Title: Mediterranean Pie
By: ElizaDoolittle
Rating: T+/M
Disclaimer: I don't own these people, too bad for that.
Type: Pre-PD (Clarisse/Rupert)
The high and low notes of the grand organ chimed and echoed through the sunlit cathedral. The place was jammed with aristocrats from far and wide and the few close friends of the bride and groom who could find a place at the magnificent wedding of the Genovian Crown Prince and Princess. To the massive crowd of patriotic Genovians cheering outside the cathedral and the throng of guests chattering happily about the service, the new pair would be the finest rulers Genovia could offer, and their children surely would be the public's to adore. 'What a gorgeous ceremony, but did you see her gown? It must have cost a fortune' the women gasped in their obsessive gossip over the bride, while the men had their own to say of the groom, 'Did you see the rock he put on her finger? If only we all had our great-great-great grandmother's jewels to dote on our wives.' These lofty conversations, and those of the other guests, slowly led them out of the huge doors of the cathedral, where they waited for the happy couple to feel their due rain under the rice tossed.
Oh, how beautiful she looked in the gown that had been labored over for hours, holding the arm of the handsome, young prince beside her. They smiled and waved to the enormous crowd and received a cry of loyalty from their future people. But what was that shimmering in the bride's eye? Was it a hint of sadness—that tear or two ready to slip covertly beneath sweeping lashes? And what of those sour glances hiding under the groom's gracious smile? Was it distaste for such a grand display of royalty and wealth? Or was it the bride he scowled at secretly?
Yes, perfection was the word on the lips of all those present for such a day, all but the bride and groom.
He tossed down his finely made top hat on the plush seat of the carriage they would ride in to the reception and looked quickly towards Clarisse, who was carefully lifting her dress and stepping up into the carriage. He sat on the far side and gazed out the window at the waving crowds, while she quietly slid into the carriage next to him.
She didn't say a word. What was there to say, after all? They hardly knew each other and yet they were married. It hadn't really ever been settled properly, but she had laughed it off as the duty to her country. And honestly, he didn't even care that she was now tied to royalty and such an upstanding life. No, why would a brute like Rupert care.
They had sat next to each other several times before the wedding, at the announcing of their engagement, at the dinner at the palace a few days ago and one other time she could hardly remember. All she knew was that they did not get along. One of the main reasons why they had been paired together was because of their outstanding alikeness in the political realm, and how well they would work together under the same views for their country. Had anyone actually stopped to think whether or not the couple might like each other? Of course not, that topic was brushed aside—just as she now felt sitting next to a completely uncaring husband. Not a word was spoken the entire way over to the palace. She looked out the window hopelessly at the scenery and the waving people—oh, what had she gotten herself into?
Once more, as the couple sat side by side in silence, the public sighed at the grandeur of it all and how well they suited each other. It had actually been brewing in Rupert to say something to the woman beside him for the first time that day, besides the words 'I do'. He cautiously picked up the bottle of his favorite wine he that he had shared with her once before and offered politely, "Would you care for some?"
Taken aback, Clarisse's eyes shot towards him at the sound of his attempt at politeness. "No—no thank you, I find the flavor slightly sour," she said quietly.
His jaw tightened at the decline—she was trying him. "Not the only sour thing tonight," he said, then slammed the bottle back on the table and shot a glare at her. He turned his body ever so slightly so that he faced more away from her and gazed over the guests below at their tables.
What sorry excuse for a wife he'd picked! He was absolutely convinced she was frightened of him; the only thing that had made him pick her was the persuasive words from others about her political agreements with his views and her loyalty to Genovia. 'Bah,' he scoffed inwardly. If she were anything loyal, she would pull out of this terrible pall of a mood she was now in and talk to him.
Clarisse had kept herself silent after he had turned away; her lower lip trembled in despair. She wanted to please him, but everything she said or did seemed to disappoint him. What a slap in the face that last remark had been. She really did think he was a good-looking man. She couldn't find any reason why she wouldn't fancy him, besides him being so downright rude. His parents were quite the opposite and she adored her new mother- and father-in-law. Then why, oh why couldn't she even find it in her husband to like him just a bit?
She sat back and tried to forget those last hurtful words as the night progressed. A lovely and delicious dinner was served, and the cutting of the cake finally came. Both of them held the knife as it sliced through the cake, her dainty hand felt so light on top of his much bigger hand, his skin tingling at the touch of her soft skin. That not being the only tradition of the wedding night, they bravely endured the rest of the night and acted as happily as they could to perceive the contentment everyone felt for them. 'What contentment though, honestly?' they both thought.
