Chapter 9 #3
She stood in her shift before him, her hair unbound, her arms bare to the shoulder.
Freckles crossed the upper curve of her breasts and disappeared beneath linen.
Her body was sturdy and soft in the places fashion attempted to compress, marked at one hip by the pale remnant of a childhood fall and at her waist by the pressure of daily clothing.
Henry looked.
He did not tell her she was beautiful as though correcting an error she had announced. He took in her forearms, her rounded belly beneath the shift, and the full weight of her breasts with the same unhurried attention he had given her hair.
“I want to see you,” he said.
Margaret held the hem of the shift. “Then watch.”
She drew it over her head.
Cool air touched skin the fire had not reached. Henry’s attention moved over her without haste and returned to her face.
His expression contained desire plainly enough that she did not need praise translated into courtesy.
Margaret crossed to him and opened the remainder of his shirt. “Your turn.”
He removed it with care at the right shoulder. She helped only where he indicated. When the linen came free, she saw the broad frame reduced by convalescence but not made slight, the old strength that remained across his chest and back, and the uneven pull of muscle near the scar.
He reached for the fastening of his breeches.
Margaret set her hand over his. “I want to do it.”
Henry lowered his hand.
She undressed him without pretending she did not know a man’s body. She had been married. She knew desire, disappointment, habit, and the ways a woman might perform willingness until a husband ceased asking whether it existed.
This was different because Henry allowed knowledge to belong to her.
When they were both naked, he stood before her without arranging his body to conceal either scar or stiffness.
His left leg bore less muscle above the knee than the right.
The joint did not fully straighten after the climb upstairs.
His right shoulder remained lower, the old wound tightening the line of his posture.
Margaret touched the scar on his cheek, then the uninjured side of his chest.
“Are you in pain?” she asked.
“The knee is stiff. The shoulder is aware that it has been discussed.”
“Will either prevent what we intend?”
“No. But position will matter.”
“You will tell me before it becomes an emergency.”
“Yes.”
She kissed him again.
Henry’s hand moved down her back to the curve of her hip. Margaret drew him with her toward the bed, then stopped beside it.
“There may be a child,” she said.
His hand remained warm against her. “Yes.”
“I know there is no certainty in preventing it.”
“No method I know can promise certainty. I can withdraw before completion, but that is not a guarantee.”
Margaret considered the answer, the House around them, and a future no document had secured. Wanting a child had not been part of the settlement. Neither had wanting Henry in her bed.
“Withdraw tonight,” she said. “I accept that it may not prevent conception.”
“Are you certain you accept the chance?”
“I am certain there is a chance, and I choose you knowing it.”
Henry lowered his forehead briefly to hers. “Then I will follow what you asked.”
Margaret sat upon the bed and drew him down beside her.
The sheets were clean, cool, and fragrant with lavender. Henry lay on his left side so the injured shoulder remained free. Margaret faced him, one leg between his, while the rain softened every sound beyond the curtains.
His hand travelled from her waist to her breast.
He touched without claiming expertise over her response. When Margaret wanted firmer pressure, she placed her hand over his and showed him. When she wanted his mouth, she drew him nearer by the nape.
Henry learned quickly because he did not treat correction as criticism.
Margaret kissed the scar upon his cheek. She kissed the uninjured shoulder and the place below the older wound where touch did not cause pain. His breath changed when her hand moved lower, but he did not take control of it.
She wanted to give him pleasure. The wish was uncomplicated until he stopped her hand.
“Not yet,” he said.
Margaret looked at him. “Is something wrong?”
“No. I want to touch you first.”
“I did not ask you to earn what I give.”
“And I am not refusing it because I believe pleasure must be balanced.” Henry moved his thumb along her waist. “I want to know whether you can receive without beginning another task.”
The accuracy of the question made her want to evade it with a practical remark.
She did not.
“Yes,” Margaret said. “I want you to give me pleasure.”
Henry’s gaze stayed upon hers. “Say what you want.”
The request reached the place where usefulness had always been safer than appetite. Margaret could have guided his hand and allowed action to conceal the words.
Instead, she said, “Use your mouth. Then your hand if I ask. Do not hurry because you think I am waiting for the next thing.”
