WARNING: This chapter contains smut, with some plot at the end. If you want to skip the smut, scroll to the page break.
With the click of the door Hero's mouth is on his and she presses John against the wall — a boldness he would not have believed her capable of upon their first meeting. Lightning scorches through his blood.
Since their moment in the garden there has been a charge between them. Their eyes drawn to one another, over and over. By the time they were seated for supper, John's knuckles were white around his wine glass, anticipating the moment they could be alone together. To what end, he did not know. Only that he felt as if a string were tied around his rib, binding him to Hero, as taut as a garrotte.
He is amazed no one noticed their tension. Or maybe they were too polite to comment. The evening crawled by. If questioned, he would not be able to recall what was discussed, but his answers must have been satisfactory (it is useful to have a taciturn reputation). But they are here now: the wall, cool and solid against his back. Hero, warm and soft as she presses into him.
"John, John, John," she gasps against his jaw, like he is breath itself, and his head spins, drunk on sensation —
— her mouth, her voice, the heat of her under his palms —
John is used to wanting — as a bastard he learned how much was forbidden from him and wanted it all the fiercer. He is not used to being wanted. For certain, his body, his looks, his wealth, and title, the favour of a prince — meaningless fumbles in the dark — but not him.
Hero kisses him as if communing with his soul. He is hurtling through the infinite, stars blurring across his vision, showers of gold like ichor in his veins. He clutches her to him, kissing her like the desert wanderer who has found water. Hairpins clatter to the floor as he tangles his hand in her silken tresses. He forgets all other purpose than to worship this woman.
"Hero… Hero…"
Her palm slides down his throat like hot nectar, dipping under his shirt to explore the muscle there. Her fingers glide through the hairs on his chest and his heart thunders beneath her touch.
"John…" she murmurs, this time with command, and John is weak to her will. With her other hand, she grasps his shoulder and walks them backwards, granting shallow kisses while John dives for the ocean. His focus narrows to the taste, the feel of her —
The world tilts from under him and he topples onto the mattress. It takes a second to orient himself and then he has a lapful of Hero, her skirts ruching around her to reveal long, cream legs. He does not have a chance to scrounge a response before her mouth collides with his and he moans, locking his arms around her waist, their hips rubbing together. The friction sends torrents of pleasure up his spine.
"Hero… Hero…"
His heart throbs with need for her.
"Do you want this, John?" She ruts against him. "You can have it — John — you can have me. I am yours. I am yours."
He groans. Her hands withdraw and he cracks open his eyes to see her tearing at the laces of her bodice. Undone, she hurls it somewhere behind. Her focus returns to him, eyes wild and pupils blown, her lips red and swollen, voluminous curls cascading over her bare shoulders where her dress has slipped.
If he had any honour, he would stop this before it goes further. He has done her great wrong and does not deserve to touch her now. But it has been established that he is an honourless bastard, a wretch — and a hot-blooded male. He does not have the strength to refuse this divine temptation.
He fists his hands in the folds of her skirt. "You may have me, my lady — in any way — any way that pleases you."
Her smile unfurls, beautiful, fearless, and she leans forward, tugging at his shirt. "Then I will have you without armour."
She shimmies from his lap — making him groan — and stands, looking expectant.
John stills. Then hurries to undress.
He has never been self-conscious about his appearance, if she wants a show John will give her one. He kicks his boots aside with the rest of his discarded clothes and peels off his shirt, leaving him in his breeches. He no longer has the lean soldier's body of ten years ago, but hard labour has ensured he is not so changed. He stands, holding Hero's appreciative gaze as he undoes the laces of his breeches and shoves them down.
His cock springs free, twitching at Hero's soft inhale. Her smile widens, eyes aglow. She bunches her dress, raising it to her thighs — and falters.
She glances at him, nervous. "I — when you knew me before, I was in the bloom of youth. Now — it is ten years on, and I have birthed three children. I am not… what a man expects the first time with his wife."
"Hero…" John wishes he were better with words. "There is no version of you that is not beautiful."
Hero smiles, confidence renewed, and she sweeps her dress over her head.
John's mouth goes dry.
