Henry.
The name flitted through Emma's mind, gentle and warm as the sunlight pouring through the window, urging her to open her eyes. She peeked from behind a hand with a bruised wrist, and gazing upon the blueish hue, her smile faded. Though the man beside her was the man she had dreamt of, he was not the man who had shared her marriage bed.
It was her husband's movement which had woken her, and as Henry rose, Emma sat up and saw where Edward's – indeed, Henry's own – seed had spilled from her, staining the sheets beneath them. She covered the splotches with the unsoiled sheet gathered about her waist and clutched it to her chest, though the nearly sheer white fabric provided little in the way of modesty.
Her nipples hardened to sensitive points at the sight of her husband's retreating naked form, his powerful body perfectly built to enfold her in his arms, and when he turned to approach the wardrobe, just a glimpse of his rigid manhood made her sex stir with lust. He was more than ready for her; why would he not share their marriage bed?
"Henry?"
"Yes, Emma?" he answered, retrieving his undergarments and laying them aside.
"Shall we have breakfast together?"
He spared her only a glance as he selected a pair of trousers, draping them over a chair before the vanity, and set about obtaining a shirt and waistcoat. "I'm due at the hospital this morning."
"At nine o'clock. It's not yet seven." Did he forget she knew his schedule? Heaven knew there was little else to occupy her time but to memorise such details. "Please, join me."
He met her gaze in the vanity mirror, his eyes darkening with irritation… or was it lust? His jaw clenched as he swallowed, seeming to linger upon her reflection. At last, he looked away, parting his hair with a comb and tying it back.
"Apologies, my love, but I cannot."
Though his words were endearing, they carried the tone he took with too-familiar strangers; indeed, Emma realized, that was what she had become to the man she loved.
"Henry," she said, a single tear sliding down her cheek. "Please don't leave me here alone."
His reflection glanced to her once more, and his stern expression softened. After a moment's hesitation, he retrieved a robe and tied it tightly about himself, though it could not conceal the evidence of his desire as he returned to their bed.
"Emma." He sat upon the edge of the mattress, laying his hand over her own by her side. When he said nothing more, she entwined their fingers, leaning in for a kiss – one she was denied.
"Please," she said, craning to follow as he turned from her, "tell me why I may not kiss my own husband."
Tears glistened in his eyes as he looked back to her, and he brought her hand to his lips, barely brushing her knuckles with the softest of caresses. The sensation sent shivers of dangerous fire through her affection-starved body, desperate for the touch of her beloved, and his gentle fingers cupped the side of her face in the most tender of gestures. This alone was bliss, but still, she detested that he made no move to give her the kiss she so craved.
"It's better this way, for both of us," he said. "It is agony to have touched you… tasted you… been one with you, yet to never know the pleasure of it."
"You can, Henry," she whispered, and kissed his palm. "Right now."
Henry's eyes closed at the caress of her lips, and she felt a shudder of lust course through him. Yet, when he looked back to her, he shook his head.
"Believe me, Emma, I would give anything to take you in my arms and make love to you the way you deserve," he said. "But I dare not."
"Why?"
"While Hyde lives within me, I cannot take that risk." He set her hand upon the sheets, letting go. "If he were to know we had shared this bed… I cannot bear to think what he might do."
Emma drew her fingers into a fist. Why did it matter what Edward thought? How absurd to use Henry's memory to claim her for his own wife, yet deny her the company of her true husband.
"He doesn't have to know." She reached for Henry's hand again, but he stood and retreated to the lifeless fireplace, his back to her once more.
"He will."
"How can you be so certain?"
"Because I would know." He glanced at her over his shoulder. "He will see it in your eyes, and he will hurt you."
Emma looked to the bruises on her wrists, thinking of other, more intimate wounds only recently healed. The pain of Edward's fury was nothing to the agony of Henry's loss.
"He has already hurt me, Henry. If it means you will be my husband, it is a risk I will gladly take."
"But I will not," he said, his tone harsh, too like the very man he loathed, and Emma flinched.
The tick of the clock echoed in their silence, and as Henry turned to resume dressing, Emma could bear it no longer.
"Has he told you we are not to make love?" she asked, her pulse racing as the robe fell about Henry's ankles, baring again the body she desired with such passion.
"He doesn't need to. The way he described you…"
Emma's brow furrowed. Described her? The two of them – for two men, they certainly were – surely did not speak to each other; Henry had made that clear enough the first time she had inquired about their interactions, for lack of a better word. Her curiosity was piqued. How, indeed, did they communicate? And what had Edward said of her?
"He believes you belong to him," Henry said. "That is enough."
"I belong to no one, but I am your wife, Henry. Only yours."
Emma shifted beneath the sheet, intending to go to him, but Henry rushed to her side and took her hands in his. She allowed it, indulging in only a quick glance at his nakedness, though she knew his nearness was only a means to prevent her from tempting him with the body he had forsaken.
"As it should be, my love, but you cannot let him know it," he said. "Please, Emma, I beg of you, do nothing to anger him. If something were to happen to you, I…"
His voice was rough with tears that now threatened to spill, and Emma squeezed his hands in hers, wishing with all her heart that she dared embrace him, but she could not risk his leaving again. He turned from her, as if to do so would take from him his weakness. She waited until he looked to her again to gently lay her hand upon his cheek.
