Pam Rosenthal - The Slightest Provocation

“Dash the nursery maid,” she said suddenly. “I hate that nursery maid,” she added.

She was staring at him; he couldn’t do anything but stare back; it would have been rude to look anywhere else. Though he’d wanted to, because she was unbuttoning her boots. From the corner of his eye, he could see her pulling off her black stockings. Stretching her legs as wantonly as the nursery maid he’d spied upon, she plunged her feet into the stream to wash them.

He watched helplessly while she dried her feet with her handkerchief, letting them dry for a while in the sun, and then putting back on her stockings and boots.

“A pity to have to put them on while they’re still muddy,” she said softly. “But it’ll be worse if I try to walk home without them.”

And when they met the next day, it was as though he’d dreamed it. For surely she’d never have shown him her bare feet and ankles.

Except that he hadn’t dreamed it; he couldn’t have, because he’d been up all night, fevered, trembling, and less in control of… things than ever before in his life, his mind’s eye all amazed by images of white feet and black stockings, rainbows glancing off icy, quickly moving water.

He yawned (angry at himself-could she see that she’d kept him up all night?). She yawned as well (for she hadn’t slept either, which she’d only confessed much later), and then she kissed him.

And now-a marriage, a separation, and a war later-he spied her waiting for him, framed in the doorway of the cottage, next to the brook at the no-longer-disputed edge of the property of the Marquess of Rowen.

“Iagree with you,” she said. “It’s neither right nor good nor moral. But here I am anyway.” She laughed nervously. “It probably won’t take very long. No doubt we’ll begin squabbling soon enough.”

“Why did you come?” he asked her.

“Why did you ask me to?”

“That’s not an answer,” he told her.

“Because I wanted to,” she said. “Is that an answer?” Well, is it?

Is desire an answer or a question?

Luckily, when you’re in its toils, you find you’re not awfully concerned with the fine points.

Better to concentrate on practical matters: the bed in want of a sheet, grate of a fire; the gown and stays, coat and waistcoat that must come off as quickly as possible. All were dispatched with brisk, wordless, and rather solemn efficiency so that it was soon enough that Mary stood in the middle of the room in her shift, shoes, and stockings and Kit sat at the edge of the neatly made-up bed, his shiny new pocket watch on the rickety table next to it.

The room was small enough that their hands would have met if they’d extended them forward.

Mary’s shift stirred softly in a draft of warm air. Her pale pink stockings had elaborate clocks down their sides, disappearing into fragile black slippers.

The light in the room was dappled green from the vines at the windows.

Her voice seemed louder than it was, when it broke the watery silence. “And if we hadn’t argued at Calais? If we’d drunk our Calvados and exchanged our compliments? What do you expect we would have done next?”

He reached to pull her shift over her head.

“Please,” he said.

She smiled. They both knew perfectly well what they would have done next. But it was pleasant, all the same, to be asked.

She knelt between his legs. He held her shoulders between his doeskin-clad thighs, hugged her hips with his boots. She could smell the oil his valet had rubbed into the leather to make it flexible. Clasping him around the waist, her face rubbing against the linen of his shirt, breasts crushed against the rising tautness between his legs-she could smell all his smells now, sweat and skin and the mysterious humors of masculine arousal, through the clean, cared-for, and supposedly impervious materials that separated him from her. Doeskin and leather-it piqued the imagination, a gentleman enveloped in skins besides his own. She shuddered; he stroked and played with her hair. She breathed the dark smells; the tremors inside her rose, crested, and subsided.

“Unbutton me.” His voice was hoarse.

“Yes.” Hers was ragged, distant. Yes, yes, of course.

Her fingers felt swollen, clumsy. Damn. The buttonholes were tight. “Bloody hell and double damn,” she muttered.

Still, finesse wasn’t everything-not, at least, in the matter of buttons. Now, however, that she’d finally gotten to him… but now she was home free. She kissed the head of his cock, bent her head to lick it along the length of the shaft, lightly stroking the underside with her fingers. Kissing, nibbling… she sighed a deep, long sigh, arched her neck and softened her throat, heedful, alert-aroused once again (and so soon too) by the weight of his hand on her nape, his fingers grasping her curls.

There was always a moment, he thought-at least there’d always been a moment; yes, there it was-where she’d stop to lick her lips and wet her mouth. No propriety or pretense of being taken unawares-for even if she sometimes fumbled with the buttons, in the main she was proud of her skill, open and unaffected about wanting to do a good, capable job where it mattered most. Softening her jaw, she’d make herself all moist velvet down to her throat before allowing him to guide her down over himself. He’d been waiting for this moment since… Calais? Merciful heaven, since long before Calais.

His hand at her head, her lips around him now. Faster, sweetheart, yes, that’s right, that’s good-the liquid insides of her cheeks, the nimble, clever tongue. Her motions growing eager, greedy-he allowed himself a growl of contentment. A sigh of selfish delight, to have all that attention, will, and intelligence in his thrall.

He tugged again at the curls at her nape: he wanted it slower now, deeper-yes, just like that, oh, very good indeed. No need any longer to show her. He dropped his hand, letting himself fall back onto his elbows. To watch.

The shadows of her eyelashes on her flushed cheeks.

Her lips, curved and supple, careful and attentive.

The more he lengthened, thickened, hardened, the more devoted she’d become. Taking him. As a challenge. Well, he hoped she still found him a challenge.

Yes, he could tell. Good, she was having to put a bit of work into it. Her shoulders quivered (wings, poised to take flight); he tightened the muscles of his thighs to hold her clasped between them. Stay here. Captive. At home on earth. With me.

Her knees ached and her jaw had grown a bit tired-for there was rather a lot of him to take. Had she forgotten? No, not really and not ever. Still, the naughty books never told you just how stiff and tired a pair of knees could get; you had to learn that part for yourself, surprising yourself each time. Thank heaven for the threadbare and slightly mildewed rug on the floor at the side of the bed.

She stretched her back and shoulders as he hugged his feet and legs more tightly around her. Naked against his boots, thrilled and yet at ease. For when you knew someone so well, when you were so familiar with what he wanted now and would want next… when it was new and old at the same time… when you were making scandalous, challenging love to someone you very possibly knew better than yourself…