She is not the flawless, symmetrical beauties rendered in canvas and marble. There are pillows in her flesh, stretch marks, scatterings of freckles and moles, dark hair trailing to the mound which conceals her womanhood. She is not the heavenly deities that adorn the ceilings of grand palaces. She is flesh and blood, and her soul thrums, opalescent, beneath her skin.
"You are perfection."
Hero laughs, a catch in her breath, and she approaches, wrapping her arms around him, her breasts brushing his chest. "You still believe it…"
He dares to place his hands on her hips, fingers sinking into the rolls of flesh. "You are the only thing I believe in."
Raw happiness burns in her gaze, her smile frayed, like something well-loved. "John… John… stars, I want you — all of you." Her fingers tiptoe down his chest. "Let me show you how much…"
He hisses, shuddering as her fingers brush his arousal. "Hero…"
Her smile is saccharine as she crooks her fingers around the base of his cock. He gasps, eyelids fluttering, as all his blood rushes south.
(This is definitely not the maid he met ten years ago.)
She runs her thumb along a thick vein. "I could—"
"No."
He catches her hand, elevating the pressure and allowing some of the blood back into his brain. He is not certain what Hero is offering but he does not want their first time together that he remembers to be her on her knees.
To the back of her hand, he presses a tender kiss. "My pleasure will be in pleasing you."
Her smile softens, her fingers fanning over his beard. "You always please me."
He laces his fingers in her hair and kisses her, fierce and adoring. They fumble onto the bed, rolling across the sheets in a tangle of limbs, open-mouths meeting in hot thrusts. He caresses the spread of plush skin, sparks skittering beneath his palms, catching fire in his blood. He cannot believe he is permitted to touch this woman of moonbeams and stardust. It feels like sacrilege. But there is Hero, arching into him, as eager for his touch as she is to touch him.
Her hands rove over the ridges of his body, sure in their path. She knows all his pressure points and wields them to great advantage, plucking him apart as artfully as the chords of a harp — pressing featherlight kisses behind his ear, tugging at his hair to expose the column of his throat. A groan tears out of him as she sinks her teeth over his pulse. His cock spasms, leaking precome.
"Fuck… Hero…"
The smile she gifts him is pure mischief and he retaliates, cradling her breast and clamping his mouth over the erect nipple. She squeaks, bucking in pleasure as he swirls his tongue around the sensitive bud. He repeats the motion over her other breast, kneading the supple flesh. Beneath him, Hero writhes and moans, her legs flailing at his sides, hooking around his waist, and he grunts as her heel digs into the meat of his arse.
He trails warm kisses down her body, venerating the swell of skin, dipping a kiss to her navel.
"John — please — ohh — yes, John — ack! — yes — " comes her melodious chorus of sighs and laughter as she fists his hair, his head bobbing lower and lower.
Thick, wiry curls tickle his nose and he meets her gaze. Her eyes shine, her smile dissolving with a moan as he raises her leg, dragging his teeth down her milky thigh —
"Please, John — OH!"
— revealing that delicate jewel at her core.
His gaze flits to her again, awaiting permission. Her eyes glisten, pupils fully blown. She tilts her head, both amused and impatient, bidding him to proceed.
The corner of his mouth curves. He presses a single digit to the folds of her entrance —
And swears.
Already, she is dripping.
Hero, Hero, Hero, beats the rhythm in his chest.
"God, you are perfect."
His finger slips inside, and he groans, swearing at the feel of her heat opening around him, inviting him in. He may not remember their past encounters, but there is something to be said for muscle memory as he crooks his finger against the bundle of nerves. Her hand cups his cheek, nails digging into his shoulder, anchoring them both as he works her over, adding another finger, and then, when she is writhing and begging for more, a third.
"Please! Please! PLEASE! JOHN!"
Her little mewls and gasps have his head spinning, as delectable as the squelch of her heat, flooding with yet more juices. She is a goddess and he, a mere mortal, worshipping at her altar. He cannot hold back any longer and offers her his tribute.
Hero squeals as he ducks his head between her thighs, his mouth latching around her slit and plunging his tongue inside, sighing at the taste of her. Around him, Hero convulses, pleading his name, and lifting her hips to meet his thrusts.
