June 1924

Harold supposed they ought to have spent more of their time in Paris sightseeing. After all, this was a once-in-a-lifetime vacation. But here it was, almost noon, and they had yet to leave their hotel room. For there were plenty of thrilling and pulse-pounding sights to behold right here – Marian was currently driving him wild with one of her delicious stripteases.

Yesterday afternoon, he had taken the liberty of buying her any and every lacy little number that caught his eye in the shops, and he'd presented them to her shortly after breakfast this morning. When he flirtatiously explained just how much he enjoyed putting new giftwrap on the same present, she had apparently taken it as a personal challenge to see how often she could excite him, and so had been in and out of the most delectable lingerie all morning.

Marian had performed a striptease or two for him early on in their marriage, but it had been several years since she was so bold. Harold had almost forgotten how aroused this particular act could make him – he was wearing nothing but a union suit, but even that had quickly gotten too confining, and it wasn't long before he had to work his erection completely free of it as he watched his wife parade each new getup in front of him. But as keen as he was to scratch this itch, he didn't so much as touch himself. When it came to lovemaking, he was a master of playing the long game as much as he was in any other arena.

When Marian finally divested herself of the last of her lingerie and straddled his lap, she didn't take him inside her. Instead, she raked her fingers through his curls, nibbled at his ear, and huskily whispered for him to tell her what he'd like her to do next. At that, another one of his long-held fantasies came tumbling out – he never bothered to censor the intensity of his desires, these days.

"Touch yourself – and let me watch."

At first, Marian smiled seductively, stood up, and ran her hands enticingly down her body. But when she reached the softness between her thighs she paused and looked questioningly at him. Clearly, she was game, but didn't seem to know exactly what he wanted.

"Allow me to show you just what I had in mind, my dear little librarian," Harold said gallantly. Standing up and catching her mouth in a heated kiss, he guided her hand with his, showing her how he touched her and encouraging her to find the motion she most enjoyed. As she got the rhythm of it and started sighing happily, he gradually eased up on his embrace and pulled back to watch her. The play of emotions dancing across her face was a treat to behold. She looked nervous, pleased, amazed, ecstatic, and even triumphant as she tentatively and then ardently explored this new avenue of passion.

At first, Marian's gaze was entirely inward as she coaxed herself to climax. But when she looked up and her eyes locked with his, Harold couldn't help himself. He had to take her in his arms, even if it spoiled all her lovely progress. His patience having run out at last, he reached out and pulled his wife tightly to him, pressing eagerly and frantically against her, as if he was going to enter her right then and there.

"You didn't let me finish, Professor Hill," she teasingly scolded, even as her hips moved just as feverishly in time with his.

"If I wanted to watch without touching the whole time, Madam Librarian, I'd go find a nickelodeon or get a French postcard," he retorted as he pulled her down onto the bed with him. "You've been parading the most scrumptious desserts before me all morning, and a man has got to eat them at some point."

Marian simply laughed at that. But Harold soon had her moaning as he took over pleasuring her. And thanks to his clever fingers, she was fast approaching her release…

XXX

November 1924

… and so was Harold. Five months later, here he was, in the bedroom of their charming Victorian in the middle of Iowa, pleasuring himself with the same skillful deftness as he ever did his wife. He was completely alone in the house – Marian was at the library this morning, and the girls were at their grandmother's helping her with the Thanksgiving baking. It was nearing lunchtime, and Harold had just gotten back from the emporium. Normally, he would have saved up all his anticipation and let it build to a fever pitch until Marian came home. But he'd been antsy all morning, and his wife was six months pregnant. Although that wouldn't stop them from making love – Marian boldly and shamelessly initiated at least half of their embraces these days – he didn't want to come on too strong. Although he was not nearly as nervous about harming her health this time around, especially as her second pregnancy had been much easier, he still felt a twinge of concern that he could cause real damage if they indulged too freely in their wilder appetites.

