Chapter 4: "Chateau Lobby #4," by Father John Misty

Marianne woke in a strange but impossibly soft bed, feeling warm all over in the best way. She blinked her eyes open and saw her arm thrown over Brandon's bare back as he lay sprawled out on his stomach, his hair softly brushing against her face as he slept. She realized her right leg crossed over his body and was resting on his backside. Both of them were still nude. This realization caused her heart to start pounding. Her mind flashed back to all they had done last night, and she felt-probably scandalously-delicious. Nothing had ever prepared her for the way it would be with him, nothing could have. He had been so unexpected in every way-loving and thoughtful, yes, but also more passionate and sensual than she'd ever seen him. The expressions and sounds he'd made when she touched him, when he'd entered her… And the way her body reacted to him-she hoped, when he awoke, he didn't despair to remember how wanton she'd been.

She lifted her head up to survey him. Still, his skin hypnotized her-she had never seen anyone, save her sisters and baby William, so exposed, and when when she looked at the down-covered, here-and-there sun-worn or scarred, leathery expanse of him, her eyes couldn't get enough. She had a perfect viewpoint of his back from where she lay, and she (gently, so as not to wake him) ran a hand along his spine, and then drew circles on his flesh with exploring fingers. The small black tattoo she'd observed the night before, she now could see much more clearly. It was smaller than her balled-up fist and positioned right over bone. It appeared to be an outline of a ship, pointing in the direction of an eight-pointed star in the distance. She wondered what it meant, and why he'd chosen to affix it forever to his body. It must have hurt, but she got the sense that he was a man accustomed to some amount of pain. She placed a kiss there, and scattered a few soft kisses all over him. She glanced up at the clock in the corner- eight o'clock. They had slept for ages. She came back down, wrapping around him again, and burying her face in the distinctly Brandon-scented back of his neck.

He stirred, made a contented sigh, and rolled away onto his side to face her, his own eyes now blinking awake. The look in them of disbelief and old disappointment as they opened to see her there, watching him, turned into a smile of wonder.

"You're still here."

She smiled back. "So are you."

"Where else would I go?"

"It's your house. You could go anywhere."

"It's your house. You could go anywhere, too," he reminded her, lifting his hand from under the covers to smooth down the tangled mass of curls on her head and stroke her cheek.

"Where else would I want to be?"

"My sentiments exactly." He rolled onto his back and pulled her to him so she lay in the hollow between his outstretched arm and his side, and she put her hand on his chest. "I love you."

"I love you." She repeated her ministrations from the night before, running her hand over his chest and memorizing its idiosyncrasies.

"Are you alright, by the way?" His face looked down at her, displaying concern. "Last night, when we...did I… erm…"

She grinned up at him, nodded her head. "Yes. Are you alright?"

She felt the chuckle form in his chest. "I've never been better, actually," he murmured, kissing her forehead.

She cuddled into his embrace, throwing a leg over his own-and then noticing, as she did so, that her knee brushed up against the part of him that had intrigued her most of all last night. She heard him whimper for a second as she did so.

"Do you-are you, um…" she asked, blushing as she fumbled for words. "What exactly is happening down there? With, um…"

"My-my cock?"

"Yes, that."

"Sorry." He shifted a little. "It's just morning. It happens."

"Every morning?"

"No, but...well, generally speaking, I don't wake up with a beautiful naked woman in bed next to me every morning. I'd like to, but…"

"So, does that mean you'd like to do what we did last night again?" she asked, breathlessly.

"Do you?" He turned to look into her eyes.

"I think… only if you want to."

"My sweet, wonderful Marianne. I always want to."

She raised up on her elbow. "Really?"

"Do you know how long I've been dreaming about getting you in my bed? An embarrassingly long time, that's how long."

"What did you do with me in these dreams, exactly?"

"Oh, all sorts of things," he purred.

"And this version of me in your dreams-was she very good at, erm...at giving you pleasure?"

"Not as good as you are," he said honestly.

"Will you tell me something you wished for her-me-to do?"

"Well, there's always been a lot of this going on in these dreams," he offered, and raised up so he could meet her mouth for a long, slow kiss.

"And what else did dream-Marianne do?" she flirted a minute later, her lips puffy from his attentions.

He chuckled, tossed the bedclothes to the side, and rolled her over onto her back before pouncing on top of her with the full length of his body and nibbling on her ear. She squirmed-but not from pleasure; she squeal she made was one of discomfort. "Um...Christopher?"

He immediately rolled to the side and looked at her with a concerned face. "Did I hurt you?"

"No, it's just, I should...um…" She was mortified. "Can I have...a minute or two? I need to, um…go to my chamber for a minute."

"Marianne, did I do something wrong? I'm sorry-please tell me."

