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“Your skin is so creamy,” he murmured, “so golden…”
“What next?” Marion asked breathily.
“Take your hair down,” he said immediately, his eyes looking at it greedily.
Marion reached up to uncoil the thick rope of her hair, pulling out of its pins so it sprang loose, a cascade of heavy, black waves tumbling over her shoulders. Marion had always had long hair, just like her mother. Eleanor had always admired the thickness of it that came with her French genes, like a black, waving curtain that shimmered glossily all the way down to her waist.
Simon smiled, biting his bottom lip, and Marion knew that somehow she had fulfilled a wish of his. His hand reached to her waist to gently rub the end of a curl between his fingers.
“So long,” he muttered, “just like I thought it would be. Now, your stays.”
She saw that he gulped as he said the word, and realised that even if Simon was a man of the world, even if he had pleased his wife in bed for many years, he was just as nervous as she was about what might happen next. Somehow, she found that calming, and her fingers reached up to pull at the ribbons of her stays, allowing her breasts to soften inside her shift as she slipped them down over her shoulders. Without her stays to hold it up, her thin, cotton shift fell from her shoulder and she was nearly naked in front of him.
She could feel her nipples hardening under his gaze, rubbing tantalisingly against the cotton. She knew that he could see the form of her through the thin shift, could see the roundness of her breasts and the dark outline of her sex. She couldn’t speak. She felt like she couldn’t even breathe until he said something.
“You…,” Simon shook his head, swallowing hard. For one horrible moment, Marion was paranoid that he disliked what he saw. “You are extraordinary, Marion.”
Marion sighed with relief, her shoulders dropping so the shift fell even further. Simon reached forward to catch it. He stroked her shoulder tenderly, leaning forward to press a kiss to her collarbone.
“Will you let me make love to you, Marion?” he asked huskily, brushing his thumb over her tingling lips.
“I will,”she whispered, kissing his thumb as it passed. “Please.”
He guided her back, laying her head softly against the pillows, pulling her hair out so it fanned around her like a dark halo. Marion kissed him deeply, her hands cupping his face tightly, as she felt him fumbling to release himself from his breeches. Then she felt him, rigid and warm, against the softness of her thigh. Her breath caught against his lips.
“Do not be afraid,” Simon whispered, “I shall be as gentle as I possibly can…you must tell me if you like it, just as we were doing before. Do you understand?”
“Yes,”Marion smiled against his lips, touched by his sensitivity. Marion gasped a little as she felt him at the entrance to her secret self, that firm skin pressing softly against hot, wet flesh, teasing to see if it would yield. She was suddenly worried it would not, and wished he would just hurry.
“Must…must not a man…break in?” Marion whispered, arching her back so that he pressed more firmly. She saw the way his jaw became rigid, how his hands clenched in her hair.He looked like he was in pain, and she suddenly fretted that she was somehow doing it wrong. “Does it hurt you?” she asked, worried.”Am I displeasing you?”
“No,”he said softly, laughing gently at her innocence, but she could still feel the pressure of him, tantalising her as he pressed against her, again and again, as if knocking on a secret door.“Quite the opposite. And no, a man does not need to break through. A lady will open for a gentleman, slowly, if he is soft with her.”
His words were having an unusual impact on Marion. Hearing his tender words, hearing the slow rumble of his voice travel through her, inside her, was intoxicating. She gasped, arching her back so her breasts pressed against his naked chest. She felt him sliding further in, as if she was opening like a flower in the sunshine, and she let a groan escape.
“Like that,” Simon whispered, pressing his lips against her neck. “And then, what we must do is move together, like a dance. We must follow the music inside of us.”
“I - I don’t understand,” Marion gasped, breathless with desire. The strangeness of having the core of her filled with him, with her new husband, was overwhelmed by an extreme tingling and pulsing deep inside.
“Like this,” Simon murmured, watching her face carefully as he began to rock her hips against hers. Marion inhaled sharply at the oddness of something moving inside her, but then she felt a flowing heat, like rolling waves drawing in and out on the seashore.
“Do you feel that?” Simon muttered, pressing his forehead against hers. “The rhythm that your body wants to follow? That is our music—do you feel it?”
“I - I do!”Marion gasped, clutching at Simon’s shoulders and intuitively wrapping her legs up around his waist, bare naked thighs against naked hips, and Simon could no longer hold onto his control.
He groaned and dropped his head, his arms taut with the strength of holding himself up above her as he buried herself deeper inside her with fast, rhythmic thrusts. His grunts began to match the movement of hips, and Marion’s own breaths and gasps came in sync with him until finally, majestically, Simon arched his own back. His head was thrown up towards the canopy as if he was seeing the face of God, and Marion felt a powerful, trembling release inside of her.
It started with him, and carried on through her, pulsating through her sex and hips, trembling up through her stomach and down her legs until she could feel it in the very tips of her fingers and toes. Simon kissed her as she cried out, again and again, until finally, spent and exhausted, her legs collapsed out to the side and her breath came slower.
“Are you alright?” he murmured, kissing her eyes softly.
“I am, I think,” Marion said, opening her eyes slowly, bemused and befuddled by what had happened in her body. It was something she had never experienced. “What was that?”
“Ah,” Simon smiled down at her, stroking her face tenderly, and Marion had never felt so complete. “Well, dear wife. That is called—in your mother tongue—la petite mort.”
Marion sighed as Simon lifted the quilt and covered them gently, enjoying the way he moved to her side and then slipped behind her to cuddle her close.
“Well,” she whispered. “It is aptly named.”