Admittedly, Harold was finding it rather difficult to hold himself back. They'd experienced quite the renaissance in their bedroom after their post-Paris reconciliation. Now that Marian was no longer hiding how hot she was for him, he found himself as randy for her as he was when they were newlyweds just discovering each other. Not only that, pregnancy had lent the librarian an additional glow that made her even more gorgeous in his eyes. There was something about the fact that she was so radiantly and beautifully carrying his child that made him want her terribly. Added to that, not only had Marian's appetites markedly increased, her ability to achieve pleasure was greatly heightened – he barely had to brush his fingers across the warm silky wetness between her thighs, before she was halfway to orgasm. He could only imagine the intensity of her response if they engaged in rougher handling – an image that both aroused and alarmed him. So Harold had taken to indulging in self-pleasure a bit more often than one might expect of a well-pleased man with a full and active marriage. Until Marian recovered from childbirth, Harold had to do something to take the keenest edge off his urges.

Without warning, the bedroom door opened. Harold froze mid-stroke, alarmed. His first thought was that it better not have been one of the girls – he'd taught them from a very young age that they must always knock on their parent's bedroom door when it was closed and wait for explicit permission before entering. And he'd made sure they learned that particular lesson very well – a few firm consequences for any infractions had made sure of that. Thanks to his unwavering strictness in this matter, he and Marian had never been caught in a compromising position.

Peeking over his shoulder, Harold relaxed when he saw the librarian standing in the doorway. Still, there was a definite undercurrent of nervousness in his demeanor as he fastened his trousers and turned to face her. Although they'd done many heated things together, he rarely pleasured himself in her presence. When he had engaged in this act, it was primarily to show her exactly what he wanted her to do.

Still, he grinned with his usual aplomb. "You're home earlier than I was expecting, my dear little librarian."

Looking both amused and bewildered, she raised an eyebrow at him. "Am I interrupting something, darling?"

"Never," Harold said staunchly, going right to her and taking her in his arms. There was no need to explain what he was doing – his gasps were already doing a pretty good job of illuminating the situation. And hopefully, if he played his cards right, she would be far more aroused than scandalized by what she saw. "Mmm, you smell delicious." He nibbled at her neck. "Now that you're home, I'd love to eat you."

Marian giggled, but she didn't nestle as fully into his embrace as she normally would have. "Unfortunately, I have a headache, so I need to lie down for a little while," she said glumly. "That's why I left the library so early. Jane offered to take over for the rest of the afternoon."

"Of course," he said solicitously, hiding his disappointment as he guided her to bed. After removing her shoes and dress, helping her into a negligee and robe, and arranging pillows around her so she was comfortable, he went to fetch an aspirin and a glass of water.

When Harold returned to their bedroom, he was disquieted to see that his wife was regarding him with a pensive expression. But he had learned it was best not to press the matter when she wasn't feeling well, so he didn't launch into inquiry. However, he wanted to make it clear he wasn't going anywhere, so after she took the aspirin and drank the water, he got into bed, wrapped his arms around her, and waited for her to speak.

Fortunately, it didn't take too long. After about fifteen minutes, she broke the silence. "How often do you pleasure yourself, Harold?"

Although he felt absolutely no shame in self-pleasure, he knew that, even after all the strides Marian had made in embracing the fullness of her own desires, this was one area she still didn't quite understand or approve of. So he chose his words carefully. "Only when you're not available and I can't wait any longer."

But that only made things worse. Looking even more consternated, Marian bit her lip. "Am I not – enough for you?"

His eyes widened. "Of course you are! In fact, the more often we make love, the greater my appetite for it gets. What you witnessed was just a little morning relief for me – an appetizer before the main course. It's certainly not my preferred method of satisfaction. I'd take making love to you over self-pleasure every single time."

She frowned, but in deliberation rather than censure. "I would have thought it was the other way around – that a man was more prone to engage in self-pleasure when there was a lack of lovemaking."

Harold couldn't help chuckling. "Yes, it works that way, too," he admitted. "I certainly did my share of it during our courtship… and when I was being driven wild by my near-nightly dreams of you during my conman days."

To his chagrin, Marian still appeared disappointed. "I suppose it was awfully naïve of me to think that you wouldn't need to indulge in such activities after we were married."