'The most dreaded part of the night has finally arrived,' Clarisse anxiously thought as they came back to the palace and were taken to their new suites. All of her personal affects had been brought during the day, she had assumed, as she discovered a wardrobe full of her clothing. Along with her casual wear, a great deal of classy items had been placed in the closet and a very sassy looking nightgown was in with her nightclothes. She hesitantly approached the great four-poster bed after slipping into the attractive nightgown made of silk, but only with great nervousness. Rupert was seated on the bed, flipping through some novel. He then glanced up at her. She climbed under the very empty-feeling covers and laid her head on the pillow, her heart audibly pounding out of her chest.
"I'm very tired after today; I think I'll go to sleep…" Rupert yawned and switched off the bedside lamp, leaving the room in darkness.
Oh, how embarrassed she felt that she couldn't even interest her husband into anything else on their wedding night! And for goodness' sake, an unconsummated marriage, and a royal one at that, was extremely unlucky. She shifted restlessly onto her side, facing away from him. This was completely opposite to her assumptions of what this night would be like. Maybe, just maybe, things would be better in the morning, before they left for their honeymoon.
She awoke from her sleep early and found herself alone. 'How typical of him,' she thought. She also found out that morning that her bags already packed for their departure. Well, she shrugged, there was absolutely no reason why she should be awake now! And with that thought she flopped back down for a much more comfortable rest.
They were off to Greece for their honeymoon, and for a total of three weeks, they'd be away from home. The private plane ride had been utterly boring; they both had read the entire way. Oddly enough, their books were by the same author, though they wouldn't admit it.
They were greeted with all sorts of officials at the airport, escorting them to the historic manor in the countryside that they would be staying in. Their location was quite secret, of course.
After hours of being greeted and having their pictures taken, they were finally able to settle into the villa, both exhausted and wanting to comfortably read their books. After all, their being in each other's company wasn't all too warm.
Night fell quickly on them and they both tossed their books aside to find a peaceful slumber in the foreign household. 'Frailty, thy name is woman!' Rupert quoted to himself as he sat in bed and his wife—as he now was supposed to call her—quietly crept into bed.
"Good night," she said just loud enough for him to hear as he turned off the light, settling into the darkness, and gruffly replied likewise.
It was just the same as the night before; the two slept on their proper sides of the bed without letting on, like any sort of married couple, and with a still unconsummated marriage. How awkward. Summer, as they had found in their stuffy room, was quite hotter in Greece when one was trying to sleep under heavy blankets. The two frequently shifted about in the bed, their sheets unwelcomingly warm against the skin. It was when Rupert's leg touched hers that he remembered the presence of a woman in his bed. They both tensed and turned back to their sides to contemplate whether the other had felt the slight contact.
Both unconsciously gave in to their need for sleep and it wasn't until Clarisse woke in the very early hours of the morning—or late at night as one might see it—that she had found herself tightly tucked in her husband's arms. Her heart was heavy with excitement. They both must have moved closer in their sleep. But the part that surprised Clarisse was that she did not mind it at all. He had been an awful brute, yet somewhere in her heart were butterflies flitting about wildly at his touch, the warmth against her and how wonderful it felt. She knew her cheeks were warm with a blush and she closed her eyes as she relaxed into what should have been their relationship towards each other as husband and wife.
On the morrow, Rupert woke with a start at the chirping of birds just outside the master bedroom's window. He heaved an annoyed sigh and dropped his head back on the pillow. His hand was loosely across her side and he pulled her closer as he closed his eyes again. His eyes shot open. 'Just a moment, now,' he thought. Was he, or was he not, holding his wife tight to him, as if the two were actually a couple? There really wasn't anything he could do now; she would wake if he moved. He swallowed bravely and closed his eyes to sleep it off.
Shortly after Rupert had dozed off again, the birds began again with their musical show; Clarisse yawned and stretched her arms slightly. "Oh, do be quiet," she scolded the birds outside and turned onto her back.
"They are rather a nuisance," Rupert's low voice replied as he pulled his arm away from where she lay, and stretched as well. It took several moments before they realized they'd just comfortably been in each other's arms, AND they'd spoken!
It was Rupert who swung his legs out of the bed and hastily left the situation. He went and splashed water on his face to wake himself up. "How odd that must have been for her, though," he sighed in his thoughts and decided to take a quick shower.
