Chapter 8: "When I Get My Hands on You"-The New Basement Tapes

Note to readers: Thanks for all the nice comments and reviews! Hope you enjoy this chapter. It's really long. And...well...don't say I didn't warn you about the smut.

Brandon let her. He allowed her to shove him up against the chest of drawers, the echo of the door banging closed still lingering in the air, and sighed as she grabbed him by the front of his waistcoat and jerked his head down. He didn't resist her as she searched for, and found, his lips with her own, and to know that he didn't have to hide his excitement, his readiness from her, was a blessed relief. Her left hand inched down his chest, working its way over his stomach, his hip bones, his pelvis, and finally finding its way to its target, stroked his member through his woolen trousers. He was already hard. He had felt himself begin to stiffen the moment she had told him she wanted him in the carriage, and it had been an actual consideration whether or not to ravish her then and there. He prayed the servants hadn't noticed his arousal. So what if they had. Had they seen his wife? He leaned back on the chest, his elbows resting on the top surface, and rested his body against it while she touched him. Even through his clothing, this felt like absolute heaven. "God, Marianne, you don't know what you do to me," he said as she caught her breath.

"I think I have a pretty good idea," she replied, tugging at the waist of his trousers. "Take these off."

"Is that an order?"

"Do you want it to be?"

"I think I could be perfectly comfortable taking orders from you," he replied roguishly.

"Well, you're rather good at giving them, and... I don't want to tell you to do something wrong." She paused in her ministrations, her confidence wavering ever-so-slightly as she hesitated.

"If it's what you want to do, it isn't wrong. Marianne, I want you to feel free here. I told you earlier. If you like something, try it. If you don't like something, tell me. I promise to do the same." As he spoke, he reached up to fondle a strand of hair that had tumbled loose from her forehead, and almost keened at the softness of it. "For instance, I'll tell you: I'd very much like it if you took your hair down."

She touched her pinned hairdo. "You would?"

"It's very beautiful, and I would like to see it down. Would you?"

She nodded and smirked at him. "If you'll take off your trousers while I do, and save us time later on."

He laughed. "We have all night, love. I'm not in a hurry."

"You may not be. You may have all the patience in the world. But I am nineteen, and it's my prerogative to be impatient. So, off with them. And yes, I suppose that is an order," she added as an afterthought.

He grinned and got to work. Sitting down on the ottoman near the fireplace, which had been lit and was roaring graciously, he started on his boots and stockings, watching her all the while as she ripped pin after pin out of the back of her head. He was slowly mesmerized as she transformed an elegant updo into a glorious halo of red-brown curls, tumbling down over her shoulders and neck and back like a silken waterfall. He ached to touch it. He slipped off his coat and waistcoat, untied and tugged off his cravat, and stood to shake his unbuttoned trousers off his hips and onto the floor as she spilled the hairpins unceremoniously onto the counter of his wooden chest. All he wore now was his long white shirt, and it did very little to conceal his erection as he strode over to her and took her mouth in a hot, searing kiss once again, his fingers lacing through the luxurious tresses, tugging slightly, buried in sweet softness. She was doing her best to reach around behind herself and unbutton her dress, but finally he released her curls and turned her around to help her. The gown soon fell to the floor, and she stood in her chemise and stays, her slippers and stockings having been discarded and kicked near to where his boots lay. The slippers looked so small in comparison, and Brandon was reminded that his wife, who was not a petite woman, was still so delicate and feminine in comparison with his height and strength.

After resting his cheek against the back of her head for a moment, the good Colonel began looking to find a way to remove the remainder of his wife's clothing...only to discover that it was next to impossible. When he tried tugging at her stays, they-well, they stayed. He realized that there was a knot or two that needed undoing, and he cracked his knuckles-a military man could tie and untie knots with the best of them, after all-but he struggled. "Who on earth tied this? It's impenetrable!"

Breathlessly, she said, "It was Bess, and, yes, it is a bit tighter than I'm used to. I'll have to speak with her."

"Someone should get her a job in the Royal Navy...meanwhile, let me see if I can...oh Christ," he laughed, and had to bend her forward slightly so he could see what his fingers were doing. This position was extremely interesting, her bottom pressed against his hardness as she rested her hands on the cabinet and turned around slightly to face him. He would have to investigate this further. Would he be able to… and what would it feel like, from this angle? He groaned and thrust involuntarily against her as he allowed that thought to sink in, and his fingers lost their place on the knot he was trying to unravel.

