Please be advised that this story contains mild-medium smut.
TOO HOT TO TOUCH
'Ugh!' came an exasperated and audibly dehydrated groan, all the way from the other side of the room. 'Good God! I don't know how they stand it!'
'Stand what, dearest?' Margaret replied as she kicked off her shoes with a force that was far from ladylike, not that she minded in the least, because as for her poor feet that were swollen and roasting like loaves of bread in the oven, they were only too relieved to be removed from their tight leather confines.
'The heat!' her husband retorted, turning over on the bed in a restless yet increasingly hopeless attempt to get comfortable. Letting out a guttural groan to stress his suffering for all to hear, he raised a hand to his sweaty brow to wipe away yet another cluster of moisture that had gathered there in great pools that fell into the grooves between the lines on his forehead, furrows that always appeared whenever he was cross.
'You know, I used to judge them when I first heard of it. Siestas, indeed!' he blew mockingly with his lips. 'What bone-idle nonsense, I always thought. I just saw it as a shiftless excuse for a man to shirk his working responsibilities in the middle of the day and take to his bed for a sly snooze. But now, oh-boy, do I understand!' he lamented, heartily sorry for his previously ill-informed opinion as he undid yet another of his shirt buttons so that the breeze, limited as it was, might cool him down. Sulking, he thought on how he had constantly scorned his sister's pointless fans over the years, but Lordie, he would pay a king's ransom today to have one of them.
Margaret laughed gaily. 'Oh, John!' she carped lovingly, she herself unable to feel anything other than heavenly gratitude that they had been given this chance to take shelter from the relentless sun that baked and blistered outside. 'You really are such a child when you're hot and bothered,' she joshed. 'We should have brought Dixon to be your nanny.'
The couple were only visiting Spain for the second time, despite being married for four years. They had chosen to stay in a hotel rather than impose on Fred and his wife, what with Dolores trying to care for a newborn along with four other little ones, so after saying a brief goodbye until this evening, they were now taking refuge indoors. They had both known that Spain would be hot in the height of summer, they were not stupid, but good gracious, neither of them could ever have imagined such unbearable heat that defied all reason. The first time they had come, it had been winter, so while it had still been significantly more toasty than what they were used to in England, it was at least tolerable.
Today, on the other hand, they had tried to pretend that it did not bother them as they strolled about the bustling streets in their thick, starched, and cruelly close-fitting attire that was made for harsher climates, and so they had employed their sterling British upper-lip to hide the fact that they were slowly but surely perspiring to death, about to dissolve and become a puddle on the ground at any minute. So needless to say, when they had at last fled the inferno of the midday Spanish sun, and closed the door of their hotel room, the couple had breathed an enormous sigh of relief to finally have escaped from its scorching gaze.
However, John, who did not like being criticised at the best of times, made all the worse now by his crotchety temper, thrashed about on the bed so that he might properly look at his wife squarely in the face and refute her denunciation of his character, no matter how teasingly meant it may be. Nevertheless, he never got the chance, because he soon stopped, his attention stolen by a far more pleasing distraction.
Standing before the mirror, Margaret was quietly and unassumingly taking off her clothes, one item at a time. Dixon, who had deemed it too much of an inconvenience to travel with her mistress, had stayed behind in Milton, and while there was such a thing as maids on the continent to help the young lady, it had been deemed prudent to provide her with garments that she could easily remove herself by way of compensation. As such, John watched with hypnotised allure as Margaret untied the fastenings of her dress, slipped the sleeves over her ivory shoulders, and let it fall to the floor with a thud.
He liked that.
Unaware of her husband's interest, and the way his hawk-like eyes watched her ravenously, Margaret continued in her task, now removing her corset. John always felt like a weight had been lifted off him whenever he saw his wife rid herself of this heinous garment. He hated corsets for two very simple reasons. One, they were abominable contraptions that must have made women darned uncomfortable, not to mention that they were inhumane, causing a woman to become one giant welt with all the bruises it inflicted, the hard bone of the panelling digging into her ribs, serving to do nothing more than constrict and crush her. Their only true function, as far as he could see, was to pinch and punish the waistline, not forgetting the enhancing of breasts for male inspection, baseless and rather chauvinistic motives that were unjustifiable to John. And besides, to his mind, his wife's body was a temple of perfection as it was, so there was no need for any inhumane modifications on her part.