He smirks against her folds, unable to deny his pride at her reaction. Too many men think it demeaning to go down on a woman like this. But there is nothing offensive about his wife in the throes of pleasure. It is the symphony of an opera, like witnessing great art. His blood is molten flame —
"Jo-John — I — I— I'm close — oh!"
He tilts his head, acknowledging, and catches her at just the right angle. She gasps, going rigid as she spills into his mouth.
"JOHN!"
He happily laps up her orgasm, like the cat who got the cream, as she trembles around him. Then, Hero shoves him, knocking him flat on his back, and clambers on top, straddling his waist. She bends so their faces are level; his cock straining against her ass.
"Such a wicked tongue," she purrs, tasting herself on his mouth.
His heart thunders at the debauchery of it all, and he cradles her neck, thumb hovering where he can feel her pulse. "I truly have corrupted you."
She laughs, stroking his cheek with a gentle smile. "Nothing from so pure a love could ever be corruption."
He shudders a breath and cranes his neck for a kiss, this one slow and sweet, their bodies melting together like crumpled velvet.
Hero sits up, her hair a tousled halo, cheeks flush with a rose glow, and shuffles down the length of him until she again has his erect cock in hand. She gives him a few pumps before positioning him at her entrance.
"Ready, my love?"
"Hero…" he croaks, "Yesss…"
She smiles and sinks onto him. He throws his head back, a plea escaping him as his cock breaches her tight heat. He knows he will not last long. As soon as he is sheathed fully inside her, Hero begins to rock back and forth. Pleasure rolls through John in waves and he fights not to get swept up in the tide, clasping her hips and surging into her.
"Hero! Ah!"
"John — John — "
He meets her, over and over, fighting to keep his eyes open, to savour the sight of her undone and glorious, bouncing upon him. There are words on his lips but he bites them down, not so much of a wretch as to reveal them now. His climax crashes through him, knocking the air from his lungs and he cries out.
"HERO!"
From underwater, he hears Hero calling his name, and she collapses on his chest. John engulfs her in his arms, rolling them on their sides even as his cock pulses, hot seed spilling inside her. They gasp, chests heaving as they regain their breath, their bodies entwined. John pulls out of her with a hiss, his cock dribbling over her thigh, and slumps against her, panting.
"You… are… devastation."
She smiles, her fingers threading through his hair. "You may have lost your memories, darling. But none of your skill."
He shakes his head. "After ten years of this, it is a wonder I can remember my own name."
She laughs, bright and sweet, bringing their temples together so their noses brush. "It would be hard to forget when I am screaming it over."
"Mmm, there is that."
He pecks the corner of her mouth and stills. Again, those same words rise in his throat, but if he says them now she will mistake them for the afterglow. He wants her to know they are true, always.
She watches him with big, hazel eyes, and he swallows, pressing a kiss to her brow. "I shall fetch a damp cloth."
Her expression flickers and she gives a tired smile. "Thank you."
He extracts himself from her and the stickiness that is threatening to dry, and takes in the sight of her, spread-out on their bed, watching him through hooded eyes.
"You are lovely," he tells her and the smile illuminates her face.
He heads for the basin.
:-x-:
John cannot resist sneaking furtive glances at Hero over the breakfast table. Each time he does, their eyes meet, and she smiles, his heart stuttering.
No one comments, but he does not believe their behaviour is subtle enough to go unnoticed. If he could tear his gaze from his wife, he is confident he will see Ursula and Leonato sharing a knowing grin. As it is, he cannot hold anyone else's gaze, sure the events of the previous night are written across his face.
Hero's ankle nudges his own, curling around his calf as she curled around him under the covers last night. His insides melt like warm butter, the tips of his ears burning. All these years nurturing a stone heart and she comes along and shatters him with the flick of her smile.
God, how he adores her.
Margaret walks in, handing Hero a letter, and sparing John from further distraction. Her eyes peruse the parchment — freeze — and retrace their path. A crease forms in her brow, the barest tension in her shoulders.
"Is everything well?" John asks.
The surrounding conversation peters off, curious faces turning to Hero. Her expression smooths into a smile, but he observes the strain around her mouth.
"Yes, very well." She pauses, eyes flitting to his then away, pushing a stray lock behind her ear. "Your brother — Don Pedro — he is travelling to Messina. He — he expects to be with us — this afternoon."