Change my priorities
The taste of your lips is my idea of luxury

- King of My Heart, Taylor Swift

xxx

It's October on the Côte d'Azur, and the weather is still mild and pleasant and breezy-warm, the beaches less thronged with tourists than they might have been a few months before. The waters are painted with a tinge of sunset. It is, in short, the perfect setting for a honeymoon - especially the honeymoon of two newlyweds who'd first begun to fall in love on a day at the English seaside.

At the open door of a balcony looking out on the ocean, Truly Potts sighs happily as she pulls her fluffy hotel bathrobe more tightly against her otherwise-bare skin. Her hair, long and blonde and still damp from a wash, glows in the golden-hour sunlight, her cheeks are flushed and her blue eyes warm, and she has the overall appearance of perfect, almost poetic, feminine contentment at its most candid.

She'd grown up in a world of luxurious excess, but she's never, ever known luxury like this. She feels as if her skin is velvet and her hair is spun from gold, as if her body is a place of worship, but just for the two of them and the precious, dizzyingly euphoric secrets they share.

Fundamentally, she feels like the same person she's always been, but with all the pretense and artifice stripped away. Not the Honorable Miss Truly Scrumptious, minor socialite and heiress to a candy dynasty, but simply Mrs. Truly Potts, a woman madly in love with her husband who will make love to him with the doors to the balcony of their suite wide open, if she so chooses.

It amuses her to know that she's looked upon in society back home as somewhat of a curiosity now: the lovely heiress who could have easily been a marchioness or a countess or at least a baroness if she hadn't rebuffed so many suitors and insisted on marrying for love, ending up with a distinctly quirky American whom she'd happily chosen even before he'd become wealthy!

And Truly shudders to think what that life would have been like, if she'd obediently followed in her mother's footsteps and done what was expected of her by marrying the highest-status man she could possibly land. Now that she knew, very intimately and thoroughly, what it was to be touched and kissed and loved by one's husband, well... the mere idea of a union founded on anything less than true, mutual love had gone from unappealing to downright horrifying . How could she have ever been expected to share herself in this way with a man she didn't love and trust and desire to the depths of her soul? And, conversely, how could she have lived her life without ever knowing the heights of bliss she now shares with Caractacus, physically and otherwise?

But really, she can only feel badly for the women who have never experienced true pleasure in marriage, now that she knows just how abundant it can be. If high society is laughing at her, well, she has the last laugh every time she's in her husband's arms.

Unlike the more traditional fairy-story romances, Truly's determination to marry for love or not at all hadn't somehow made her a duchess or a princess in the end; no, it had brought her something far, far better than any of that stuffy nonsense. And if her real-life fairy-story involved a transforming motorcar of arguable sentience, a rather daft old man in need of rescue instead of the typical damsel, a rebellion of persecuted children, and a fortune made on whistling sweets for dogs, it concluded all the same in a very real happily-ever-after.

(In a fairy-story or a romantic novel, it would be unseemly to mention what "happily-ever-after" truly entails - whispers and giggles against heated skin, and bursts of pure pleasure brighter than the sun, and bare bodies entangled in twisted sheets in broad daylight, and the inexpressible intimacy of how it feels to fit perfectly together, and ardent "I love yous" cried out between wordless moans. Oh, Truly knows all about those things now.)

One of the most fascinating modern conveniences in this fine French hotel is the shower in the washroom, in addition to the expected bathtub. Already, Caractacus has declared that they'll have one installed in their own home. Washing each other under the spray is much more quick and efficient than a leisurely shared bath... though Truly has quickly learned that both of these options can offer their own set of delicious distractions to an amorous husband and wife. It is marvelous being married, and she blushes delightedly as she savors the memories of the rather overly-long shower they'd just shared, thanks to Caractacus' inexhaustible inventiveness in finding new ways for them to make love.

Scrubbed clean and wrapped in a soft bathrobe and still floating on the peaceful bliss of being so completely satisfied, Truly sits down on the edge of the bed facing the balcony, stretching out with a delicate yawn. Her legs are a bit sore, but pleasantly so, earned from their earlier strolls along the beach and their thorough exploration of an art museum and the hours in bed that had followed.

They've been married for - she has to stop and think about that, it's so easy to lose track of time in their secluded little paradise - fifteen days, and already, she couldn't possibly hope to count how many times they've made love. She knows how many times today, though - four. That is, if she counts - well, she counts all of it, and sixteen days ago, she wouldn't have even been able to imagine what that meant, that there could be multiple ways to make love that were so different as to defy simple categorization.