"Christopher?"

"Sorry, just...oh, there it is. Thank God. Why do you wear this? What could possibly be the function of this thing?"

She straightened up and shook herself out of her stays. "It gives me a shape."

"You already have a shape. A nice one, I might add," he said, taking the stays out of her hand and tossing them to the ground with his discarded clothing. Then he pressed his hands against her belly and slid them up to cup her breasts. They were even-he in his shirt, she in her chemise-very, very little standing between their bare flesh. Marianne rectified this by stepping away from him slightly and pulling her chemise up over her head, and before Brandon's eyes could adjust to the sight, she grabbed his shirt and ripped it over his own head.

Brandon and Marianne simply stood there staring at one another for a long moment, shameless and naked, like Adam and Eve. With only the faintest of colour in her cheeks, Marianne said, "I am rather fond of your shape, too."

"Marianne?"

"Hmm?" she murmured, her eyes still roving over his body.

"I'm awaiting your orders." It was only halfway said in jest. Unconsciously he had positioned himself at attention, his arms at his sides, and as she reached out and gingerly took his cock in her hand, his jaw clenched, but he remained still as she stroked him up and down, his eyes forward except for at the initial touch, when they rolled back in his head for a brief second. His breathing laboured, he begged her inwardly, please don't keep me waiting long, love; I'll die. She took his hand.

"Come to bed."

And she placed his hands on her hips as she walked backwards, touching his lips with her own as she pulled at his arms, urging him with her body to dance her onto the bed, where, finally, she lay, her head resting on the pillows, giving him her bravest, most heated look as she spread her legs and pulled his body between them.

Hovering over her, he lowered his hips against hers, and his length lay nestled against her folds-she was wet, and warm, and he felt her tremble as he rubbed himself against her. He watched her face: she was loving this. Good God, was it possible she liked it as much as he did? He took of her nipples in his mouth as he stroked and began sucking and licking, and she nearly bucked out of his embrace.

"Are you enjoying this?" he inquired against her breast.

"Oh, yes...oh God!" she moaned at his thrusts. "Can you...go faster?"

"Would you like me to?" As he asked this, he slowed down to a snail's pace, deliberately frustrating her.

"Please...please…" and she lifted her own hips and grabbed his arse, desperately rubbing herself against him to ease her need. He sped up, but after just a few thrusts against her he realized with a gasp of consternation that this wouldn't do-he was much closer to the edge than he'd realized.

"Love-love, wait," he said, and he put a hand on her pelvis to stop it from rising up to meet his. She raised an eyebrow at him.

"Let me take a minute. I'm...I'm very close. This is a bit overwhelming."

She pouted, which he did not like one bit, so he kissed the pout off her face and reached down between her parted thighs to stroke her with his fingers, which seemed to please her a great deal. He rolled over to one side and brought her against his body, where he could wrap an arm around her, stroke her with one hand, and bury his face in her beautiful hair as he caught his breath and steeled himself against climaxing too early. But the way she was moaning and wiggling her delicious bottom and hips against him as she gave in to the sensations he was providing for her reinstated his own urgency, and he decided to try his experiment.

"Marianne, are you close?"

She whimpered, "I think so."

"Can we try something?"

She nodded, and he rotated her hips so that she was on her hands and knees. He saw her whole body go pink as she knelt there, exposed to him, but when he positioned himself behind her she didn't reject it-in fact, she shuddered and moved her hips backward, towards his throbbing member. She seemed to know exactly what was happening, and was ready for it.

"Is this alright?"

"Yes," she breathed.

He reached around her body and found her swollen little bud again, resuming the attention he was giving her, and when he felt she was beginning to lose control, he placed the head of his cock at her entrance.

"Can I-"

"Yes! Please! Oh, God, please fuck me!" she begged insensibly, tears in her voice.

Oh, dear. This would not last very long at all.

But it would be so, so good.

He pushed into her, careful to be gentle, and when he was fully in her, they both gave a sigh of pleasure. She didn't wait but immediately began thrusting her hips back against him, and he worked his hand against her-in mere moments, she was done for. She shouted incoherently with her release. The spasms from her body pulsed around his cock, and as he looked down at her from where he knelt above her-her round bottom, the curvy thighs pressed against his own, that smooth back, and those soft curls messily crowning her head-he felt with a jolt tearing through his desire how dearly he loved her. She was so trusting, so willing, so wild-and she was his. This thought made him slow down his strokes, until- "No, don't stop-please, I want you to come," she begged sweetly, breathlessly.

