Happy Belated Birthday to my dear friend and sister Miscreant Rose. The prompt you sent was golden, so I hope you enjoy its fulfillment. :)
It's hot tonight, hotter than it should be for May in Boston, and she stands by the window, as close as she dares, reveling in the feel of cool air on sweat-slicked skin. She hikes up her nightgown, allowing the breeze to brush her thighs, and she sighs in relief, nature's touch much preferable to the self-serving gropes of her late husband, endured under layers of quilts and clothing, masked beneath the shadow of night.
Leopold's death had been a more than welcome release. Her lungs breathe in wafts of independence borne by impending rain.
She'd been a child bride, a pawn to bolster her father's business, her future the necessary price to keep her mother living in the style to which she'd become accustomed.
Foolish girl. Marriage has nothing to do with how you feel about your partner, and sentiment only renders a woman weak and useless. Close your mouth, open your legs and you will quickly become the reigning monarch in your home. It's astonishing how gullible the male of the species is rendered when his cock rests in your palm.
If only her palm had been the only place into which his cock had been pressed. She nearly gags at memories best buried alongside the man, the bitterness of her mother's advice spat out repeatedly as she attempted to rinse her mouth behind closed doors while he snored in lazy satisfaction.
Leopold hadn't been cruel, but neither had he been affectionate. He's simply been—had created for himself an existence that didn't include any consideration towards her personal desires, clinging to the memories of a wife long dead and a daughter now married and living but a day's journey away. Regina met his physical needs, needs she neither shared nor enjoyed as her eyes sealed themselves to block out what her husband took from her without ever bothering to seek her consent. Hot hands had marked her, his tongue staining her flesh, his invasion branding her as property, an ornament to display for public approval, a body to warm his own when misguided masculinity succumbed to the need to dominate.
It was understood. She was to do as he instructed. After all, she had been his wife.
But she is a wife no more. Thank God.
Lightening cracks the sky, and a breeze pregnant with moisture caresses her with more tenderness than she'd ever experienced at the hands of a man, tickling her neck, brushing her legs, hardening her nipples. She licks her lips, fighting back the urge to run downstairs and out the back door, to lose herself in the impending storm without inhibition, to allow herself to feel once again rather than seal away unruly emotions that craft the very essence of who she is.
She is Regina Blanchard. Wealthy widow. Secret patriot. A woman teetering on the verge of living.
Her body is willing, her skin crying out for nature to wash away the remains of the dead, her soul craving freedom from the confines of femininity. But her mind remembers the man in her house, the British soldier who'd been quartered there for more than a fortnight, the result of an agreement Leopold had forged before his sudden and unexpected death. She'd had less than a month of freedom before he arrived on her doorstep, all blue eyes and red coat, making her treacherous heart pound in more ways than one. He is dangerous, this soldier, an intelligent, upstanding man who watches her in a manner that both thrills and unnerves her, a man whose kindness arouses her suspicions while it lowers her guard.
A man who had offered to find other lodgings when he discovered her husband was no longer living. She'd almost taken him up on his offer, but she'd surprised herself and insisted that he stay.
What had she been thinking? Rational thought had had nothing to do with her bold impulsiveness, she realizes with a start. She'd been feeling what women aren't supposed to feel, the soft brushings of arousal, the tingles of desire, the wanton heat of lust.
This man is bad for her peace of mind. But God help her, she doesn't want him to leave.
More lightening, the low rumble of thunder, and her feet are on the move, stealthy and silent as whispered endearments, and she makes her way down steps that creak under her weight. She pauses, listening for signs that would signal he's heard her, but there's no sound of human origin, only the din of nature's impending release. Her heart flutters in anticipation.
She practically skips to the back door, unchaining the lock, opening her own personal portal to a night of forbidden freedom. The wind lifts her nightgown, and she wishes she'd taken off her underclothes, cursing herself for not possessing the brazenness to step outside in such a manner. But she does unravel her plait, allowing the breeze to have its way with her hair, stroking it into a frenzy, carrying it higher and higher until it envelops her in threads of raven silk.