(She frequently remembers her mother's terrible pre-wedding advice, her lukewarm assurance that a wife may eventually manage to feel a vague pleasure in the act, and she can only laugh.)

Behind her, Truly hears the water run in the washroom and the clatter of a toothbrush against a porcelain cup, and then the quiet creak of a door, the soft patter of barefoot footsteps on tile and then plush carpeting.

She wonders if he might settle into his side of the bed and pick up his little notebook, maybe jotting down a few of his ideas for inventions as he so often does during the more sedate parts of their day - certainly she couldn't blame him for needing some quiet time right now! And, though the technical aspects can be difficult for her to understand, she loves to listen to her husband talk about his ideas, most recently, this electric tea kettle he's been dreaming up; loves the fire in his eyes and the particular way one eyebrow quirks when he's explaining mechanical matters, loves most of all that he cares about her enough and regards her highly enough to share every detail of his process with her.

Without fail, it eventually makes her want to kiss him breathless and climb into his lap, and he is always very receptive whenever she dares to do just that.

But Caractacus doesn't seem to spare a thought for anything but her at this moment, sliding across the length of the bed to wrap her up in his arms from behind and pull her close against his own bathrobe-clad body, pressing his lips to her neck and breathing in the scent of her.

And, though she's scarcely been out of his arms since their wedding night in London, let alone today, Truly still feels her skin spark and tingle with excitement, her breath catching in eager anticipation of what might follow. It's still such a novel feeling, and yet already so familiar. This new facet of herself has been integrated so seamlessly into her being that it's almost difficult to remember that not so long ago, there had been a Truly who knew nothing of marital pleasures and insatiable desires for the same.

He's warm, in every sense of the word, and his arms are strong and she feels almost weightless, cushioned by the bed and the plushness of white hotel bathrobes, soothed by the gentle roar of the waves outside the open balcony doors, and this, this, is luxury.

Velvet curtains and marble halls and grand dining rooms! - none of that could come close to the luxury of being so perfectly comfortable and so completely, utterly, perfectly loved.

"Pretty," he murmurs as he traces her cheek with his thumb, his smile perceptible against her skin, and the simple, affectionate intimacy of it makes her let out a happy sigh as she smiles right back and cuddles into his embrace.

She's never known anyone so sincere. Quite a few times in their courtship, he'd shyly, humbly admitted that he didn't have much of a way with words, but Truly always disagreed. He can say the most wonderful, beautiful things when he speaks from his heart, it's just that he can't quite plan them, and that makes his sincerity all the more obvious.

Caractacus doesn't speak in poetry or grand speeches, but he never says anything he doesn't mean - (because I love you, Truly, the way her breath had caught in her throat although she couldn't let it show before the audience of sharp-eyed Vulgarians, because he wouldn't say that, even as part of a performance, if it weren't true) - and she never has to worry that she is merely being flattered or appeased. After twenty-five years of receiving reflexive, hollow-sounding compliments, often with questionable intentions behind them, she'd never imagined how much she'd enjoy being fawned over by somebody who undoubtedly meant every word of it.

Twisting around in his arms, she gazes up and meets her husband's eyes for the first time since he'd returned to the bedroom, reaching up to run a hand along his smooth, handsome face as she beams at him. "You know, I was just thinking a few minutes ago about how - you make me feel so beautiful."

Caractacus lets out a light laugh, shaking his head in self-deprecating disbelief. "Aw, now, I'm sure you don't need me for that. You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

Truly's eyes widen in surprise at that statement, her heart skipping a beat. She'd assumed that she'd relinquished any right to such superlative praises by marrying a man who'd had a wife before her, but she tries not to draw attention to her shock because she doesn't want to embarrass or distress him and also because - God help her, it's probably selfish, but she dearly doesn't want him to qualify it or walk it back.

But his lovely blue eyes are calm and his gaze is steady and he doesn't falter or appear at all as if he hadn't meant to say that, and elation runs through her like a burst of champagne bubbles, and she's sure it must be visible, glowing right through her skin.

Smiling irrepressibly to herself as she looks down at her hands, she says, "I understand - what I mean is, I think false modesty can be just as unbecoming as vanity, but - what I'm trying to say is that you make me feel beautiful, in a way that I never had before." She looks up into his eyes, expression growing more serious. "All my life, people have been calling me beautiful. Sometimes, they'd say it without emotion, as if it were a simple, objective fact about me: Have you met Lord Scrumptious' beautiful daughter? To them, my looks were a sort of currency I ought to have used to elevate my status as much as possible, never mind what I wanted. None of them seemed to care about anything else about me, my interests or my thoughts or my dreams. And wasn't that to be my main purpose in life? To be something to be gazed upon - "

He nods, his brow furrowed. "A doll on a music box."