Not altogether liking the bemused way she was looking at him, as if she was seeing him through some strange new prism, Harold shrugged with more devil-may-care nonchalance than he actually felt. "Well, I can't expect you to drop everything and attend to my needs all the time. Especially not when you're carrying our child or recovering from childbirth. I know you aren't going to break, but there are times when you're too tired or busy or ill to make love, and what kind of man would I be if I forced myself on you every single time I had the urge?"

Marian smiled, but it was a ghost of her usual warm beam. "I suppose a man of your prodigious appetites has to sate them constantly." She bit her lip again. "But lately, we've been making love nearly every day, and sometimes more than once a day. How much more satisfaction do you need?"

"There's a lot I want to do with you, things we did in Paris that we can't do again until after our child is born," he said baldly. "You know as well as I do that in your present state, we can't be pressed up against walls or fooling around on top of vanity tables or going at it on the floor. We can't safely achieve even some of the tamer positions we enjoy in a bed as your stomach gets rounder."

Even though he had said this without the slightest tinge of bitterness, she regarded him with shrewd eyes. "So there is a lack," she deduced. "In variety, though certainly not in frequency."

Harold shook his head. "I'm not upset about any of that. And I'm not at all unsatisfied with our lovemaking. It's just – a man has needs. Some men, a lot more than others. But I'd wager there are precious few men who don't engage in self-pleasure, even if they refuse to admit it." He looked at her just as shrewdly. "And I'd wager that some women do it, too."

Marian balked. "Well, really, I – "

But he didn't retreat, though he did bury his face in the crook of her shoulder so she wouldn't feel too interrogated as he said in a low, velvety voice, "You're a very passionate woman, my dear little librarian. Can you honestly tell me that the possibility of touching yourself has never even crossed your mind?"

"Not before our wedding night," she said firmly. "I wouldn't have known where or how to begin!"

"Of course not," he agreed, raising his head to meet her gaze again. "All you knew at the time was that you wanted to be touched, and badly. But what about after we married and you learned exactly where and how you liked to be pleasured? You never missed me so much on nights when I was working late that you ached to find your own release in the comfort and solitude of our bedroom? What about the time I was gone on that business trip to Des Moines? We were apart for a whole month. I know you were angry with me for some of that time, but you couldn't have been the only one who missed making love enough to do something about it."

There was a flash of consternation in Marian's eyes and, for a moment, he thought she might continue to protest. But then her shoulders slumped and she let out a long, trembling sigh. "Oh, Harold… I did do something about it," she confessed in a whisper, looking close to tears. "Nearly every night, I touched myself and thought of you. You'd left that love-bite on the inside of my thigh – I couldn't help reliving that wonderful moment, even long after the mark faded away. But I was so ashamed by my own weakness. Especially after I found those wretched photographs!"

"Say now," he gently chided, even as a jolt of pure pleasure surged through him and made him hard again. That wasn't what she needed right now. "It's not weakness to privately and discreetly sate a need. And once your passion was awakened, making love became just as much of a need as eating, sleeping, or relieving oneself. I certainly didn't refrain from self-pleasure while I was away from you." He leaned in and gave Marian a tender kiss on the lips. "Were you ashamed when I asked you to touch yourself in Paris?"

She shook her head vehemently. "Not at all. That was for you, Harold."

Harold's heart constricted. It was amazing, the things she would happily do for him, for love. Things that she would never do just for herself. But perhaps he could help her overcome that bothersome Victorian sensibility. "Did it feel good, though, when you touched yourself?"

He was close enough to feel the pleasant little shiver that ran through her. "It felt wonderful."

"Well," he said with a conspiratorial grin, "think of it as an act of self-love. The only time pleasure truly becomes a sin is when it's taken at someone else's expense."

"Then why does the medical establishment as well the clergy preach so vehemently against it?" Marian asked.

"Yes, yes, everyone knows what the medical establishment thinks of self-pleasure – the cause of every kind of social ill," he said in a booming, mocking voice, as if he was on the pulpit. "But do you know how they used to treat 'hysteria,' the so-called woman's disease? Doctors actually massaged women between the legs with their fingers or special instruments until they achieved 'hysterical paroxysm.' There was even scientific equipment a woman could purchase for her own personal use. Such release was considered beneficial – and healthy!"