Drops of rain dot her skin, dampening what clothing she wears, and she laughs at the sheer wildness of it all, lifting her face and twirling with arms extended. This—this, she whispers to herself, and she runs her hands over damp locks and pores, stepping out further into the wet darkness that summons her to the edge of all she knows. Her clothes cling to her, and she dares to touch her own breast, to revel in what she'd been denied repeatedly in her marriage bed.
Are all men so inept in pleasuring a woman, she wonders?
It is then she realizes she is not alone.
A cough, a footfall, and she spins on damp feet, her heart in her throat as the rain picks up in earnest. She cannot move as he steps towards her, his own undergarments plastered to his body, his gaze direct and bold.
"I'm sorry," she stumbles, apologizing out of habit before she reminds herself that he is a guest in her home. "I didn't realize…"
"Neither did I," he answers, his tone lower than she's ever heard it, its rough edge making her terribly aware of his proximity. "Or I wouldn't have presumed to…"
He stops just as she forgets to breath, and they're closer than she realized, the rain a mere afterthought to the storm brewing inside of her. He looks nothing like Leopold, is hard where her husband was soft, appears compassionate where he had been apathetic, and he gazes at her as if she were an ancient goddess of nature rather than an afterthought of a bride.
"You're staring."
The words are out of her mouth before she can call them back.
"I am," he admits, and she's now painfully aware his state of undress as well as her own. "And it is not my right to do so."
His gaze never wavers, but neither does hers, and she's thrilled in a way that makes her feel wanton, powerful and all together womanly. He's magnificent, a specimen that reminds her of sculptures carved by Renaissance masters, and her hands long to touch him, to learn if he's cool like marble or warm against her skin, to see what it's like to trace well-defined muscle, to discover whether his touch would untangle the knots in her stomach or set her over a precipice that is suddenly and dangerously alluring.
"A gentleman would look away," she murmurs, her tone far steadier than she feels, and he steps closer then, his hand reaching out to cup her cheek. She trembles at the contact of wet on wet.
"True," he admits with a slight shrug. "But I'm no gentleman. I'm a soldier."
She swallows, her mouth parched, her inner thighs aching beyond reason.
"If I were a gentleman, I would never encroach upon your grief as I am doing," he adds with a softness that contrasts perfectly with the sculpted edges of his flesh. His eyes drop then, her cheek pressing into his palm until he looks at her directly yet again.
"You believe that I mourn my husband?" she whispers, and his eyes narrow somewhat. "Because I don't. I never have."
"He was cruel to you?" he questions, and they are now nose to nose.
"No," she returns. "But neither was he kind."
The lines of his face grimace in the lightening, and she notes a tightness to his jaw.
"An arranged marriage?" he inquires, and she shrugs this time, unable to look away from him even as they both stand dripping wet. "As was my own?"
It's the first he's spoken of a wife, and she wonders if the woman is dead, assuming this must be the case as he just referred to his marriage in the past tense.
"No," she breathes. "A forced one."
His inhale nearly swallow her own.
"Force is never productive and is usually the least humane means to an end," he reasons as she blinks back the rain, starting at the sharp edge of lightening striking somewhere close.
"Yet you're a soldier," she reasons. He nods, denying nothing. "You're on the wrong side, you know."
He smirks then, biting his lower lip in a manner that does things to her, things she doesn't quite understand but longs to with a depth that frightens her.
"I thought you were a loyalist," he returns, and he's so close, so very, very close.
"Oh no," she hums, daring to lay a hand on the soaked fabric covering his chest, feeling muscle ripple against her palm. Her head is spinning, yet her mind is clear, and she wonders what her mother would think of her now, here, nearly naked in the rain, touching a man who is not her husband, a man who fights for the enemy, no less. "I'm far more of a rebel."
"That explains it, then," he whispers, backing her under a small patch of shelter. He's hard against her, there's very little between them, and she licks her lips in anticipation, completely caught up in eyes that watch her with a heady mix of tenderness and heat.
"Explains what?" she dares, quirking a brow in his direction, effectively silenced by his mouth and tongue with a kiss that changes everything.