The look in his eyes, the pain returning to them like she'd seen there before she had become betrothed to him, before he'd gained a little taste of happiness in her arms to curb the misery of a life of loneliness, made her heart hurt. No, she thought, if I can help it, he'll never feel that kind of pain again. Cheeks pink, she said, "You've done nothing wrong. But I find that I have to...er...relieve myself. I'm sorry."

The light returned to his eyes. "That's all? Oh, darling. Why didn't you just say so?"

"I was embarrassed…"

"Because you're a human being? Go. I'll be here when you get back." He smiled at her, laughing softly. She reached out to squeeze his hand and gave him a sheepish look, and then searched around for something to cover up with so she could walk the short distance to her room without being fully nude. She grabbed the throw blanket at the foot of the bed first, then looked for the chemise from the night before and couldn't find where he had thrown it, crumpled and abandoned, in his eagerness to see her bare flesh. She felt his eyes on her as she searched.

"Marianne, what are you doing?"

"I'm looking for my chemise."

"You know, if you're worried about me seeing you naked, that ship has sailed."

"Yes, but I'd like to preserve a modicum of modesty, so you don't think I'm a wanton hussy who roams around naked all the time."

"I'd be perfectly alright with that," he said, and she looked back at where he sat on the bed, partially covered by a sheer bedsheet, his member tenting the fabric that covered it, his arms crossed behind his head, his eyes dark, lust-filled. She felt a hot stab of desire, and it made her shudder.

"Nevertheless. May I borrow your shirt?" She picked up the white garment where it lay by the fireplace where she'd left it. He nodded, and she engaged in a complicated dalliance with the shirt, which needed to go up and over outstretched arms, and the blanket, which needed to cover her otherwise-exposed bits and pieces in the meantime. Finally she had achieved victory and tossed the blanket to the side, and then scampered towards the door to the adjoining room. "Two minutes," she said, holding up two fingers to him before closing the door.

Brandon, heart racing, sunk back into his pillow for a moment, rubbing his face with his hands. God damn. I didn't dream it. Christ, she's phenomenal. His hands smelled like her. He rolled over to the next pillow and could smell her on it as well as he buried his face in it. He'd thought he'd never be more aroused than he'd been last night, not knowing how it would be to take her, to please her-and yet now that he had done so, the anticipation of knowing how good she'd be this next time was causing him to be completely overcome with lust. Calm down, man, he told himself, as he got up and found his own chamber pot, quickly dipped a towel into his basin to scrub away maybe some of the dried perspiration their bodies had generated the night before so she wouldn't run away from him in disgust, and had just enough time to toss another couple of logs into the dying fireplace when she emerged again from her room and saw him standing, still fully nude, replacing the poker and tongs back on the base.

"It's probably not a good idea to do that without trousers on, is it?" she asked, archly.

"I scoff at danger," he replied, repositioning the screen and turning to face her, only to find that she had slipped behind him and set her hands on his hips, placing kisses on his shoulders.

"What is this, anyway?" she asked him, pointing to his tattoo. "Is there some sort of story behind it? Does it mean something special?"

He quoted, "It is the star to every wandering bark."

"Shakespeare? Sonnet 116?"

"Yes."

She wrapped her arms back around him suddenly, and he felt her shiver behind him. "Does that mean something special to you?"

"I was...young. And still very...very much in love with Eliza, when I stumbled drunkenly into a very unsavory tattoo shop, much to my disgrace as an officer. I had to keep my shirt on the rest of my deployment for fear someone would see. And that's…" he trailed off.

"Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, but bears it out…"

"Even to the edge of doom," he finished, eyes closing as she nuzzled the place where evidence of his old love had physically marked his body.

"I love you," she said, squeezing his waist gently.

"Oh, Marianne, I love you so," he whispered, feeling her hands caress his abdomen. They stood like that for a while, and Brandon simply stood there. This, like everything else they'd done, was heaven. And then she moved her hands lower to his pelvis, and he groaned. "You're a cruel woman, my love. That's torture."

"Do you like to be tortured?"

"To a certain extent," he answered, gasping as she lightly brushed over his member with her delicate fingers.

"Does it feel good when I do this?"

"Oh, God, yes."

"And this?" She wrapped her hand around him now, and he was powerless, felt his knees buckle as she stroked him. He moaned. The little vixen. She had him completely under her spell. Where had she learned that he would like this? Oh, yes. He'd taught her last night. She was a very fast learner. Top marks, head of the class.

"Would you like to come back to bed?" she asked from where she stood behind him, and he nodded, gulped, and clung to her tugging hand as she led him. She gently guided him to lie down, and she sat next to him, continuing her sweet caresses. For now, while he still had some self-control, he let her do as she pleased, getting to know what he liked and what he positively adored. He planned, after all, to do the same with her.

Her hands slipped down his thighs, feeling the coarse hair that grew juxtaposed against the softer skin and firm muscle underneath, and suddenly she stopped. He knew where it was her hand had landed, and he braced himself for the coming question.