"Precisely. But you've never looked at me like a trophy or a prize to be won." Her blue eyes glimmer as her expression turns impish. "When you first met me, you certainly didn't treat me any differently because of the way I looked!"

"No, I sure didn't, did I?" Smiling sheepishly, he runs a hand through his freshly-washed hair, rumpling it already. "Of course, I was trying my damnedest not to notice that the person who threw water into my face and followed me into my workshop to hassle me happened to be the most stunning young woman I'd ever laid eyes on. I may have - overcompensated a bit for my attraction to you, that day."

She laughs. "Well, so did I! The moment you took off those silly goggles, I was - well, I think I was already lost and I didn't even know it yet. I'd had potential suitors paraded before me ever since I was seventeen and I'd never felt anything remotely like that before. Perhaps we had to fight so that neither of us would have the time to stop and realize how much we wanted to - "

" - kiss each other," they conclude in unison, and then they both break into laughter as they fall down to the bed, side by side.

Reaching for his hand across the small space between them, she laces her fingers with his, their gleaming wedding rings pressed together. "Of course, I know now that you were attracted to me from the very beginning, but I've never doubted for a moment that you fell in love with me for so much more than that."

His expression is wistful and gentle, and Caractacus is gazing back at her with so much love shining in his eyes that it brings tears to her own. "By the time I met you, I was mired so deeply in my own repression and six years of wallowing in grief that it would have taken a miracle to pull me out of it and bring me back to life. It took you , Truly, everything about you, and it never could have been anyone else." He squeezes her hand tightly. "I fell in love with you because you're gorgeous and good and wonderful with the children and witty and absolutely fearless. Audacious, even," he adds with a wink. "Not to mention that you're intelligent, you're curious, and you couldn't be more perfect for me if you tried."

With an airy laugh and a sparkling smile, Truly pulls him even closer by the lapels of his robe, blinking away happy tears as she does so.

"This is what I mean about feeling beautiful. You never merely tell me, you make me feel it, don't you understand? When you look at me, your eyes are all soft and warm, as if you can't believe how lucky you are. And you kiss me and touch me and - and make love to me just the same way. I've never felt as beautiful as I do now, as your wife. It's rather like this glow from within, knowing how perfectly I'm loved - it's so much more than just a word." She kisses the tip of his nose fondly. "So you may tell me how beautiful I am as often as you please, and in as many ways as you wish, and I'll never, ever tire of it. Nor would I ever accuse you of being superficial like all the rest of them!"

Cupping her cheek in his hand, Caractacus traces the shape of her face with his fingertips as he gazes down at his wife with a look of quiet awe. "You know, I really can't believe how lucky I am. I know I've said that before, but I don't think I can ever say it enough. Sometimes I wonder if I'll wake up and realize that everything that's happened since the morning when your father came to offer me the contract was just the world's most wonderful dream, too good to be true." He brushes her hair from the back of her neck and presses his lips there, sending another pleasant shiver through her body as he finds an especially sensitive spot. "Mm, but you're in my arms and you're warm and soft and you smell nice, so I'm pretty sure this isn't a dream."

Rolling her ever so slightly beneath him, he leans down to capture her lips with his own, his tongue coaxing her lips to part as she lets out a little whimper of delight. (It's as if they haven't been doing this and much more all day - really, it doesn't even matter, because he always kisses her and loves her so well that it's almost overwhelming how good it feels.) It's a languid, deliberate kiss - if it can, in fact, even be considered a single kiss - mouths meeting and parting with the rhythm of the waves rolling in the distance.

They're supposed to be done making love for the time being, that's why they've washed up so thoroughly, and yet Truly can feel the ache of desire pooling low in her abdomen yet again. She's quickly learning that, no matter how satisfied she feels at any given moment, it's not at all difficult for him to get her melting, tingling, craving again. Desperate, even.

Caractacus has called her a "live wire" a few times in the past two weeks, murmured teasingly in her ear while their hips undulated together or exclaimed in stunned admiration from down between her thighs, and she can't say he's wrong. The long list of things she's discovered about herself since their wedding night is no less than astonishing.

(From a few cryptic remarks he's made here and there, she's starting to suspect that he's been learning some similar things about himself on their honeymoon, too. That prospect is both flattering and deeply intriguing.)