"I'm not stopping. But, here-come up-" and he gathered her up into his arms so that she was upright again. He pulled out from within her, but only for a moment. He placed her hands on the headboard, and said, "I want to hold you." He wrapped his arms around her as he found his way inside of her again.

There wasn't a lot of movement possible from this position, but not a lot was needed. Brandon was so overcome with lust and love for this woman, and with the angle of her body increasing the tight grip on him, he felt his climax building up almost immediately. She whispered, "I love you," just as he began to release inside her.

"Oh, Marianne-oh, my love-I can't-oh-yes! Oh, my darling..." he trailed off as the spasms subsided.

He didn't let her out of his arms immediately afterwards. He didn't want her to see the tears that started to fall from his eyes as he came down from the high of his climax, so he just knelt there behind her, still buried inside her, his lust sated for the time being but his heart so full of her that he could barely breathe. Finally he pulled out of her, lay down, and drew her body to him, face buried in her hair, unwilling to let her go.

She turned around in his arms and looked into his eyes. A few tears still lingered there. She furrowed her brows, concerned.

"Sorry. Just-a little overcome. You're marvelous."

"It was good?"

He kissed her forehead. "Very good."

"I love you," she repeated. He felt himself get choked up again. He nodded and held her tighter.

"I love you." He lay with her there for ages, rubbing her back gently in little circles. He eventually fell asleep for a few minutes, and so did she, and when he woke up, she was snoring gently. It was so adorable his heart nearly stopped. He hadn't seen her sleep before, but he felt he could watch her like this for days. In sleep her face looked so innocent, the set of her mouth and the long eyelashes resting on round, rosy cheeks reminding him that she was so much younger-a sense of guilt passed through him at having taken advantage of her youth and, he supposed, corrupting her in some way-until, in her sleep, she reached out and caressed his bare hip. Her eyes fluttered open, and all the knowledge of the past two nights filled them. She was not innocent. She was a woman, and had desires, and he was her husband and had an obligation to fulfill them, didn't he? Whatever helps you sleep at night, he told himself.

"What's that look for?" she asked him sleepily.

"I'm just admiring something beautiful."

"You really think I'm-"

"Yes," he replied, cutting her off with a finger placed over her lips. She shivered-she must be cold. He moved to lie halfway on top of her and began to kiss the top of her head, placing gentle kisses on her forehead, on her temples, down each cheek, on the tip of her nose, on her chin, avoiding her parted lips.

"What are you doing?" she inquired.

"I don't know. I think I'm having something of a religious experience. Don't tell Edward."

She giggled. "Not very likely."

"Do you mind?"

"Not at all. But I wish you would kiss me properly."

"I will. In time. This is a lesson in patience."

"I think you will find me a very difficult student."

"Difficult student, meet expert teacher." He darted his tongue just at the corner of her lips, causing her to whimper in frustration, and then lowered his head to the underside of her chin, and he slowly, methodically, and thoroughly drew his lips and tongue over every square inch of her neck and shoulders. Each time he looked up, it was there-that look, the one he'd fallen in love with-the bottom lip between her teeth, the intense concentration, with the added bonus of darkened eyes filled with desire-oh, dear. This was supposed to be about giving her pleasure, not growing eager again for his own. Why was he suddenly aware of how interesting those eyes were to him? How could a pair of eyes do things to his body without even touching him? Damnable woman.

If I have to wait, she can wait, too, he thought savagely, and slowed down even more in his soft, exploratory kisses down her arms. From the sounds she was making, he knew she was in some kind of sweet agony, and he decided to be kind and give her a piece of advice-

"The longer you wait, the better it will feel," he spoke into the crook of her elbow, where he was currently experimenting with how much pressure from his teeth nibbling against her flesh it would take to give her goose pimples. There it was. Her body erupted in tiny bumps, and as a bonus, her nipples stood up rigidly to salute him. He supposed he had transitioned to commanding officer now, so it was fitting.

"But I'd wager it would feel just as wonderful if I didn't wait, too," her voice sang out desperately.

"How will you know if you don't try?" he smiled, moving to her other arm. "You trust me?"

She nodded, smiled a little, and sank back into the pillows. She reached out to run her fingers through his hair, which felt so, so nice, but when she touched the sensitive place behind his ears, he took her hands and ordered her: "Put your arms behind your head."

