Arthur listened to footsteps and the shrill, drunk laughter of a woman pervading through the walls. Constance slept in his arms, her breathing deep and steady, her naked body curled up, skin on skin, against him. Peace, joy and tiredness pulsed through his veins, but he didn't want to waste one minute more than absolutely needed with sleep. Not only because he had the love of his life resting in his arms, trustfully sleeping on his chest, counting on being sheltered, guarded by him. He desperately wanted to enjoy the absence of the war.
The smell of blood and gun powder replaced by the smell of her soap mixed with their lust and the smell of fresh linen.
The permanent, distant roar of guns replaced by the moans, the laughter and the squeaking lath floor in the room above them.
The pictures of human flesh torn to pieces, of perforated guts and empty eyes replaced by the healed wounds on Constance's body, bearable because he knew she won't suffer or being hurt again.
The memory of thousands of good soldiers dying a miserable death replaced by an unforgettable night with Constance.
The tingle of Yperite in his nose, the fast-paced movements to get the goddamn gas mask on his face replaced by the feeling of her breath on his chest and the slow circles his fingers drew on her upper arm.
The feeling of spearing a fucking German with a bayonet replaced by the feeling of sliding slowly into her welcoming, warm and wet pussy.
The sounds of men drowning in their own blood, the gurgling, desperate attempts for air replaced by the sweet noises Constance made while she breathless begged for more, for him.
Arthur closed his eyes for a few seconds and smiled. Peace. Five letters of release, of deliverance. He finally found it, years after Lloyd George signed the Treaty of Versailles.
And all this was why he feared the sleep, the nightmares, why he feared that a horrible dream could ruin their weekend together.
Constance sighed in her sleep, her brows furrowing.
"Shhh, darling." Arthur placed a kiss on her head, pulling the blanket over her shoulder. "'M here. All is well," he whispered and took a deep breath before closing his eyes.
It was after sunrise when he woke up, the room filled with light, so bright he closed his eyes straight away again. He needed a moment to become aware of the fact that he slept like a baby, dreamless and easy. A smile twitched at his lips and he took a deep breath before turning around, facing the room now, not the window anymore.
"Arthur?" She whispered and he hummed in response.
Blood rushed in his cock, changed morning wood into desire, triggered by her voice saying his name. He opened one eye, just to see where she was as he couldn't feel her skin on his. She sat upright in the middle of her bedside, a little smile on her face, her hair braided, her body cloaked in a way too decent nightgown, buttoned up completely.
"Watcha doin'?" He asked. "Come here."
He lifted his hand, making a beckoning sign.
"I'm watching you," Constance answered, taking his hand in hers. "You ... oh!"
She squeaked as he pulled her into his arms and turned her around.
"Sorry," he mumbled, placing a kiss on her shoulder, "didn't want to scare you, sweetheart. Did I scare you?"
"No, I just ..." Her voice trailed off, not finishing the weak excuse she had in mind.
"Don't lie to me, Constance, please." He whispered and decided to drop the topic. "Did you freeze, sweetheart?" He asked, slipping his hand under the nightgown she didn't wear when she fell asleep in his arms.
"No, I didn't. I thought ... it's very indecent and obscene to sleep naked, isn't it?"
"It isn't if the man is naked too. And I happen to be naked ... so ...," he lifted his head and whispered at her ear: "Take this off."
She did as she was told and he sighed very pleased as he pressed his naked chest against her back, his cock against her ass. He started with gentle kisses on her neck, while his hands caressed her breasts. She moaned lowly and closed her eyes, leaving herself to him. Her breathing hitched as he started to suck at the sensitive spots on her neck, as he bit softly in her shoulder. He shifted his thigh between hers, lifting her leg to make room for his hand. His fingers played with her pubic hair before slipping further down. He parted her labia, finding the little nub in an instant.
"This ...," he whispered against her ear, loud enough to drown her little moans out, "this is the spot that gives you the most pleasure." He tipped with his finger directly on it and she quivered in his arms.
"Ooooh ..." A long drawn exhalation, her head fell back, baring her neck to him. "The pussy, right?"
"No, sweetheart. The pussy's here, feel it?" His finger slipped into her, fucking her slowly.
He closed his eyes for a moment, enjoying the feeling of warm wetness on his skin, thankful for the fact that her body responded so good, so natural and easy on his efforts.
"Yes ... he called it cunt." She whispered, shuddering of the memory.
"That's a very bad word, dirty and rude. You shouldn't say it, Constance."
"I'm sorry," she answered and he kissed her neck, whispering sweet nothings while continuing to finger fuck her slowly.
He left the warm wetness, tipping again on the little nub: "That's ...," he searched for a not-so-dirty name for this particular spot and finished his sentence in another way, as she sighed blissfully. "That's good, right?" He grinned, satisfied with her deep moan.
"God, Arthur ...," she mumbled, her body twitching.
"That's the pearl," he whispered, glad that this tame, nearly poetic name came into his mind right in time.
In a conversation between Ada and a friend of hers, he involuntarily eaves-dropped years ago, the girls named the nub this way, which made him roll his eyes back then. But for Constance, it was the perfect choice to describe this unmentionable part of her body.
"The pearl?" She repeated, panting lowly.
"Yes." He took her hand and guided her fingers between her legs, dipped the tip of her pointer finger in the wetness. "Feel how wet you are, darling. It won't hurt to make love right now. It only hurts when it's dry there."
"Like a goddamn desert," she whispered and Arthur remembered the rape he'd overheard by the kitchen window back on this day in February.
The memory was painful, so he kept his answer short: "Right."
He concentrated on the present and led her finger to the nub, pressed her fingertip on it, gently rubbing.
She moaned loudly, her hips rocking against their hands, rocking against his rock hard, throbbing cock.
"Want me inside you, darling?" He asked, changing his leading hand to be able to line up his cock.
"Yes, yes, please, Arthur," she sighed and he was eager to fulfill this wish.
He fucked her slowly from behind, enjoying every thrust, enjoying her climax, holding her hand still against her vulva as he penetrated her deeper and faster, as he worked for his own release, desperate to spill his semen into her, and to fall asleep with his cock deep in her pussy, taking another nap before breakfast.
Nothing had ever felt so good. Even if he combined the best nights of his life – this was better. And for a few moments, just before falling asleep again, he thought about leaving Birmingham and this whole damn business. He could buy a house in fucking America and wake up every morning like this, until the day he died – innocent dreams of a guilty man. Deep inside he knew he could never leave the Peaky Blinders, his family, fucking Birmingham. But maybe he could wake up like this every day in a small house in Birmingham, listening to the rain pounding to the windows.