Clarisse smiled to herself in the empty room. It wasn't much, but maybe things would be better now. She heard the familiar sound of the shower coming from the bathroom and decided it was best she too got up and started what would be a most interesting day in Greece with her husband. She threw open her wardrobe and stood in thought. She had chosen a lovely little dress that would be light under the hot summer sun. She had dropped the nightshift off her shoulders and was reaching for a slip to wear under the dress when the bathroom door swung open and there stood Rupert.
His jaw dropped at the most incredible new view of what he was now very proud to say was his wife! She snatched the undershirt and threw it in front of her chest, as if she was caught by a complete stranger and not her husband. Rupert chided himself inwardly for gawking at her and turned around, back to the bathroom, saying "Sorry…" and repeating the apology in a muttered tone. A sly smile crossed his lips behind the closed door. Had he known that THAT was what lay beneath a layer of cloth, maybe he wouldn't have been so harsh on her all along. Not to say, of course, that she wasn't a snappy little annoyance all the same.
On the other side of the door, Clarisse was blushing profusely. That certainly wasn't intended! But after all, he was her husband. Not to say, of course, that he wasn't a ruthless pig all the same. She picked up a few of her things from a small-mirrored table and headed for the other bathroom across the hall of the second floor. Perhaps it was best that they tried to be more aware of each other's presence and give each other their space. It seemed both husband and wife had concluded from the awkward moments thus far that today, if at all possible, they would speak civilly with one another.
On this second day of their honeymoon, it had been arranged for some sight seeing and their first stop was the Parthenon. They slowly circled the great historic site at the Acropolis of Athens; Rupert snapping pictures wildly with his beloved camera while Clarisse had her nose deep in a travel guidebook. "It says here 'The Parthenon is regarded as the most important surviving building of Classical Greece. The temple was built for the Greek goddess Athena, the goddess of wisdom. In the 6th century…" Rupert managed to block out the history lesson as he marveled at the champion, illustrious work. "Are you even listening?" Clarisse spoke sharply, cocking her head and giving him a look.
"No, I don't need the details, I just want to look at it," he retorted, kneeling and taking a well-angled picture in the sunlight.
Clarisse's shoulders drooped; she really was trying. She shoved the travel guide back in her bag and folded her arms intolerantly. The Parthenon really was a wondrous beauty; she could have stayed there all day if Rupert hadn't started nagging to get on with their sightseeing.
The rest of the day consisted of jumping all around to the historic places in Athens, temples and many other ancient things. Their last adventure of historic intrigue in Athens was the old center where there were ancient buildings and temples every step. Instead of reading the travel guide, Clarisse now had it employed as a fan in the sweltering heat. "Smile," Rupert caught her off guard on purpose and then dashed away from her imminent glower, off to take more pictures. She grimaced as they reached yet more steps, she was so tired, but she lumbered up them anyways.
Rupert, as he was a gentleman on most occasions, offered his hand, "May I be of some help?"
Clarisse had been trying all day to get some sort of kindly relationship started, and now when she wanted nothing to do with him, he was being a gentleman. "No thank you, I can do it quite fine myself," she sniffed, and charged up the steps past him.
"Well excuse me, Cleopatra," he snorted with a slight bow, as his wife would not let a man stand in her way as dear Pharaoh wouldn't have either. He turned and looked back down the steps. "I think I'll go this way…" he said and headed back down in another direction with his camera at the ready.
Clarisse's eyes narrowed from the top of the stairs, what a vulgar idiot! She had even so much as exerted herself to hasten up the stone steps and now she would have to trudge back down them! Oh, he was a vile, foul husband indeed. "Are you just going to leave me here?" she shouted down to him, her feet aching as she slowly descended without grace or polish.
"I had planned on it," he hollered back and rounded a corner out of sight, laughing silently at the sound of his wife letting out an agonized bellow of dislike towards him.
When the two arrived back at the villa, exhausted and famished, they found a delicious dinner ready and waiting and they ate in silence, devouring it all. After their supper, they actually remained in the same room as they watched a bit of television. Clarisse didn't speak a word of Greek herself, as yet, so Rupert was the one flicking back and forth on the few channels available, while she read quietly. Her reading stopped at the sound of a news channel in English, and she looked up to watch the world news. The reporter was in mid sentence when Rupert changed the channel to a game of football with Greek being spoken. "Rupert," she scolded, "Please go back, I don't speak the language," referring to Greek.
