it. But she was not alone. And that was the most revolutionary aspect of this. He was with her. They were in this together. It was not something being done to her, it was something they were both experiencing. Something holy and completely theirs. That brilliant diamond that she would protect from all else. From all others. It was Beatrice and Briggs, and only them.
And then, he moved his hand, pushing his fingers between her legs and thrusting them deep inside her. She cried out at the invasion, which was perfectly and wholly what she needed. She was slick and accepted him easily, and he thrust forward and withdrew in a steady rhythm, until the combination of being filled by him, and the lingering staying on her flesh tipped her over the edge into a total and complete release.
She found herself shaking violently, unable to stop, babbling incoherently. She grabbed for him, and he gathered her up in his arms. And oh, this was what had been missing. Always. Always.
There had been pain. There had been pleasure. And now he was cradling her as if she was the most precious, singular thing.
He picked her up and carried her over to the bed, where he settled against the headboard, and cradled her naked body across his hard thighs, smoothing his hand up and down her bare back.
‘You’ve done well,’ he said.
And she went limp, burying her head in his chest as she wept. Piteously and gloriously.
Somehow it was both of those things all at once. As she became both weak and strong in his arms.
‘Briggs,’ she whispered.
‘Sleep, Beatrice.’
‘Will you stay with me?’
‘Yes.’
And after that, she knew nothing more.
Chapter Fourteen
Briggs did not have a restful sleep. He stayed on top of the bedclothes, fully dressed, with Beatrice curled safely beneath the blankets, nude still.
She had been beautiful. Accepting everything he had given with more strength than he had imagined possible. It was not just that she had withstood it, but she had enjoyed it. Had wholly and completely been his in that moment.
She had surrendered to the pain, and had found that glorious place where pleasure intersected with it. And her release had been brilliant.
And he had felt...
He had given her pieces of himself he had worked for years to hide. The truth of his childhood.
The truths of his needs.
Had she rejected them...
It would have been a rejection of each and every piece of who he was.
He had never shared that part of himself so completely with a woman who knew him. He had only ever come close with Serena. And Serena had been... She had been horrified. She had rejected his touch, his...
Desires. She had found them and him far too animalistic. She had never been one to give herself over entirely to the marital act, but when he had attempted to introduce more she had...
She never would have taken him in her mouth the way that Beatrice had done. And Beatrice had done so with an enthusiasm unmatched by any whore.
Though the whores he had consorted with certainly evinced a certain measure of enthusiasm, when one paid for the pleasure, one could hardly be certain as to whether or not it was authentic.
It had never mattered to him. One thing he liked about the transaction was that there was no rejection involved. There were no grey areas.
He never felt exposed in his dealings with prostitutes because it was simple. He asked for what he wanted, and if they did not wish to provide, they were under no obligation to, but they did not get their money.
With a wife it was different.
He had been young, and he had been naive, and he had been certain that they could forge a marriage much different than his parents. One that included trust and fidelity.
And that she could see to all his needs. Instead, she had found his needs appalling. After that day she had never shared his bed again, and of course, he had never pressed himself upon her. He never would have.
An essential piece of his desire was the willing supplication of the woman he wanted. He would not, and had not, touched his wife in a manner she had found distasteful.
But Beatrice had not found his needs appalling.
Beatrice stirred, soft and sleepy, and he reached out and touched her.
And the moment his fingertips connected with her hair, so silken and lovely, he imagined gripping her hips from behind, then tugging her hair back as he thrust into her from that position.
No. That was...
It would endanger her. There was a risk, even with precautions, and he could not take those risks. He would not even allow himself to think of it.
It created in him too large of a feeling, and he did not wish it to exist in him.
They had found plenty of pleasure with each other. They had found plenty of pleasure last night.
She turned and looked at him, a slow smile spreading across her face.
‘Good morning, Your Grace.’
He could not help himself. And it was not often that he could not help himself. So... He simply gave in. And he kissed her. On those soft, luscious lips. Her cheeks turned pink, and she smiled. ‘It was not a dream.’
‘No,’ he said. His chest went tight. That she could find what had passed between them to be like a dream, rather than the waking nightmare his first wife had found it...
‘I was afraid that I would wake up and I would be alone. And I would still be Beatrice.’
He frowned. ‘What does that mean?’
‘The same Beatrice. The Beatrice I always am. The Beatrice who is always alone, and certainly has never been touched so by a man.’ She looked up at him. ‘You make me feel... Incredible.’
And his stomach went tense, only because he understood.
It was why he was not Philip.
It was why he was Briggs.
So he did not have to feel the same.
Her lips curved into a smile and his thoughts stopped.
He could only stare at her, marvel at the fact that she fit with him in a way he could never have quite imagined. Had it been before him all this time?
‘You astonish me,’ he said. ‘Innocence should not take to these acts with such fervour.’
‘Do I offend you with my fervour?’
She looked upset, and he did not want her upset. He resisted giving her yet more honesty, but she had been accepting of him so far. And he would hate to cause her distress simply because he was unwilling to speak of the past.
‘To the contrary. I find you exceptionally pleasing. It has just not been my experience.’
‘Oh,’ she said, looking away. ‘Your wife.’
‘I’m sorry. If it upsets you for me to speak of her...’
‘I believe I said that to you last time she was mentioned. It does not upset me.’
‘Are you jealous, Beatrice?’ Beatrice’s eyes suddenly filled with tears, and she looked away from him. He frowned. ‘What is it?’
‘She gave you things I cannot. She gave you a child and she...’
‘You give me things that she would not,’ he said. ‘And that to me means more.’
She seemed pleased by that. And he was glad that he had found some way to ease her concerns. He did not want her to be concerned. He wished for her to feel utterly and completely safe and cared for. He wished for her to feel completely satisfied in the aftermath of all they had shared.
‘We will go out today.’
‘Did you have obligations?’
‘Likely,’ he said. ‘But I am here in London with you and with William, and we should go again. To the park.’
‘I would like that,’ she said.
And he liked to see her smile.
* * *
They went their separate ways,
dressing for the day, and he sought out William, and ensured that the boy ate his breakfast.
He also decided to give the governess the afternoon off.
‘We shall be together as a family today,’ he said to William.
William looked pleased in that way that he often did. A small smile to himself. And Briggs felt as if he was... As if he was actually doing better than his father. It bothered him that the feeling mattered. It bothered him that it existed inside him, this desire to best his old man. And yet it did. He had not been aware it was quite so strong until now.
* * *
They got in their carriage and made their way to Grosvenor Square. They had packed a picnic for the afternoon, and he found himself slightly bemused by the fact that Beatrice had found a way to get both he and William to willingly participate in something both had said they would not. She might belong to him, but she had done a fair amount of changing the way that he lived.
She was very small for a revolutionary, and yet, he could not help but think of her as one.
‘You are a warrior, Beatrice,’ he said.
She looked at him, her eyes glowing. ‘I am?’
‘Yes.’ He nodded. ‘If I had to ride into battle, I would want you by my side.’
The flush of pleasure on her face pleased him immensely. And he was so focused on it, that he looked away from William for just a moment, and when he looked back, he was gone.
‘William,’ he said, looking around, trying to scan the group of children that were running about the edge of the water.
He spotted him finally, holding his deck of cards, and speaking seriously to three other boys. Something inside Briggs went tight. And he sat back, poised to act.
He would not intervene. Not if he wasn’t needed. It was up to William to speak to other children if he wished to. And he ought to. It was a good thing. An expected thing.
But then one of the boys took hold of William’s box, and flung it to the ground. And after the box, the cards.
‘You’re weird,’ the other boy said. ‘No one cares about Rome.’