Yes, his first reason was founded on principle, one could not expect anything less from a man of stout morals, but as for the second, well, that was entirely founded on preference. His second complaint, and by far his most grievous, was that corsets made it unfairly tricky for him to get to his wife's enticing body as speedily as he would like. It not only covered her up to a painstaking degree, like a cage that was destined to keep amorous husbands out, but it took forever to take off, meaning that he was near enough hopping with longing for her by the time he managed to extradite Margaret from its restrictions. Every time he helped, it took every ounce of self-control that John possessed not to rip it right off her, something he had done more than once, but maddeningly, his wife had told him off, reminding her thrifty husband that clothes cost money, and that patience was a virtue, so it would not do to behave petulantly. The problem was that John relished being scolded by his wife, so that only sought to antagonise his appetite further.
Next, Margaret took hold of her drawers and shimmied from side to side to push them down as she wiggled out of her underwear, her foot gently sweeping to the left to punt them away. She then hoisted one of her slender legs and propped it up high on a chair, and from there, she began to fold down her silken stocking, rolling it inch by inch down her leg, starting from her juicy thigh, moving it all the way down to her ankles.
John had been lying on his stomach as he watched her in stealthy silence, only now, he was obliged to prop himself up on his forearms, a certain southern region stirring into life and becoming compressed by the weight of him as it sought to swell and stand to attention, it too excited by the events unfolding most agreeably. He was like a man possessed. John wished he could tell her. He wished he could let her know how much he appreciated her subtle seduction, but he dare not breathe a word, because the moment he did, his dear Margaret would blush and realise that she was the object of attention, something she could not cope with, and she would suddenly become mortified, an outcome that would not only be disastrous for him, but also unkind on her.
They had hardly lain together in weeks, or if they had, it had been a rushed and rather unsatisfactory assignation, interrupted by the sound of little feet pitter-pattering outside their bedroom door or gurgling cries in the night, meaning that one or both parents were forced to leave the comfort of their bed and the luxury of their lover's arms to play the role of parent. Not that they minded, of course, not really, since both John and Margaret doted on their three children, but it would be preferable if every now and again, between the mill, the school, the hospital, and their social duties, a man and wife could find the time to indulge in their love for each other.
They had even tried to be together in his office more than once, the sound of the blaring machines rumbling beneath an ideal cover to conceal their upsurge of screams and shouts of euphoria. However, once again, it was not to be, because while the scandal of being intimate in such an inappropriate setting always got their blood pumping, business had been busy of late, which was a good thing, he supposed. Still, it meant that there was a knock at his door every five minutes, and while John could take his wife astoundingly fast and hard when he needed to, so much so that her eyes rolled back in her head and she nearly cracked to pieces from the intensity of the pleasure, even he could not work such magic in a mere five rounds of the clock.
To make things worse, the sailing from England had been abysmal. John had always assumed that he was a hardy sailor, but since travelling with his wife, he had come to appreciate that it was she, not he, who had the sea legs. Like brother, like sister, apparently. Much to his horror, his precious Margaret could always be found leaning precariously over the railings, filling her lungs with the salty air and delighting in the waves that caught the ship in Neptune's net and sent them rising and falling with the tides of nature. She was like a child at the fairground, forever entertained by it all, never growing tired of the whooshing that overtook her stomach. At any rate, one would have thought that being at sea and separated from many of their typical everyday responsibilities would have been an aphrodisiac for a young couple, but it did not help when one of them was constantly swaying from side to side and turning a more ominous shade of green by the second, an embarrassing fact which made John more irritable than ever.
The point was, that it had been many, many weeks since they had been afforded the chance to lie together properly, since John could take his sweet time with his sweet wife. But now the children, exhausted from all their excitement, had fallen asleep at Frederick's house, and his wife, Dolores, had insisted that they should remain there until the Thorntons returned a few hours later for dinner, leaving the mother and father alone at last. Therefore, this happy event meant that for once in three years, there was no mill and no little ones to come between John and Margaret, and their very personal, very private, and very passionate love.
Breathing heavily through his nose like a beast, John gripped the bedsheets as Margaret's shift, that flirtatious garment that was almost negligently thin and transparent, hitched an inch higher, slipping backwards, nearly revealing his private paradise, his very own playground. Nevertheless, much to his grouchy dissatisfaction, it stopped a mere trice from her discreet parts, keeping that nirvana shielded in modesty from his greedy gaze. Her chemises were usually long, so long it was a wonder Margaret did not trip over them, petite thing that she was, but this one had been specially made for their holiday and the temperature of the continent, and so, it was not only fine in its texture, but mouth-wateringly short.