"Where did you get this one?" she asked, touching the scar tissue on his inner thigh.

"That's quite a long story."

"It looks newer-is it from India as well as the others?"

"Erm...no." He cleared his throat. "Do you really want to know? Right now isn't exactly the best time to tell it, when we're…" he struggled for words. She looked up at him expectantly, her own infuriating patience clashing with his increasing need for her. "You know about that...that misguided duel I had with Willoughby, when...after…"

She sat up straight and covered her mouth with her hands. "He did this to you?" she whispered.

"No, no...his second did. It was afterwards."

"But you said...Elinor told me you said the duel was ended without incident."

"Well…" He ran a hand through his hair, trying to find the words. "This was nothing, really."

"He tried to kill you! He stabbed you!"

"It was in the midst of a tussle. John and he had it out when he tried to force us back into our carriage. I tried to pull them off each other. His knife...was suddenly there."

"God, I think I would have shot him, in your position. And Willoughby did nothing?"

"Please, wife, let's not talk about it." The last thing he wanted was her, half-naked in his bed, talking to him about Willoughby.

She looked at him with scrutiny. "You could have killed him. By rights, maybe ought to have killed him. Willoughby too. Why didn't you?"

"I'm not a killer, Marianne." He paused. "Don't get me wrong; I've killed. When I had to. When I was being aimed at. But here…"

"You were being aimed at! Wasn't Willoughby-"

"He wasn't a threat to me. Not really. I know I'm a better shot than him. The only thing he ever threatened was...was…"

"Me? And Eliza?"

"Both, yes. But neither fatally."

She continued holding him in her gaze. "And if he ever did? Threaten me again, or Eliza, seriously? Would you shoot him then?"

He took her hand. "If I had to. I'd sooner teach you to shoot, yourself. Eliza knows how."

"You wouldn't feel the need to do away with him yourself? To avenge your wounded honor, like you did before?"

He grimaced, brought her hand to his lips. "I learned that day, the day I got this," he began, placing her hand on his scar to indicate his meaning, "that waving a pistol at someone who dishonoured me doesn't make me feel like any more of a man."

She thought about this answer and seemed satisfied with it. She smiled, then sank back down into his arms, leaving her hand where it was for a moment, then easing it upward towards his hardness. "Would you like to tell me what does make you feel like a man?"

"Fuck, Marianne, you positively unhinge me," he uttered, squirming like a caught fish under her hands. She giggled, secure in her victory over him, until he suddenly rose up, tossed her onto her back with inhuman strength, and began to tease the sensitive flesh of her breasts with his tongue and teeth, his member pressed into her thigh. Now it was her turn to squirm.

"Things that make me feel like a man," he mused, pronouncing the words through teeth wrapped around a rose-pink nipple. "Hearing the sounds coming from Marianne Dashwood's-no, Marianne Brandon's throat when I'm touching her."

She obliged. "Oh, God," she strangled as his middle finger worked its way inside her.

"I'll just answer to Christopher, if it's all the same to you," he replied languidly.

"Please," she said, hands grasping at his shoulders. "I want you again. Please...please take me." Her eyes, which had been closed, now opened and looked at him longingly.

"Now, now," he chided. "You've been torturing me all morning. Why should I put you out of your misery?"

"Because you want me as much as I want you," she retorted, brushing a soft thigh against the evidence of his need. He positively squeaked. Finally, he had no choice but to follow her suggestion. But he had one more thing in mind.

"Would you, um...like to be on top this time?"

"Me? Is that...normal?"

"I don't care if it's normal. I like it. I want you to do it. Will you? You certainly don't have to. What we've been doing is… believe me, plenty enjoyable."

"What do you...that is to say, I don't know how to..."

He grinned. "Yes you do." He rolled onto his back and then tugged at her arms, encouraging her to sit up. "Straddle me."

"Like...like when you taught me to…to ride astride?"

"If you must think of it that way, yes. If you wish to. You don't have to."

Her lovely face pinkened. But she did as he asked. He almost swooned when he felt her above him, hovering warmly. She was still wearing his shirt, and she looked unbearably delicious in it, but he wanted to see more of her creamy skin, so he tugged at the hem and pulled it over her head to expose her body to his waiting hands.

"Now, find me with your hand and guide me inside you."

She swallowed and started to do as he asked. The glittery desire in her eyes was stronger than the nervousness of her tentative hand, and though she hesitated a little at first, eventually she seemed to figure out what she was about. When she placed him at her entrance, instinct took over. She relaxed enough for him to push himself the rest of the way in, and both of them moaned in pleasure.