She's sliding her hands along the back of his neck to sink her fingers in his hair and he's slowly running a hand up her bare leg underneath her robe and there's nothing in the world but the two of them and she wants and she needs and she aches –

But then her stomach chooses that exact moment to rumble audibly, and they both laugh as they break apart, Truly's cheeks now stained with a blush for quite a different reason. While she is not concerned at all about being ladylike when it comes to making love with her husband, there are a few aspects of being so completely intimate with another person that she hasn't been able to reconcile with her genteel sensibilities quite yet.

He's kind enough not to tease her about it, knowing she's embarrassed. If anything, he's a bit flustered himself, his breathing still heavy from the heated embrace they'd just shared. "We sure worked up an appetite today, didn't we? And I don't think we've eaten since before the museum. Should we get dressed and head out to find that little bistro we were looking at? What was it - Le Coquillage?" He kisses her tenderly again as he pulls her to sit upright against the pillow. "Or we could always call in some room service, stay cozy right here for the rest of the night."

Truly shakes her head, albeit a bit reluctantly. "No, we had room service last night. We really ought to go out."

"Mm, and if I take you to dinner, everybody will get to see how beautiful you are, and that you're all mine." He nuzzles at her neck, making her shiver and giggle. "And I'll get to listen to you order in French again!"

"You'll be ordering in French, too, just like every other time," she retorts with a laugh and a roll of her eyes.

"Yes, but it sounds so much better in your voice."

She gives him a playful poke right in the middle of his half-bare chest. "My accent is just terrible in French, and you know it."

Caractacus leans his head on his hand, grinning up at her as he stretches those lanky legs out behind him. "Well, I love your accent too much to ever think to complain about an English accent in French. Who wouldn't want more of your accent?"

Feeling hungrier and hungrier but dreading the prospect of getting ready to go out again, Truly lets out a good natured-groan as she swings her legs over the side of the bed and stretches her arms above her head. "Oh, it's such a bother to get dressed from nothing for the second time in one day. So many layers to put on again, so many buttons and laces... it's so much easier for a man!"

"You could always just go without your corset and just wear your chemise." Tilting his head to the side, he shrugs, his expression earnest and thoughtful. "I can't imagine anyone would notice - you've already got a perfect figure, after all." To illustrate his point, he gives her tiny waist a squeeze.

"Caractacus!" she cries out with a burst of laughter as her cheeks flame, grabbing one of the pillows from beside her and giving him a gentle swat. "You know I couldn't do that!"

With a laugh, he rolls deftly to the side and raises up his arms to block her blow. "Why not? Do the French even wear corsets this close to the seaside? I mean, they're known for being... scandalous and all, aren't they?"

"I'm certain they do wear them!" She sighs, arms crossed over the pillow in her lap. "As soon as somebody invents an undergarment more convenient than the corset, I'll be the first to wear it, I assure you."

Smiling wryly, Caractacus concedes, "We'll have to leave that one to a woman inventor, I'm afraid."

Resigned that she'd better begin the process of getting dressed sooner rather than later, lest the comfort of the bed and the bathrobe prove too tempting to resist after all, Truly slips her feet onto the floor and strides across the room to open up the closet and examine her choice of evening gowns. A wicked little idea is beginning to form in her mind, and all of a sudden, her husband's suggestion no longer sounds so unthinkable - or at least, the reckless impropriety of it is outweighed by the erotic possibilities she's now imagining.

"I would like to see how you'd react if I went without, though." She allows a note of sultriness to enter her voice, one of those little things she's already learned well over the past two weeks and very much enjoys any opportunity to put into practice. "I think it might drive you a little mad, knowing I wasn't wearing one, and I think I might enjoy watching that unfold."

The sound that emanates from behind her can best be described as a burst of choked laughter, and it brings a self-satisfied smile to her face.

"Truly, you are - "

"Mm?" She selects a gown, a peach-pink silk gown with tiers of delicate lace, and holds it quite deliberately to her figure as she turns around to face her husband, excited to see his expression, excited for everything the evening will entail.

Caractacus grins at her, his smile somehow equally wolfish and endearing, a combination she absolutely adores. "Perfect."

She feels perfect, and beautiful, and radiant, and everything that he sees when he looks at her, feels like the living embodiment of romantic love and sensuality and the delectable secrets they share. With a playful toss of her golden hair, Truly picks up her undergarments - sans corset - and slips behind the dressing screen to don the gown, already anticipating when he'll take it off her later and make her skin feel like velvet yet again.