The heat was still insufferable, and John could hardly breathe, but whether that was from his parched throat or that insatiable prickling that tickled him all the way from the soles of his feet to his thighs, he could not tell. Despite the madness that was overtaking him as he melted away, John watched in fascination as beads of sweat trickled down Margaret's neck and into the trench of her spine, and he had an urgent craving to take his tongue and lick her there, dragging up her skin with unhurried deliciousness until she was clean and dry.
However, just as John was about to sneak up behind Margaret, grab her by the waist, and indulge in his fantasy, his frolicsome desires were interrupted as he caught sight of the delectable markings of brown and white on her skin. Margaret had always been pale as a rule, but unlike other women, when the sun came a-courting, she did not shy away from its sunny advances, but basked in all its glory, causing her skin to develop an attractive ruddiness. Fanny continuously chastised her sister-in-law for her contrariness, reminding her that women should be fair if they wanted to remain delicate, but John had no time for such sallow sentiments that rendered his goddess insipid. He liked seeing a healthy flush to his wife's cheeks. It reminded him that she was no dainty flower that would wilt at the first sign of the weathering of life, but that she would stand firm and strong, allowing the heat of her days to ignite that spirit of individuality within her and keep the flames of her fire burning bright.
Standing up straight once more, Margaret lifted her arms above her head and stretched, her fingers winkling, her toes wiggling, and John marvelled at the uncomplicated loveliness of her. Again, the lines of her bronzed dermis showed magnificently, and he gaped at the borders that were drawn across Margaret in neat and orderly lines where the edges of her clothes had screened or exposed her, such as the circles on her arms where her sleeves had hidden her, one half as brown as a field of wheat, the other as white as milk.
That was a pretty enough spectacle in itself, but it could not hope to compare to the tantalising tinting of her face, neck and chest, the colour gradually lightening as it descended, and John could spy that sensual rim on the tip of her cleavage that marked the lands of snowy mountains that only he was allowed to visit, save their baby chicks, but in two very different ways. It drove him wild, the thought of it, hidden just an inch below, and he could feel his mouth salivating with a hunger to let his lips explore the veiled secrets that lay beyond that border.
As Margaret continued to stretch her supple limbs, the husband felt his toes curling in stifled thrill as Margaret inadvertently pushed out her bottom and breasts, those two perfect and pert peaks nearly making him whimper with an impatient want for her. He had a desperate desire to leap off the bed, scoop her up, pin her against the wall, and have his wicked way with her right now, the whole hotel, the whole of Cádiz, the whole of Spain, being duly informed by their grunts and groans that the Thorntons had well and truly come to town. He could feel his muscles flexing, readying for action, and it was difficult to ignore the pressure that was building between his legs, a tension that if not drained soon, would surely cause him to explode.
But no. He would wait. He would be patient. He would behave himself. He would employ some of his famous self-denial, even if it was the hardest thing he had ever had to do. Even if John sometimes felt like an animal, Margaret, his darling girl, she was not so uncouth, for she was an angel, and even although she liked to be bedded with as much vigour and ferocity as her masculine husband could achieve, what with all his pent-up stores of strength and stamina, he knew he should take her with tenderness, because that is what she deserved: love and lust combined. And besides, Margaret had a sneaky suspicion that she was expecting another babe, their fourth tiny Thornton, or perhaps their fourth and fifth, given that the last birth had rewarded them with twins. So with this joyous but unconfirmed news on the horizon, this gave John further cause to treat his wife and any precious cargo she may be carrying with extra care and consideration.
Still, that did not mean they could not enjoy each other's company, all the same.
As promised, John waited uncomplainingly, and when she was finished with this undertaking and remained in nothing more than her final piece of attire, that same underdress, Margaret raised her hands to her luscious locks, removing the pins that held her intricate hairstyle in place. John smiled to himself, since he knew the end was drawing near, because this was always her last task, his lovely wife as much a stickler for routine as he was. He delighted in seeing her thick, brunette ringlets tumble down on mass and curl around her shoulders and down her back. Her hair was beautiful, like an adorning crown that was a testament to the natural majesty of her, and he liked nothing more than to lie with Margaret in his arms when they were going to sleep and lose his fingers in those tresses, twisting them round and round until they were stuck. He never hurt her, he never pulled, or that is, not hard, but he just loved the silky feel of her, to have her close and know that this was the blissful climax of their intimacy, lying entangled after they had made love and were physically spent, yet emotionally alive.