She did as he bid her. "Why don't you want me to touch you?"

"Because I'm patient, but I'm not a saint, Marianne. You know perfectly well what your hands do to me."

"This is hideously unfair."

"Is it?" He balanced himself on his forearms in a plank position above her, his abdominal and back muscles trembling with exertion as he nibbled his way down the hollow between her breasts, down the soft flesh of her stomach, and just a hair's breadth from the soft mound that covered her sex-and then laughed maniacally when she screamed-screamed!-in frustration as he began to work his way up again.

"I'm beginning to not like you very much," she said as he nuzzled the undersides of her breasts.

"Our first quarrel," he teased.

"God, Christopher, you want me so much. I can feel the heat radiating off of you. How are you not driven utterly mad?"

She was right: from where he hovered above and between her legs, he had come fully erect again and was close enough to her entrance to take her again without any difficulty-and at this point, he could see that she was glistening with desire for him. It was heady.

"I'm quite experienced in delayed gratification," was his answer. Or at least, it was the answer he gave her. Perhaps the real answer was that he was just as mad as she was, but there was method in it. "You have the most exquisite legs, Marianne. So long and lovely. Do you know that?"

She covered her face with her hands and groaned. She knew what was coming. He said, "It's time someone paid them the attention they deserve."

Working his way down her flanks and hips, he descended first along the outside of her right leg towards her toes, which he took in his mouth one by one to test her reaction-oh, so here was where she could be tickled to the point of insensibility; he took the mental note and filed it away. Then, beginning with her ankle, he carefully began his ascent up the inside of her leg. When he got to her knee, she stilled, and when he took stock of her facial expression he saw her eyes closed and her jaw clenched. Each next move was deliberate: a careful pattern made by tongue and teeth across the tremendously sensitive expanse of her thigh, up, up, so close to her hot, wet sex that he could quite literally almost taste her-and then he lifted himself level with her beautiful face once again.

It was covered in tears.

"Please," she begged.

"Not yet. Trust me," he answered.

She wailed. "I think I hate you." Her eyes opened and turned on him with a mix of unfulfilled desire, rage, and laughter.

"You don't hate me, Marianne. You've just never wanted anything more in your whole life than to climax right now, have you?" His voice quavered as he spoke.

She shook her head. She bit her lip. A fresh waterfall of tears spilled out of the corners of her eyes, and she laughed self-consciously.

"This is how it was for me-wanting you so desperately for so long. And now that I have you-" He closed his eyes and shook his head. Then he took her mouth in a kiss finally, and it was as if she had never kissed him before-she was so starved for him that she seemed to drink him in, and she sobbed once into his mouth as she felt him rub his hardness against her tight opening and slide into her ever so slowly-just an inch, just enough to make him question his own sanity-before he pulled out and away from her again and lowered himself to get working on her left leg.

This time as his mouth edged up her inner thigh, he didn't leave. He stayed, breathing and blowing on her bud without touching her before raising his head up to look at her.

She didn't beg. She didn't plead. She lay there, shaking with need, waiting for him silently. "Patience is a bitch, isn't it?"

She nodded, laughing through her frustration.

"Shall I put you out of your misery?"

"Whatever...whatever you want."

"No. I want you to tell me what you want. This isn't about me. This was all for you. What do you want me to do now?"

"Will you...if it wouldn't be improper for me to ask...oh, God...will you use your mouth on me? To...to make me come?"

"I think that can be arranged." And finally, finally, he touched his lips to the most sensitive part of her, and the squeal of pleasure she gave him was golden. Though he didn't have a wealth of experience in this particular act, he knew from last night that it was something that, if he followed his instincts and the sounds of her pleasure, she would enjoy immensely.

His tongue began to undulate against her bud. Soon she demanded in a soft voice, "Put your fingers inside me," and he slipped in first one, then two, falling a little deeper in love with her as he heard her whisper, "Thank you." After everything, after the miracle that was her marrying him and making love to him and lying next to him as he slept-she was thanking him.

Though a small, cruel part of him wanted to delay her release even longer, a larger (insistent, pulsing) part of him needed to feel her finish. At some point here she had taken her hands from behind her head and placed them on the back of his own so she could move her hips upwards against his mouth, tugging at his hair in a way that was a little rough but generally quite lovely. He took her to the edge, felt her quaver as she lingered on the precipice, and sped up, deepening his thrusts and his caresses as he experienced her falling into the bliss of her orgasm.