Henry kissed her once. “Yes.”
He shifted down the bed without kneeling or placing weight through his stiff knee. Supported on his left side, he drew her leg across him and settled between her thighs.
Margaret’s first instinct was to observe whether the position strained his shoulder.
Henry looked up. “I will tell you.”
She let the question go.
His mouth touched her with a patience more difficult to endure than urgency. Margaret’s hand closed upon the sheet, then released when she realized no one required her to remain composed. She placed her fingers in his hair instead and showed him when the pressure pleased her.
He listened with his body.
Pleasure built without demand that she make it graceful. Margaret moved against him. She told him not to stop, then asked for his hand when sensation sharpened enough that she wanted both.
Henry gave her what she named.
The climax took her with his name already upon her tongue, though she had not meant to speak it.
“Henry.”
He held her through it, not stilling her and not pressing for more. Hearing the given name in her own voice altered the room more than the locked door had done.
When she could look at him again, Henry lay beside her, his mouth damp, his expression open and intent.
Margaret touched his cheek. “Come here.”
He returned to her arms.
She kissed him and tasted herself without embarrassment. Then she moved down his body in turn, using her hand first and her mouth after he understood her intention.
Henry’s left hand spread upon the sheet.
He did not command pace. He did not turn receiving into passivity he must apologize for. When sensation became too sharp, he said her name and asked her to slow.
Margaret did.
She watched control leave him by degrees. The sight did not lessen him. It made power look less like possession and more like the ability to remain present while another person chose what to give.
Before he reached completion, Henry drew her upward.
“You asked me to withdraw later,” he said. His voice had roughened. “I would prefer to keep that choice possible.”
Margaret kissed the corner of his mouth. “Then keep it.”
She lay back and guided him over her.
Henry arranged himself carefully, his weight supported chiefly through his left arm and right leg, the stiff left knee extended where it would not be forced beneath him. Margaret placed one hand upon his back below the scar and drew him closer.
He entered her slowly.
The first pressure required patience. Margaret’s body remembered intercourse, but memory did not make the present act simple. She told him to wait, and Henry stopped without withdrawing.
She breathed, adjusted the angle of her hips, and pulled him nearer when she was ready.
“Now,” she said.
He moved.
Face-to-face, she could see every choice he made not to disappear into effort. His gaze returned to hers whenever pleasure tempted his eyes closed. Margaret wrapped her legs around him carefully, keeping the left free of strain.
The rhythm built between them.
Henry kissed her mouth, her jaw, and the freckled slope of her shoulder. Margaret held him where the scar did not hurt and felt the tension gathering in his back.
Then his left knee began to tremble.
He attempted to alter the movement without stopping.
Margaret felt it at once. “Your knee.”
“I can continue.”
“That was not the question.”
“It is beginning to object.”
“Then lie back.”
His expression sharpened with concern. “Margaret—”
“I am changing the position, not ending the choice.”
She rolled with him carefully, keeping their bodies joined as Henry settled onto his back. His injured shoulder remained supported by the pillow, and she moved above him, one knee on either side of his hips without touching the stiff joint.
The new position gave her pace, depth, and the sight of him beneath her.
Henry’s hands settled at her hips. He did not move her until she placed them where she wanted them.
Margaret began slowly.
Her loosened hair fell forward over her shoulders. Henry lifted a handful away from her face with his left hand, watching her as though the act of receiving required as much courage from him as command ever had.
She found the rhythm that pleased them both.
Being above him was not work. She did not have to prove strength, usefulness, or knowledge. She moved because movement gave pleasure, slowed because she wished to feel more, and altered the angle when her body asked for it.
Henry’s right hand tightened upon her hip.
“Margaret,” he said.
The name held warning and want. He was close.
She leaned down until her face hovered above his. “Look at me.”
He did.
“Henry,” she said, choosing the name with full knowledge of what it meant between them. “I want this.”
His control broke beneath the words.
Margaret’s pleasure rose again as she continued above him. Henry’s hand moved between them at her direction, and she reached climax with her forehead against his, his name spoken into the space between their mouths.
He followed her movement until the last possible moment, then held her hips still.
“I must withdraw.”
“Yes.”