Then, finally, free of everything other than her last item of clothing, Margaret let out a loud and breathy moan of pleasure, and it was at this point, that John's willpower snapped, and he could take it no longer.
'Come here,' a rapacious voice growled, the tone dark, delicious and dangerous. Margaret jumped on the spot and whirled round to see her husband watching her, like a predator eyeing up its prey, those same eyes sharpened by seduction, ready to pounce. He was leaving her under no illusion as to what he wanted, and all he could hope, was that she wanted him too, otherwise John was very much afraid that he might actually cry.
Margaret grinned, her pearly white teeth showing. Twirling to face him fully, she began to walk towards her husband, her steps frustratingly slow and intentionally provocative. John let his eyes drag over her as her hips swished from side to side suggestively, and he had to claw at the bed-frame to stop himself from seizing her by those rounded handles and pulling her onto him, his nails marking the wood. Hmm, that would be interesting explaining to the hotel manager when they left. He could never quite get used to the fact that he was allowed to freely look at her and let his yearning show after years of being denied this privilege, and not only that, but she readily welcomed his attention, she invited it with her coy luring.
However, when she was no more than a few feet from the bed, she abruptly stopped, and folding her arms, Margaret issued a firm: 'No!'
John's eyes darted up to meet hers, since they had previously been fixated with elsewhere, much to his shame. With a look of worry and mounting disappointment, he searched her face to read her mood, because it was rare, very rare, that his wife denied him his carnal rights as a husband, but whenever she did, John respected her wishes without a moment's hesitation or annoyance. He did not find this displeasing, not when he could never be the sort of man who demanded that the woman he loved give herself to him unwillingly. Nevertheless, much to his delight, what he saw written across her face was not a refusal, but a challenge, her eyes sparkling with impishness.
She wanted this. She wanted him. She just wanted him to chase her.
Very well then. Let the hunt begin.
Growling impatiently, John cocked his head and crooked his finger, each beckoning her to come hither. 'I will pretend you did not just disobey me, wife, and will spare you punishment, but you will come to me, right now, because your master demands it,' he told her, his voice irresistibly rough and ready as he shuffled back on the bed to make room for her, his hand patting the space beside him officiously.
Again, while John would never force anything upon his wife, he could admit that when she allowed it, he revelled in playing the role of the overbearing master within the harmless confines of their marital bed. John smirked. It was ridiculous, really. The whole point of being a master was that you were an undisputed leader, somebody who was in control of others whether they liked it or not, so for a man to seek permission from his wife to master her, the whole notion was utterly counterproductive in its futility. But still, he did not mind, he did not mind one bit, because while John knew that he could never genuinely dominate his wife, both because of his nature as a gentle and respectful partner, and hers as a self-assured woman, it made it all the more gratifying to think that she unreservedly gave herself to him and submitted herself to his will. His Meg, this warrior of a woman, she bowed down before him with such awe-inspiring devotion.
Nevertheless, Margaret was having none of his heavy-handed words today. 'I will remind you, Mr Thornton,' she said coquettishly, a flirtatious lilt to her tone as she stepped that little bit nearer, a hand running up her side, skimming her breasts, and then cloying at her hair in a way that near enough made him spill himself, 'that you have no jurisdiction here.'
John raised an eyebrow to her, his own eyes now gleaming with a gluttonous desire to plunder her every treasure trove. 'Is that so?' he argued, removing his shirt and permitting her to look upon his bare chest, the muscles on his torso tightening with the pressure that throbbed throughout him. He then undid his trousers and tossed them away, exposing his wife to some very rude pointing indeed.
Margaret gasped, and looked like she might give way for a moment and come running to him, but her composure soon returned. 'Aye, sir, it is,' she confirmed, intentionally seducing him by using the idioms that were foreign to her dialect, yet she was so fond of listening to in his own. On hearing her say it, while some parts of John still pulsated to the point of agonising pain, his heart spluttered for her with such endearing affection.