He lingered there for a few moments after the cries of her climax had died down.

"Mmmmm," she hummed. "That was… oh my."

"Was it worth the wait?"

She bit her lip again, fighting back a big smile, and nodded. "I think I might not be able to move for a while."

"Darling?" he began, barely breathing.

"Hmmm?"

"I hate to ask…" He came back up to lie beside her.

"What is it?" she asked sleepily.

"Do you mind if...if I…"

She rolled over onto her side slowly, eyes slitted and cat-like when she looked down at his cock, which was rigid with the effects of waiting on her pleasure.

"You're ready to enter me again?"

He swallowed and nodded. "It's...I'm…"

She reached out to take him in her hand.

"Oh, that's...that's probably not a good idea." His voice shook. "Marianne, I...I need you now."

"Weren't we just having a lesson in patience?" A small smile played on her lips.

"Do you think I wasn't in agony along with you, watching you? God, I don't think I've ever desired you more than I do right now. Please…" His eyes were serious, begging.

She took mercy on him. She pulled at him until he was on top of her again and then wriggled her way underneath him so that he could find her and sink into her.

"Oh, thank God," he whimpered. "Thank you so much-I-this is-"

"Oh, sweet," she murmured as he began to thrust in her. "Does that feel good?"

He strangled out something that sounded like an affirmative answer and deepened his thrusting, knowing that he was nearly there. He worried that maybe he was being too rough with her, but she wrapped her arms and legs around him and held on tight, and he lost control of his ability for rational thought.

When he regained it, he found that he was still lying on top of her and that her face was in his hands. The echoes of his cries still lingered in the air-had he cursed at the height of his passion? Had he hurt her?

"I'm sorry. I-"

"Shhh-that was-"

"I hope I didn't-"

She kissed him softly, and he kissed her back, and she lay him on his back, rolling over on top of him, and continued to kiss him. Never in his whole life had he felt so calm, so satisfied.

"Am I dead? Are you an angel?" he asked into her mouth.

"Don't be stupid," she chided, breaking the kiss and settling down into his arms.

"Feel this," he said, picking up her hand and resting it against his heart. "You might actually kill me. Do you feel how fast my heart is beating? Am I having a heart attack?"

"Shut up," she said, and playfully slapped his chest.

"See, you're frightened because you know it could happen. I'm quite old and fragile."

She muttered something that sounded like "Fragile, my arse," and nestled closer. "Did you enjoy the pleasures of my company?"

He laughed. "Quite." He fondled the hand that lay against his chest. For ages they just lay there, thinking, caressing lazily but not moving any more than that. Then he looked around him. The clock told him they'd been at it for well over an hour, but it had seemed like their own little eternity. It was pretty close to midnight. Christopher was physically completely spent, but his eyes were wide open. He looked down at the bed and snorted. They'd made a complete mess of it. Covers were disarranged, pillows were scattered, some on the floor, and he didn't even want to think about the poor chambermaid who would be gathering up the linens for the wash once he and his wife were off in the carriage towards the Channel and France in the morning. Again, he reflected-a bonus was in order for his staff, who had put up with so much on his behalf over the years.

Marianne herself looked a little like he'd put her through a war-the kind of war where all the victims are beautiful, like some kind of battle between the gods and goddesses of Mount Olympus. Her hair was a mess of tangled curls and perspiration, her skin was covered with little red welts and bite marks here and there where his mouth had gotten overly enthusiastic with her, and the rest of her body was splayed out, legs and arms resting at whatever angle in which they'd fallen. Her eyes were open, too.

"You look like you need a comb," she said, running a hand through his hair. "And probably a bath. Lord knows I need one."

"Shall I ring for Bess?"

"Oh, no. No, I'll be alright. I couldn't get out of the bed to walk to the tub right now if you paid me."

"I didn't hurt you?"

"No-just temporarily incapacitated, I think. It's good. Really." She gave him a lazy smile and reached over to the nightstand without getting up for a glass of water. Pouring from the pitcher, she asked, "Am I supposed to enjoy this as much as I do?"

"I don't think I'm going to be the one to tell you no."

She nodded. "But Elinor said...well, I got the impression that most women don't… don't really like it. At least not at first."

Elinor was a lovely woman, but she was perfectly suited for a vicar's wife. He was suddenly, monstrously glad it was the middle sister in his bed, and not the eldest.

"And my mother...and even Mrs. Jennings...well, everyone said it would be unpleasant at first. And here I am, just...completely...happy."