"But I do," he starred at the television and followed the players dodging after the ball in the match intently, ignoring her request.
She gave an angry huff and tossed her book down, stomping up the stairs in decision to go to bed then, rather than later. He smirked as he heard a door slam behind her and then silence—alone at last.
The next morning they awoke, finding themselves lying closer together than the other two times they'd gone to bed, and they didn't seem to find it so awkward anymore. Clarisse rose first that day and rushed for the bathroom while he gave a great, pleasurable yawn, his eyes closed in relaxation. She left the door slightly ajar; it was her turn for trickery. He slowly galumphed his way to the bathroom door, placing his hand on the knob to push it open when it slammed in his face. This time it was Clarisse who snickered at the irritated noise coming from her husband and was proud she finally was getting some enjoyment out of him.
At breakfast, the cook served a delightfully refreshing fruit dish with freshly squeezed orange juice. "Could you please pass the orange juice?" Rupert asked Clarisse, picking up his glass and waiting for her to oblige.
"I could," she said most coyly, never lifting her eyes off the fruit dish. He grunted with a shake of his head, reaching for the pitcher himself. She too could play the game, he thought; he would just have to outsmart her then.
Their plan for that day, the third in the three-week span, was to go off into the countryside, to see the people acting out their daily lives and for a tempting picnic fashioned by the cook.
It was a bit of a hike and a plod, but they eventually found themselves on top a quiet hill over looking the beautiful Mediterranean Sea. "How breathtaking," Clarisse remarked, her eyes transfixed on the blue seas and the picturesque opaque blue skies.
"Will you sit down? I can't see a thing," Rupert exclaimed, already sitting on the arranged blanket and staring up at her. It hadn't occurred to Clarisse in the beginning, that maybe his joking manner was not distaste for her, but rather a sense of playfulness she was unaccustomed to. She smiled and sat down beside him, opening the quaint looking picnic basket and pulling out the gourmet treasures inside.
They sat in silence, not the same awkward indifference anymore, a silence overtaken with the peaceful sea before them and a cooling breeze in there midst as the indulged on sweets and delicacies. Clarisse had noticed immediately that this sort of feeling to be at peace brought out another side of her husband, one of the many aspects of him she had yet to explore.
"I don't mean to come off so…unscrupulous." He suddenly broke the silence without looking at her, his eyes locked on the horizon, as it seemed to calm him. Clarisse knew forthwith he was trying to tell her he didn't mean to be such a brute. "I never pined to marry anyways," he stated insipidly, his eyes roaming over the hillside now.
Clarisse had mixed feelings of this statement. Not wanting to be married to person such as her or did he have his own dreams…ones that he knew were never to come true. "I fancy I made the right decision," he sighed, his eyes turning towards her now.
"Marrying, you mean?" she asked, trying to understand him more intimately.
"You," he said, turning back to the horizon. "I didn't want one of those blasted sirens who used to try to seduce me, any chance at the crown and they'd snatch it up in a second. You seemed original and unlike the others. I took a chance." He looked down to his hands, deep in thought, Clarisse knew. And what could she say to that?
"Yes—well," Rupert cleared his throat and then jumped to his feet. "I think I've had enough of this…this…scenery," he stammered. It wasn't very often he ever spoke to anyone about his 'feelings'. Ever since childhood he had been trained to be a good king, an intelligent, just and trustworthy sovereign, while always honest and loyal. When had he ever experienced youth? He'd been a half-king instead, who assumed feelings were meant to be kept to oneself. These weren't sentiments he liked going near, only he felt as if with Clarisse it was important. They were married and they were to spend the rest of their lives together—he had to start somewhere.
A wonderful sense of trust was leaping through her; she had known he was not a sentimental man at all, and somehow she knew this 'chat' they'd had was genuinely important to him, sacred almost in the manner of her being a woman he hardly knew. Whoever had once said emotion was a weakness had been absolutely and incredibly wrong—it was a great strength in a person.
He stood up and stretched, Clarisse gazing up at his muscled figure. She didn't mind that he stood and observed the scenery while she packed up their little luncheon; as a matter of fact, she was starting to not mind him at all either! No, she had a growing feeling of fondness towards him and his childish ways.
"Come on, get on with it then!" he barked, looking down at his wife who was in a daze of sorts. "I shall leave without you," he declared as he then turned and marched down the hill. She smiled inwardly and hurried to catch up with him.