Harold was very pleased when Marian laughed scathingly. He could always count on her to know a con when she saw one. "Why, that's no different than a man pleasuring himself – and he gets to do it for free!"

"Exactly, my dear little librarian," he said triumphantly.

She wiped away the tears of mirth from her eyes. "Well, even so, hypocrisy on the part of the medical establishment does not give one carte blanche to indulge in wanton carnality."

Harold simply smiled at that. His dear little librarian did not seem at all convinced of such dour sentiments, and he was more than happy to persuade her otherwise. "Well… the only reason I know about any of this is because, for a brief stint, I used to peddle that kind of 'scientific equipment.' And I never felt a lick of guilt about selling it, either. Until the Think System actually worked, it was one of the very few things I sold that gave people something real."

"When did you start engaging in self-pleasure, Harold?" she asked, with genuine curiosity.

He knew that tone, and his heart warmed to hear it. Bit by bit, she was letting go of her unwarranted sense of shame. So he had no compunction frankly admitting, "Since I was old enough to start coming. For boys, that happens around the same time girls' figures start taking on the curves of womanhood."

Marian wrinkled her nose. "At that age, we just learn about monthly courses. Even if a girl is lucky enough to have an enlightened mother who explains the facts of life to her, she certainly isn't encouraged to explore her own anatomy!"

"Well, neither are boys," Harold acknowledged, shaking his head in disgust. "Granted, we have a lot more latitude in doing so because people think only men have needs." He pulled his wife closer. "But you know, Marian, experience has taught me that there's no such thing as a frigid woman, just a woman who's been badly made love to. Too many men spend a great deal of time exploring only their own anatomy and, once they figure out what rings their bell, they don't bother learning how to properly ring their partner's."

Marian looked wistful. "I suppose if a woman learned a little more about her own anatomy, she might not approach the marriage bed so ill-prepared and frightened."

Harold nodded, even as his heart constricted at the memory of their honeymoon. They had been so passionately in love they couldn't keep their hands off each other by the time they made it to the altar – Marian should have had absolutely nothing to fear about making love. Yet she was almost distressingly nervous until he was able to fully show her the joy and the ecstasy she could expect to experience with him. "I've always held that since men never feel any shame about meeting their own needs, why should women?"

"I could certainly see how such a broadminded view must have been very attractive to many a lonely and unsatisfied woman," she said thoughtfully. But this time, he didn't mind her appraisal, as it was coming from a place of understanding rather than disquiet or disapproval.

"The only woman I want to attract is you, Marian," he averred. "I always think of you whenever I pleasure myself. I started imagining you – and only you – when I first came to River City."

To his delight, Marian looked thoroughly attracted. "Oh?" she said, sounding as if her breath had caught in her throat. "What were you imagining about me when I walked in on you, just now?"

Harold knew he'd finally hit home. Taking her hand in his, he brought it up to caress her breasts. Her nipples were pert and taut even before he got to them – she was aroused – and once he had her gasping in delight, he brought her hand slowly down length of her body, twitching open both her robe and negligee with his free hand so he could nestle hers in between her bare thighs. "You doing this, Marian."

His confession made her moan with intensified desire and, once she was touching herself without any further direction from him, he unfastened his trousers and started stroking himself. As he quickly and deftly brought himself to climax, he took a great deal of pleasure in the avid and ardent way that she watched him, even as she continued to caress herself.

"I should have done this for you long ago," he panted, once they were both happily spent. "So you could see that there's absolutely nothing to be ashamed of."

"I do wish you had," she said wistfully. "But I can understand why you didn't."

Harold grinned. "Well, my dear little librarian, just as I've never told you the intimate details of any of my past affairs, I didn't feel it would be the act of a gentleman to tell you about – "

" – your various rendezvous with yourself?" she finished archly, raising an eyebrow at him.

And Harold knew everything was all right with Marian's conscience again. Better than all right – they had found yet another delectable way to love each other. Giving his wife a brilliant smile and lowering his clever fingers to join her busy ones, he craned his neck and captured her mouth in a heated kiss.