She sat up next to him to drink, and he pressed his lips to her leg and smiled. "Then am I so lucky as to believe you'll be willing to do it again at some point soon?"

"Christopher! I don't think tonight-"

"Oh, I don't mean tonight. No, I-er-I think the Lieutenant Colonel is quite down for the count this evening."

She had just taken a sip of the water and, at his jest, she snorted with sudden mirth that caused her to spit the contents of her mouth clean out, all over the bedclothes that were already drenched in sweat. He laughed to see her laughing, and she doubled over with hysteria and couldn't stop. He somehow found the strength to get up and find a towel, which he handed to her, and then collapsed once again onto the bed on his stomach, turning his head to look at her still giggling.

"Yes, I think I could be persuaded to... do it... again, at some future juncture," she managed.

"Maybe next time I'll be a little more ready-oh, I am definitely not as limber as I used to be." He tried to get into a more comfortable position, increasingly aware that his back had begun to ache. He tried reaching his hand behind him to massage his own muscles, but then Marianne ran a finger along his cheek, and shakily got up to kneel behind him. Slowly, she lifted his hand away from his back and began to run her own hands up and down.

"I'd like to help," she offered.

"Marianne, you're exhausted. Don't-"

"Shhh. Just tell me where it hurts." She rubbed his back, taking the direction he gave her. Her hands were small but felt pleasant, and he relaxed for a while into her touch. This was a benefit of marriage he had never considered.

"Christopher?"

"Hmmm?"

"Did it hurt? When you got this tattoo?"

He snorted. "It was so long ago I barely remember."

"You don't remember? I would think it pretty memorable."

"Well…"

"Were you drinking or something?"

"Caught. Yes."

"Alone?"

"No."

She paused. Then she stifled a giggle. "Was Sir John with you?"

"That's not my sin to confess."

She huffed out a breath of laughter. "Does he have any...tattoos?"

"Again-not my place to say. But just don't look too closely under his collar if you want to respect his dignity as a British officer and peer of the realm."

"What would you think if I got a tattoo?"

"Divorce. Effective immediately."

"Really?"

"Of course not. But if you ever so much as thought about stepping into the kind of establishment where you could acquire one, I really would have a heart attack."

"What would it even be? Don't tattoos usually mean something significant?"

"What is something you love more than anything?"

She bit her lip. "Words. And music."

He'd thought she'd say something cliche for the tender moments they'd just shared-like "you." The fact that she didn't-he respected and loved her all the more for it. He smiled. "Give me a minute."

He swatted her hands away and rolled over, tumbling out of the bed on legs that felt like jelly and walking over to the top drawer of his dresser, where he kept a spare pot of ink and a quill. Laying his hands on what he wanted, he almost closed the drawer on a small parcel wrapped in blue paper and tied with twine. "Oh, shit," he whispered. "Marianne-I completely forgot-here." He placed the package in front of her. "This was supposed to be a wedding gift. I meant to give it to you yesterday, but I...er, well, by the time I got you in here, I became preoccupied."

She slapped her own forehead. "Thank you." She got quickly up out of bed-dear God, how much energy did this woman have? His excursion to the dresser had nearly killed him-and disappeared through the doorway to the dressing room and into her own room for a few moments before emerging with a parcel of her own. "I forgot as well. Sorry," she smiled apologetically, handing it to him. He sat down on the edge of the bed. "Better late than never," she offered.

While she worked to open hers, he sat the ink bottle on the bedside table carefully before tearing into his own. The look on her face when she saw the contents of the parcel made his heart sink. "I'm sorry-if it doesn't please you-"

"Oh, Christopher-this is for a princess. This is-it's so beautiful. I can't-it must have cost a fortune."

"I thought-you needed something to match the ring I gave you, and I thought, well…" She took the gold chain out of the box, the emerald jewels catching the candlelight and sparkling as they dangled. "I saw it in London and I thought you ought to have it. It's lovely, you're lovely...that sort of thing. I'm sorry if it doesn't suit. Obviously I'm not used to buying jewelry for women."

"No, no-I love it. I just-no one's ever...it's beautiful. Thank you." She struggled to put it on, and he brushed her hair to the side-that rich, gorgeous hair that he had turned into a giant tangle with all his attention-so he could fasten the necklace at the back of her neck. The jewels lay elegantly against her bare, creamy throat. He bent to kiss her, thinking how strange it was that neither of them were wearing a stitch of clothing, and it was freezing cold, and he had just now noticed it. He turned back the covers to snuggle underneath and then grabbed his own gift, and saw her hesitate and lower her head down. "It's just-after seeing what you gave me-my gift seems silly. I don't know if you will like it. It's not nearly-"

He kissed her again.