The warm villa was in a happy mood with its guests content and at rest for the first time the entire week. After supper, the housekeeper peeked into the sitting room where they read and announced an urgent phone call for Rupert. Subsequently enthralled in her book, Clarisse hardly noticed the time flying by as had an hour lapsed since Rupert had taken his call. She put her book down and tiptoed to the door of the small study where he spoke garishly. From what she could hear, he did not seem at all pleased, with his voice raised in anger. She jumped at the sudden sound of the phone being smashed onto its cradle. Gently pushing open the door, she found him sitting at the desk across the room, deep in thought with a closed fist.
"What was that all about?" she asked slowly, standing patiently in the middle of the room. His eyes caught hers in a glance, he seemed frustrated, not at all the same.
"Nothing. Nonsense from Parliament, nothing."
"I had thought it was urgent? Really, I can tell something is the matter—"
"I said nothing," he spat without heed, standing and facing the tall shelf of books.
Did she dare go closer? She did. She could feel his muscles tense when she let a hand rest on his arm, something was certainly upsetting him.
"Please, tell me, what-"
"Leave me alone, please," he said, a pleading look in his eyes. She moved her hands to his shoulder, turning him to face her when jerked his arm away violently, "Leave me alone, damn it!" he roared. "Can't you understand, I said get out," he thundered, the colour of his face still visibly heated from the telephone conversation and his jaw tightly clenched.
Clarisse backed away slowly; he was in a temper she had never imagined. She blinked repeatedly at the stinging tears forming in her eyes. He stalked over to the window, apparently that was all he had to say to her. She hastened away from the brute to the door, tears welling and ready to spill at the eye, her own hands now clenched in fists as she halted at the door, "You know, you are a self-centered, malicious and dreadful excuse for a husband and a king-to-be!" she cried in a shriek so loud she didn't care who heard her and slammed the door shut behind her.
That night, when Clarisse lay in bed after hours of not being able to sleep in thought, she heard the bedroom door click open. He even so much as dared to sleep in the same bed as her.
He flicked on the light and froze; there she sat with her arms folded, and her back against the headboard of the bed. She had a most foul look on her face. He straightened his back; he would not let her back him down like some vile rat. He disappeared into the bathroom, pulling off his shirt halfway in his approach to the door. Clarisse bit her lip—oh, he did have a fine looking figure! Not that it mattered under such rotten and abhorrent circumstances.
He came back into the bedchamber looking ready for battle if there should be one and turned off the light, leaving the room in semi-darkness, aided by the lamp at the bedside. "Very well then, I'm—" he began his apology when she jumped at the first chance to lecture him.
"No, you aren't sorry! You're a terrible liar you know that. You really are. And you—"
Rupert once again managed to block out the drowning words, sitting and nodding along with the conversation as if he was paying attention. "Clarisse," he began, placing a hand on her shoulder, "I—" he started once more and was then interrupted.
"Don't you dare touch me!" she screeched, scooting away from him, "I will never let you touch me even if you were the last man on earth and you were begging on your knees." she finished with a sneer. She turned on her side, facing away from him, "Turn that light out."
Come morning, Clarisse had yet to forgive him for his terrible behavior since their wedding day. She rose from bed hastily and swung the bathroom door heavily in its frame, the doorway shuddering in response. Rupert woke with a start and scowled at the door. Be damned if he cared what she thought. He got out of bed and strode heavily to the other bathroom.
Their plans for that day were not grand and did not require energy, for they would be going to the gallery and museum of art, as they both did enjoy modern and ancient creations. Things did not improve throughout their wandering in the large building. Every time Clarisse was at one piece, contemplating the meaning of it, and Rupert approached to stand next to her, she was off to the next piece. After a while he gave up. She obviously was furious with his treatment towards her the night before. The day seemed to waste away in that museum of masterpieces, and they soon found it was time to return for another scrumptious dinner at the villa.
Lamb, a favored food there, with olives and other vegetables native to the area, was served. It was completely to die for, the two deemed it, though of course they did not say it aloud—their dinner was once again in silence. Near the end of their royal feast, Rupert asked politely "Could you pass the salt, please?"
This time, instead of some childish comeback, she said nothing at all. He decided now was time to get out of this nasty situation. Women could honestly hold a grudge forever. "Clarisse, you can't just ignore me! I told you I was sorry, what more do you want from me?"
