"Excerpt from a Stalled FanFiction"
"Her hair takes up entirely too much of the pillow," reflected Roxton. His hands, originally intending to brush some of Marguerite's tangled locks out of the way, instead lingered there, slowly entwining themselves in the dark curls. Ensnared. Like himself. And, as she instinctively pulled away from his grip, he was aware he had not the slightest desire to escape.
He knew that she loved him long before she knew it. Marguerite may have been the consummate game player, but her hand, despite her confidence that she was holding all the cards, begun to tremble slightly whenever Roxton had made a play, and, after two years on the plateau, he had finally compelled her to lay those cards on the table for him. He'd always been confident in his ability to eventually bring her around. The fact that she was not always gracious about his victory had, for the most part, amused Roxton, although her stubbornness occasionally frustrated him. But now, as he watched Marguerite, still asleep, turn away from him, he wondered if she ever resented his win, ever resented loving him. And, if so, did she even realize it? For the first time, Roxton's certainty in their ultimate mutual destiny faltered.
John Roxton liked simple things: solidity, earthiness. Why the hell had he fallen for a woman as hard to pin down, as hard to define, as Marguerite? Before he loved her, but when he wanted her, he had told her she was a rarity: a woman made of fire and steel. That her fire had tempered her steel, made it stronger, only increased his determination to make her his. He wanted to drink her like cool water, breathe her in like the air, wear her like his own skin.
What if ... God, what if he failed?
Meanwhile ... on the bottom of Marguerite's jewelry box, buried under shiny bracelets and baubles, the small curl of paper upon which she had written experimentally, (laughing at her own foolishness but unable to stop herself), "Lady Marguerite Roxton," over and over again, lay safely hidden ... awaiting discovery.
"Her hair takes up entirely too much of the pillow," reflected Roxton. His hands, originally intending to brush some of Marguerite's tangled locks out of the way, instead lingered there, slowly entwining themselves in the dark curls. Ensnared. Like himself. And, as she instinctively pulled away from his grip, he was aware he had not the slightest desire to escape.
He knew that she loved him long before she knew it. Marguerite may have been the consummate game player, but her hand, despite her confidence that she was holding all the cards, begun to tremble slightly whenever Roxton had made a play, and, after two years on the plateau, he had finally compelled her to lay those cards on the table for him. He'd always been confident in his ability to eventually bring her around. The fact that she was not always gracious about his victory had, for the most part, amused Roxton, although her stubbornness occasionally frustrated him. But now, as he watched Marguerite, still asleep, turn away from him, he wondered if she ever resented his win, ever resented loving him. And, if so, did she even realize it? For the first time, Roxton's certainty in their ultimate mutual destiny faltered.
John Roxton liked simple things: solidity, earthiness. Why the hell had he fallen for a woman as hard to pin down, as hard to define, as Marguerite? Before he loved her, but when he wanted her, he had told her she was a rarity: a woman made of fire and steel. That her fire had tempered her steel, made it stronger, only increased his determination to make her his. He wanted to drink her like cool water, breathe her in like the air, wear her like his own skin.
What if ... God, what if he failed?
Meanwhile ... on the bottom of Marguerite's jewelry box, buried under shiny bracelets and baubles, the small curl of paper upon which she had written experimentally, (laughing at her own foolishness but unable to stop herself), "Lady Marguerite Roxton," over and over again, lay safely hidden ... awaiting discovery.