He opened the gift-a book, unbound.

"Kant?"

"I asked Edward. He said the two of you had discussed his works-that you'd expressed an interest in philosophy-I hadn't had time to have it bound yet, our engagement being so brief; I thought-once we're on honeymoon, we can find a bookbinder, and I can make it a nicer gift. I gave Sir John the money to send for it. I don't think you have this one. It's relatively new. It just came out last year-"

Note: kissing her stopped her from rambling. Convenient trick.

He released her, and she said, "It's horribly inappropriate for a wedding gift; I realize that now."

"Nothing would have possibly made me happier," he replied honestly. Not to mention-books were extremely expensive for a woman on Marianne's income, as it had been, and this gift would have cost her a great deal of what little she had available to her. It was a German text. "We could read it together? Work on our German, before we get to Zurich?"

"Would I understand any of it? Besides only being mediocre at German, I've never studied philosophy."

"You just read it. If it doesn't make sense...maybe the idea doesn't make sense. Or perhaps you have to think about it more to make sense of it. You're perfectly capable; and we can work it out together."

"I'm willing to try, at least." She looked down. "You don't hate it?"

"You want to be kissed tonight, don't you? Every time you say something obviously silly…"

Her nostrils flared. She smirked. "Mozart is better than Bach."

He raised an eyebrow. "You do realize that you just admitted to the silliness of that concept."

"Does it get me another kiss?"

He grinned.

Several minutes later, feeling quite happy with himself, he released his wife's lips, untangled his limbs from hers, and sat up in bed, reaching for the quill and ink. He uncorked the ink bottle, and took a minute to consider. "So. A tattoo for Mrs. Brandon. What should we draw?"

"You'll get ink all over the bedclothes!"

"These bedclothes have seen worse tonight." Marianne snorted and wrinkled her nose. "Where would you like your tattoo, madam?"

"Christopher, you're ridiculous."

"I'm in love. What fool in love isn't a little ridiculous?"

"Just do it somewhere no one will see it."

"Hmmm...roll over, then." He studied the elegant surface of her back and began to draw five mostly-parallel lines across, from shoulder blade to shoulder blade, reaching in for more ink every half-stroke or so to make sure he didn't blur the lines. He blew on the ink to dry it.

"Mozart's...eleventh sonata for pianoforte, yes?"

"My favourite?"

"I remembered it correctly then. Can you hum for me how it starts?"

She hummed a little of the melody, and he freehanded a treble clef onto the staff he'd drawn and began to reproduce the music on her body as she hummed. "Wait, you're going too fast!" he chided, needing to stop and blow on the ink so it wouldn't smear. She shook with laughter underneath him and her bottom, exposed as it was, wiggled its way into Brandon's attention. He groaned-it was an especially nice bottom. "While I'm waiting on that ink to dry…" he dipped in for more ink and thought for a moment, then had it. He began to trace the words he'd thought of onto an exposed cheek, and she squealed in surprise (and did he detect a note of arousal?) to feel the sharpish nub of the quill scratching against the sensitive flesh.

"What are you doing?"

"Being ridiculous."

"What are you writing on me?"

"You can see it when it dries."

"I want to play this game, too."

"Give me time. I have to finish your music. Can you do it note for note, instead of humming? I want to be sure to get it right…"

"It will just wash off-it will wash off, won't it?"

"Yes. But even so."

