Mr. Thornton has no complaints about his newly married life. He's waited for this so long, wanted Miss Hale so badly, and nearly dies from shock every time they can officiate the small, taken-for-granted moments of married life.
He has no complaints.
He has one complaint.
Marrying a vicar's daughter has offered him a steady assurance of virtue, even when misread actions said otherwise. She is by all means a proper, loving, and giving wife. She is good sport, tender and affectionate in their marriage bed. Pleased by his satisfaction and glad to lie with him, share a bed with him, cuddle after he has finished and nearly collapsed on top of her. She enjoys his kisses and soft words and readily supplies her own, gentle hands smoothing down his back once he is sheathed inside her.
But she doesn't seem to give in to much passion during those times in the first few weeks, defensively dense to his offers for her to have her turn at pleasure.
She'll smile and kiss him once, a chaste peck, and say "Nonsense, my love," before turning herself to fall asleep.
And in sleep, her body craves his.
They sleep in the same bed, as she once admitted she'd get lonely if he didn't stay, and he would take all she would willingly give to him.
And while her mind rests, her body often rouses, often with his seed still inside her. Her body would seek contact with his, snuggling, often fully wrapping limbs around him.
And that, unfortunately, was agony.
Margaret is certainly no prude, she readily joked about their lovemaking as they prepared for bed, kissing him, running her fingers through his hair. But she is always on her back and only allows for him to take control of things. His stumbling mentions of methods for her pleasure, of hands and mouth and other alternative means, are waved away as though they were trifling indulgences.
It bothers him. He has no complaints of personal satisfaction, but that lack of complaint makes him feel brutish. Not knowing how she likes it, if she likes it at all, is killing him inside.
He's tried, not pushing her to lascivious acts of pleasure, but trying with lips to her neck and hands clutching her tightly. But kisses under her ear only make her shrug her shoulder as though being rudely tickled, and she seems to be made more anxious from his attempts than anything else.
In some late hour with no sign of light, he feels her body curving against his, her backside rubbing suggestively against his groin. He can feel a heat radiate off of her. And the nerves caused by this problem have him awake immediately. She rolls over, her face buries itself in his neck with a soft moan, and while this would usually have him overjoyed, he can't help but be in agony. She only reacts this way to him in sleep.
He's had his wife, many times. But he never possessed his wife.
Tentatively, he strokes a hand over the curve of her hip. It's a gentle slope he loves to explore when they spoon together.
Another moan, caused by a dream, is what breaks him.
"My love?" he finally whispers, voice cracking.
"Hmm?" she snuggles closer before waking fully. She takes notice of the way she's entwined their bodies and pulls away, startled. "Oh, forgive me."
He grabs her hands. "There's nothing to forgive. Please, stay."
She lies still, exactly where she is. "I can't imagine what you must think of me."
He rolls towards her "What?"
Margaret covers her face with her hands, "Draping myself over you so wantonly… it's not proper…"
"My love," he sort of scoops her into his arms, cuddling her in a very chaste way. Affectionate, unjudging, "I do not mind a lack of propriety from my wife. I welcome you to do as your body commands, and I… I wish for less propriety, at times. Some wantonness."
His wife is very still in his arms.
"I am frightened of what you ask of me, John," she whispers in a little voice, and again, he's kicking himself.
"Merely for mutual pleasure in our marriage bed," he answers gruffly, stroking her hair.
"Oh," she's upright, soothing with her nurturing eyes, gentle hands, "I am pleased, John, I am very happy with you. I love you. You mustn't worry about…"
"It is important to me."
She is reminded of the firm master of the mill she had met upon first sight of him. Unrelenting, terrifying.
"Why?" she answers meekly.
He softens, snuggling into the crook of her neck and kissing it gently. He only does it once, trying not to overwhelm or overstimulate, and the shudder he provokes is exactly what he'd hoped for. "I want to make you feel the way you make me feel."
Again, she is flippant.
"That's not important, do not worry about me, such concerns aren't proper."
He rolls himself on top of her, holding his weight off of her fully. She feels caged under him. He isn't like this in their bed. Predatory. Sinful. Tempting...
"Banish such thoughts from this bed. Is my pleasure in your body wicked to you?"
"No," she breathes.
"Then please, allow yourself the same. We are equals, are we not?"
"I was told not to expect…"
She turns her head to the side, lulling on the pillow, her eyes cast away from him. Her hand toys with the edge of the bedsheet.
Her husband, her wonderful, proud, hardworking, devoted husband leans down to kiss her reassuringly.
"Please, also banish your expectations for how these relations were taught to you. I won't demand your immediate ravishment. All I ask is you let me try to please you, and give me the honesty I need to get you to such states."
"I'm not sure I can."
"Would you do it, if I said it would give me even more pleasure to know I was not alone in such a state?"
His hips fit between hers, and her eyes fluttered shut. She's never felt like this before. While awake, at least. She of course always wanted John, was eager to go to bed with him each night. But it was in the way she looked forward to his kisses, the absences of his body felt as though she'd been stuck inside from her walks when the weather was poor. Disappointed but not deprived. Nothing like the deprivation she feels now. In this particular moment, she probably would have agreed to nearly anything. Her body has roused itself for his as she slept and was humming for him to touch her, fill her. She is in no state to argue anymore, with his hips teasing hers, proving his point.
All at once, the prospect of this unknown place terrifies her. She clings to his shoulders and trembles, clinging in a way that would allowed him to take anything. Gently, he peels her away, returning them to their spooned positions.
"Shh, I do not demand complete surrender. Go back to sleep. I just wanted us to discuss pursuing this matter, and we will."
She nods against his chest.
Still, quick naughtily, his lips work up her bared neck, from shoulder to under her ear. Once his lips part to suck the sensitive skin under her ear, she whimpers, writhing against him. Satisfied enough by this reaction, he returns to the position of a respectable husband.
"Sleep, my love," he whispers, and her heart longs for him, as though he's suddenly very far away.
Her mind is more awake than ever before. Rushing nerves overtake her. But her husband sleeps with a soft smile on his face. Cuddling closer, she senses the lack of tension in his body. It's overwhelmingly attractive, his sleeping form, cuddling and trusting and unguarded.
Margaret resolves to give him anything he asks for, before slipping back into slumber.