Clarisse looked up at him, eyes narrowed; apparently she thought differently. She tossed down her fork and knife and opened her mouth to speak with a pointed finger, when the cook came in with a trolley of desserts. They both nodded thankfully to the cook for his laboring over the divine food and he left quietly. Rupert took a slice of the apple pie and Clarisse had her eye on the cheesecake with strawberry sauce.
She shoved the fork into the dessert, she wanted to say some rather nasty things right then and there, but she was too much of a lady.
"Do you like pie, Clarisse?" she heard her husband ask idly, a different sort of tone in his voice then the last two days. She looked up for a moment just to catch him pulling back on his utensil, catapulting a forkful of pie directly at her. She gaped and prepared for it to collide with her, nearly hitting her in the face and landing just above her chest. The cold whip cream and pie slid down her blouse into the curves of her bosom.
"Rupert!" she shrieked, clawing desperately at the cold stickiness in her shirt. "It's in my shirt!"
"It's in your hair," he started to laugh, firing another one into her delicate and softly shaped hair.
Her jaw dropped and she felt the oozing bites of pie smothered in whip cream drip down her head. "Why you..." She was utterly shocked. Digging her hands into her own cake, standing and leaping towards him, she shoved the cake in his face.
She laughed heartily from somewhere deep within her as she smeared it around, reaching for more and then combing it through his hair. "There!" she said triumphantly, wiping her hands on his shirt-covered chest while sitting nonchalantly on his lap. The two looked at each contently for what seemed like ages, not a care in the world.
What did they care? They were married, covered in dessert and she was straddled on top of him.
Slowly her hands slid up to the nape his neck, drawing closer to him, much closer. A lusty desire was creeping its way into both of them, a fire pooling in them as their lips were almost touching, Rupert softly caressing her back. "I'm sorry..." he murmured against her rosy cheeks, wanting to pull her even closer to him.
"You're forgiven." Clarisse dashed the words onto his lips and their mouths crashed together. She simply melted into his arms, encircled in his warmth and caresses unknown to her. Kisses so sweet they wouldn't be forgotten very easily. She didn't care if the man wasn't her true, divine love—he would do. He nibbled her lower lip gently; she had to suppress a moan of gratified pleasure. "We shouldn't," she breathed, breaking their kisses for a moment to speak —and breathe—, "we're in the dining room," she managed to finish before he lured her back to him for another kiss. Her cheeks burned in a deep blush, her blood boiling with an unsatisfied need, a want so strong that the kisses didn't seem to quite complete it. They had found themselves with an uncontrollable excitement surging through them.
"Is it best that I—" he kissed her quickly, "Beg you," he kissed her again, "On my knees, now?" His hands roamed her petite figure—that sway in her hips he'd seen her strut now beneath his hands, creamy soft skin wanting to be touched. She eagerly allowed him to explore her mouth, her soft lips inviting for more. She was quite unfamiliar to these new sensations; they were divine in every way. He savored the tangy sweet taste of the wine on her lips while his hands slowly fondled beneath the cover of her blouse. She pressed herself closer yet to him, more—she needed more, her hunger was growing fast. Her hands fumbled at the throat of his shirt, the tie finally coming off with a mighty yank.
His kisses fell across her soft cheeks, dropping to her neck, caressing with his hands. She bit her lip back from the moan that wished to escape, he trailed his hand over the swells of her breasts, rising and falling with his slightest movements. She couldn't bear it, the blood pumping and rushing through her veins—she stole another kiss, overwhelmed with lust. "Please," she gasped against his lips, half pleading for him to stop this maddening torture and half desiring more. It pleased him that she reacted so violently to his kisses, he was quite aware of his own arousal in this intensely desirous situation. He pulled back for a moment, admiring the virtuous woman he'd married, the fine queen and mother she'd make; it all seemed too perfect to be true.
Her heartbeat quickened as his fingers skillfully attempted the clasps of her lacy bra. His other effort was gently tugging at her blouse tucked neatly in her skirt, their breathless intentions taking control. "Please, before I must beg it of you," Clarisse exclaimed, quite flustered. Taking great effort, she pushed herself away from him, picked up her discarded heels and then sauntered to the door.
Inviting eyes hidden beneath sweeping lashes were calling out to him, a breathless, heated desire entailed. In her hand she held his disheveled tie, the front of her blouse half undone to reveal creamy, voluptuous curves. Her eyes beckoned for him to follow—true divine love or not, she would do.