She did her best to think of the pitch and duration of each note in the piece she loved, and he filled in the notes on her skin as tiny as he could until he ran out of space, slowly and carefully, stopping to blow the ink dry every couple of inches. He finished, finally, and she raised up-"Don't lean back," he said-and took the ink and quill out of his hands, beginning to draw on his own skin, giggling as she did so. She doodled-snippets of poetry, geometric patterns, even an elaborate rose, the petals taking up a large portion of the well-muscled left cheek of his backside, the stem winding its way up his side. She delighted, evidently, to learn that the quill's tip running up the side of his torso caused him to suppress, and finally to release, a stream of laughter at being tickled, and applied her new knowledge liberally, letting go of the quill and getting to work, laughing herself to hear him laugh-until he rolled over, grabbed her by the wrists, tossed her onto her side, and scooted towards her feet, where he repaid her in kind. She tried kicking at him when he grabbed her toes and touched them gently, softly, eliciting a full-blown cackle. Soon, though, he realized that the ink bottle, which had been balanced on the covers, had now toppled over, and a puddle of black was leaking out onto the white down coverlet. He grabbed it and set it neatly onto the bedside table, giving her an opportunity to attack his sensitive sides once again. There was only one thing that could fix this, he rationalized through his near-insanity. Reaching underneath and around his body, he located the quill again and touched it underneath his wife's neck, the soft feather gently stroking her soft flesh, and she lost her ability to breathe properly, she was laughing so hard. "This is what you get," he rumbled, touching the feather to all the places he knew were sensitive, until-and he had not planned this, he would swear it-her snorts of laughter turned to something more sensuous. He raised an eyebrow to see her there, biting her lip (oh, God! She was beautiful), and looking down at the quill as it fluttered along her thighs, and he knew suddenly what she was thinking.

Wordlessly, he drew the quill feather up between her legs, and she threw her head back in pleasure, letting out a happy hum. She spread her legs further apart to give him more easy access, and he continued, using the unexpected toy to tease her, and then abandoning it altogether and replacing it with his fingers. He watched her face as she got closer to finishing, until, her eyes meeting his, she reached up to pull him into a kiss. She suddenly began to thrust her hips against his hand, and he sped up as she came, easing off slowly as she descended from bliss.

Her eyes sleepily blinked at him. She smiled, leaning back into her pillow. Weakly, she took his hand and kissed it. "That was unexpected."

"Did you like?"

She nodded, and he kissed her forehead. "Oh, my. It's so late." The clock read that it was half past one.

"You should sleep," he said. "We have an early morning."

"Yes." She smiled.

But they kept talking, about a thousand different things. Excitedly, she asked them about where they were going, and who they would see, and he told her about all the things he'd never done that he was looking forward to sharing with her, and the foods they'd eat, and the vista of all those mountains covered with snow, and how cold they'd be, and the way Delaford would look decked out in springtime finery when they returned, and how much Charity loved the springtime, and how dearly he had loved it when he was a child, and how much she had loved Norland in spring, and they amused themselves by thinking of the most eloquent lines of poetry about spring, and philosophically wondered why no one had written a good poem about autumn, which was also nice...Brandon picked up the ink and quill again and began to compose a terrible poem about autumn on her belly, and she chuckled, and her eyes finally began to flutter closed, and she was asleep. It was now close to four.

He shook his head. There was no point trying to sleep now. He could sleep in the carriage, he supposed.

God, how he loved her.

He picked up the quill and dipped it in ink one last time, inspired-gently, so as not to wake her-and then put them back on the bedside table. When she looked at her body in the full length mirror the next morning before scrubbing, she'd see that her bottom bore the words, "for I, being pent in thee, perforce am thine, and all that is in me;" and underneath the terrible comical poem on her belly, at the place where her pelvis joined with her hips, were written the words, "Ex libris Chris Brandon."

He got up, silently washing himself at the basin after staring at Marianne's doodles on his skin in the mirror for a minute; he got dressed; he made his way downstairs to check his office and his library once more to make sure everything was packed away that needed to be packed, and that all the affairs of the estate had been handled before leaving; and finally, the servants were up and about. He ordered a large but easily digestible breakfast for himself and his wife for two hours from hence-taking a cup of tea and a bun in the meanwhile to tide himself over. And he re-entered his room. His wife lay where he'd left her, snoring peacefully. He smiled, took his copy of Metamorphosis off the table by the dying fire where he'd left it, and, after stirring the fire back to life and adding another log, he quietly, carefully walked past the bed, snagged the throw blanket from the foot, and stepped out onto the terrace. It was his last morning at Delaford for a while, and he wanted to enjoy a minute alone, looking out on the property he'd loved his whole life.

The tea warmed him in the frigid morning, and the combination of caffeine and chilly air shook him awake. He was exhausted, and happy, and excited, and full, for the first time since he was a child. Just...full.

For an hour, he read. Then he decided it was time to wake her. She protested, but eventually, memories flooded her eyes of what they'd done, and where she was, and what they planned to do.

The beatific smile she gave him suggested that she was really happy, too.

She washed, dressed, joined him for breakfast, and then, her bags packed and loaded up, she entered the carriage, waving goodbye to the servants, and made for London, the first stop on a long journey.