'We are far from home, Marlborough Mills is nowhere near, and so, you have no power here,' she decreed, taking a single step closer and leaned over him, her breasts clenched and heaved in a way that she knew would drive him to distraction. 'Try as you will, master of mine, you cannot order me about today.'
That was it, John could not take it anymore.
'Come here! Now!!' he demanded, reaching out to her, but at that precise second, Margaret flew backwards and out of his reach, leaving him to crash down onto the bed with his outstretched arm, and no consolatory trophy to claim for his physical feat.
Damn it!
This was no time for fun and games.
The couple had a pastime they sometimes played, in which one person would be on the bed, the other outside of it, either walking, standing, kneeling, whatever position they wanted really. The rule was, that the person on the bed could not leave their post to capture their prize, but had to wait for their quarry to draw near. Their lover would move about, getting ever closer, taunting them by staying just out of reach, until, finally, they made a mistake, became too arrogant in their tormenting tease, and in the end, they would be caught, and the winner was at last allowed to savour their spoils.
On guessing her amusement, John collapsed down and rolled onto his back, a playful look on his face as his legs and arms rolled with him, and he pawed at her helplessly with his favourably large hands. It was amusingly lion like, if only his mane was golden and not black. With his head lolled back, he made a strange sort of noise that was somewhere between a yelp and a roar as he looked at her pleadingly, his eyes telling his wife that he was desperate to devour her. Margaret laughed. Oh, how she loved him! She could never have imagined their marriage would be like this. That is, she had never fully imagined what marriage would be like, certainly not this part of marriage, something that had always been a carefully guarded secret kept from her until her wedding night. But while she always trusted that John would be a darling in every possible way, in every part of their union, besotted boy that he was, she could never have dreamed that he would be so light-hearted.
From the first time they had met, Margaret had known the esteemed Mr Thornton to be a serious and restrained kind of man, and this fact remained staunchly true to this day, only now, he had his moments of quiet softness of temperament in which he showed her how much he adored her. Still, even if she could have predicted John's gentle and generous ways when they were alone, she could not have known that he would throw off the shackles of his stiff prudishness and become a younger, livelier, more mischievous version of himself. She cherished it, seeing him like this, stripped of his facade of formality, no longer a master or a magistrate, but just John, her John, her wonderful husband that only she would ever know in this way.
In John's case, he felt exactly the same about her. John had always understood that Margaret was not like other women, that had been obvious from the onset. She was not the type to try and ensnare a man with her female charms, she was too modest for that, too pure in every way. However, since they had married, his tasteful bride had shredded her outer shell of shyness and had taken on a much more spirited personality behind closed doors. Yes, she was as sensible as she had ever been, and John was thankful for that, for he could not abide a silly wife that only lived for pleasure, but he was pleased to see that for him, just for him, she could giggle, blush, swoon, and cavort. On the other hand, as much as the husband venerated his wife's playful side, it was damned inconvenient when he wanted to bed her and she insisted on resisting him.
'Margaret,' John warned, near enough snarling.
'John,' she retaliated in kind, not the least bit perturbed by his ferociousness.
But it was just as Margaret was spinning round, her arms outstretched like a ballerina, that John spied a sash that encircled her shift, the tails floating as she whirled. Smirking to himself with self-satisfaction, John waited until this wayward ribbon danced across the edge of the bed, and then he seized his opportunity. Snatching it in his hand, he captured the silk, tugged as hard as he could, and pulled his wife onto the mattress to join him.
Margaret let out a loud shriek of surprise, but this was swiftly exchanged for hilarity as she happily allowed her husband to hold her down, clamber on top of her, and claim his reward. Oh! The cool sheets were heavenly against her burning skin, and she did not wait to spread herself out to let their soft folds swallow her.
Separating her legs and tilting her hips, Margaret invited his attentions and accommodated his girth as John settled between her thighs, readying for his task, one which she hoped would cause the strings of her self-control to snap as she delighted in his well-homed ministrations. At first, John appeared fierce, like he might rip her to shreds, but the couple were quick to fall into a fit of laughter, their noses rubbing, their lips brushing, their eyes gazing into one another's with such profound affection.
'Now then, Mrs Thornton,' John began, whispering darkly into her ear as he pushed inside of her and nearly fell apart to hear Margaret moan his name with rasping release, her nails digging into his shoulders and her teeth sinking into his neck, 'let's see how hot we can get.'