"Ride me," he begged, grabbing her thighs with his big hands, and Marianne had never felt more powerful than she did at that moment, seeing this man, nearly forty, a decorated military man with an excellent reputation for self-control and genteel manners-with his body underneath her writhing, sighing, cursing, desperately digging his fingers into the flesh of her hips and bottom so he could be buried as deeply as he could in her warm sex. She realized that from here she had excellent control of her movements, and began to move her hips in time to a rhythm that her body somehow knew. The pleasure she felt was frustrating her; something was missing-her left hand resting on his thigh for balance, her right hand slid to the place where he had touched her the night before, the little bud between her legs that caused her to explode with hot, earth-shattering waves of passion. She began to stroke herself, mimicking the motions he'd used, as he matched the rhythm with his own hips. She looked down and saw him watching her in fascination and awe, and a slow smile spread across her face. Between the thrusting of his member within her and her own attentions with her hand, she was soon far gone. "God, yes, Marianne, come for me," he pleaded, and she did, crying out, her body collapsing over him as wave after wave crashed through her. But he was still working in her, doing his best from his position beneath her to ease his own suffering. She shook herself out of her languor and resumed her movements, quickening them, until she heard his breath get shakier and he began to moan incoherently. "Please, mmm...oh, God...oh, fuck!" he exclaimed, and she felt the warm sensation of his seed spilling inside her as his thrusts subsided.

"Unbelievable," he murmured, as she rose from atop him, feeling him leave her body, and came to lie on her back. He curled into her and placed a warm, sleepy hand on her belly. He started snoring lightly, and she chuckled to herself and stroked his hair. This was good. This was perfect.

A few minutes later he awoke to see her looking down at him and smiling sweetly. "Good morning, husband," she said.

"Good morning, wife," he replied. "Tell me-you aren't angry with me?"

"Angry?"

"For making you do all those things."

"You didn't make me."

"You didn't mind? I don't want you to do anything you don't want to do."

"I loved it," she whispered. "Does that make me...does that make me too wanton?"

He shook his head. "I want you to have desire, express it, fulfill it. If you want me to do something to you, or with you, or if you want to do something, just tell me. Believe me, there's nothing I want more in this world than to make you happy. And the fact that you enjoy...these types of things...it's definitely a boost to my confidence," he mused.

"You're...erm...very good at it."

"You're very inexperienced. That's probably why men through the centuries have preferred virgins on their wedding nights-to mask their inadequacies," Brandon drawled.

"There's nothing inadequate about you," Marianne assured him, scratching his back lightly.

"I thank you, my love. I hope you'll continue to feel that way with time."

"Did I do anything stupid?"

He laughed. "You were perfect. Better than I could ever have hoped for. In every way." He rose up on an elbow to look down at her. "When I woke up this morning and realized you were still here...I can't tell you how I felt. You, here, in my life, in my bed, as my wife-there is nothing better, I don't think. You can't imagine how happy you've made me."

"I hope you'll still say that when I've become old and grumpy," she replied, smiling.

"Like me?" He laughed.

"You're not old. Or grumpy. At least not today."

"You see, you've discovered the magical formula to making sure I'm not grumpy. The secret lies here," he said, tapping his finger the warm triangle between her legs. She snorted.

He held her for a while. Then they looked at the clock. Nine. Marianne's belly grumbled. "Lord, I'm hungry all of a sudden."

"And everyone else will be gathered downstairs over breakfast, waiting for us."

"God, no. I don't think I want to face them. Oh-oh God! Mrs. Jennings-my mother-Margaret-they'll all know what we've been up to, won't they!"

"Are you ashamed, my love? Do you think-"

"No, no. I'm not ashamed-it's just- do you think they'll see me differently? Do I look different to you?"

He studied her. Her naked torso glistened with sweat. Her hair was a complete tangled mess. Her lips looked bee-stung. She had a mark on her neck where he'd perhaps bitten her too hard last night. Her eyes looked satisfied, knowing. "I think I'm the only one who'd be able to perceive any major differences. But yes, you look different. A little. In most particulars you look to be the same beautiful maiden who came to my bed in innocence."

"I should call for Bess to help me dress. I'm the lady of the house now, so I expect you want me looking unimpeachably immaculate."

"I expect you to do as you please," he replied, kissing her hand.

Slowly, unwillingly, she disentangled herself from him, kissing him one final time. "It seems like we're breaking a magic spell. I don't want to leave you."

"You can come back tonight, if you want," he said. "The magic doesn't have to end, just be postponed for a while. And I'll be with you all day."

"But I like it best when we're alone."

"As do I." He kissed her nose. "We will be again, and soon. I promise."

She smiled. "Shall I see you at breakfast, Colonel?"

"Certainly, Mrs. Brandon."

"I love you."

"I love you."

She walked to her room, this time forgetting about covering herself, and he watched wistfully as her naked bottom and long, luscious legs wandered out of his sight. Then he got up, dressed himself, combed his hair, and made his way downstairs.