"I will try. For your sake, I will endure this, but it cannot go on forever. There must be some way to be rid of this… this monster."
"There is. I'm certain of it. But it will take time, and caution. If he should become aware of my continued efforts to eradicate him… I believe it would mean the death of everyone I have ever cared for." He choked back a sob. "Please, Emma, I cannot lose you."
"Hush now, my love," she said, softly caressing his cheek. "It will be all right. I'm here. I will be here, always."
Slowly, she brought his hand to her lips as he had done, kissing each finger, and Henry seemed to relax; only when he made a soft moan did she look down and see just how severe his arousal had become. His rigid shaft strained with throbbing veins, the head of his manhood flushed deep crimson. A clear drop of lust spilled from it, as if weeping for release, and her sex responded in kind, a rush of wet heat to match the demanding pulse between her thighs.
Emma gasped, and when her eyes at last returned to his, she saw within them a need so powerful that it stole her breath. This time, he did not look away.
"Are you in pain, my darling?" she whispered.
"Yes." His jaw was tense, a fist clenched upon his knee.
The hand which still cupped his face slid down to his chest, beginning a slow descent. Luxuriating in the sensation of his warm skin and solid muscle, she waited for a response, but Henry said nothing, only closing his eyes as if to savour the touch until she had reached the soft dark curls between her and the object of her greatest desire.
"You don't have to," he said, his voice deepened with lust, and lay a hand over her own. "I would never insist—"
"I want to." She pulled gently at his bicep, urging him closer. "Please, Henry, allow me to do this for you."
"All right," he said, nodding. Carefully, he climbed upon the bed, straddling her. "But we cannot…"
"I know."
At last, she took him in both hands, lacing her fingers and spreading them wide to grasp as much of his great length as she could. Henry groaned as she began to stroke him, only lightly grazing his shaft with her fingertips, and Emma smiled.
She had received so much joy from his body, but to know that it finally belonged to her beloved made her exploration all the sweeter. This wonderful instrument of pleasure was hers to touch, to tease, to savour as it filled her completely and made her whole… if only he would let her.
Gently, she traced the ridge of his tip, eliciting a gasp. She glanced up at him, unsure, and realized that if he were to spill here, it would be as Edward often did, cruel and degrading; the thought was sickening. Henry must have read the worry in her gaze, for he lay a hand upon her wrist.
"Wait," he said. "I want to be closer to you."
She let go as he shifted, stretching over her. Hopeful, she bent her legs and hooked her uncovered feet about his ankles. There remained nothing but a sheet between them, and as she gripped his manhood once more, it took all of her self-control not to cast the covering aside and draw him into herself. Instead, she slid her hands down to his base and tightened them into fists as best she could. Then, she began to pump hard.
"Emma!"
His moan was intoxicating, deep and rumbling in a way so familiar, but filled with such love and need that she thought of only him. Matching his ragged gasps of lust, she licked her lips as she looked to his own, an invitation to accompany the question in her gaze – and finally, he answered her with a kiss.
Emma moaned into his mouth, reveling in the skilful strokes of his tongue, and the pearl of her sex throbbed with the need for its attention. His kiss was so different from Edward's, yet she knew that the man she hated and the man that she loved shared this much in common: a passion that would not rest until they had reached ecstasy together.
But the pleasures her beloved offered would be shared between them, not merely forced upon her, and their joy so much greater for it. She wanted nothing more than to take him into herself, and when he moved with her strokes, thrusting against her thigh, her sex quivered with desperate need.
"Please, Henry, I need you," she begged. "Make love to me."
Her plea, at last, broke his resolve. He pulled the sheet away, baring her eager body. His dark eyes roamed it with admiration, the torturous fire of her arousal igniting into an inferno under his gaze.
"We shouldn't do this," he whispered. "I shouldn't…"
"It's all right, my love. I am your wife; be a husband to me now."
He cupped her breast, and she moaned as he lavished the aching nipple with swift, circling strokes. Then his hand descended, trailing down her stomach and through the fine curls above her sex, and found the sensitive peak pleading for his touch.
"Henry!" she cried, his deft fingertips expertly rubbing her into absolute bliss.
All but screaming with joy, Emma wrapped her legs around his back to draw him closer as she furiously stroked his manhood, intent on being filled before she reached climax, but it was too late. Just a few more strokes of his fingers, and she would—
Henry withdrew his hand, shouting her name as he spilled, gushing hot upon her sex. It dripped down her swollen lips to her aching entrance, mixing with her own lust, and Emma whimpered at the pleasurable warmth.
"I'm sorry," he cried, recoiling as if he had been struck. Extracting himself from her embrace, he turned and stumbled from the bed. "We should not have done this."
"No, please!" Tears fell down her cheeks, weeping with the maddening emptiness of unrequited passion. "Henry, come back."
She found his gaze within the vanity mirror, his eyes aflame with anger – at her or at himself, she could not know. Still, he made no response.
"Henry, please—"
Without another word, he gathered his clothes and hurried through the door joining their rooms, slamming it shut behind him.