Archive of Our Own ^beta

Charlotte Colbourne was experiencing a frustration of the most acute and peculiar nature.

As a newlywed woman, the past weeks with her husband and new family had been the happiest of her life. The way Alexander looked at her—that unabashed admiration—was a revelation. It was a look of love she had seen countless times during their oft-fraught relationship, one she finally understood. However much his gentlemanly restraint fought to bury it, his good, generous heart was always there in his eyes when he gazed at her.

With this realization, and her acceptance of his romantic proposal, Charlotte began to feel something more each time they were together. Their brief courtship had been one of Herculean restraint; the mere warmth of his voice, the heat in his eyes, enough to set her soul ablaze. Each night before their wedding, her hands had swept over her own body, lips parting as she thought of their stolen kisses. Of murmured affections. Of his intoxicating scent. Her heart had heard his love before his lips ever spoke it. Each night without him beside her had been an agony.

Charlotte approached her wedding night not with the fear or apprehension of other brides, but with every ounce of joy, enthusiasm, and curiosity her petite frame possessed. Alexander responded in kind, whispering devotions and praise as they united in a shared, gentle rhythm. It was quite unlike what her friends had described: not fumbling or awkward as Georgiana and Alison had experienced, nor brief and inept as Mary had endured, nor painful or cruel as Susan had known with her first husband.

Holding his stubbled cheeks as he moved within her, that look of love on his face left her breathless. When his pinnacle came, he spilled deep within her, sealing their vow with a kiss. Charlotte prayed this would be the first of many such nights.

And so it was. So many nights spent in the exact same way.

Each time, Alexander initiated—touching and kissing her, moving over her, claiming her in that same tender fashion that, if she were honest, had grown routine. Although he was kindness itself, Charlotte almost wished he wasn't. She wanted him rough. To mark her, claim her, unleash whatever beast lay coiled within him.

More than once she had tried to seduce him in her small ways: a new silk nightrail, a heated kiss in his study, a provocative touch, a dark look. Yet it always ended the same: in their bed, in the same position.

Crossing the grounds in the twilight hour, Charlotte huffed her frustration. She scraped her fingernails against the bark of a tree, inhaling the sappy scent of earth after rain. How she longed to have her husband pin her against one, where she might wrap her legs around his hips and hold him in place while he drove into her, relentless. She would scream his name as though no one were around for miles.

She had known Alexander to be a passionate man from their first kiss. Now his ill-conceived restraint was maddening. What would it take for him to bend her over her desk and take her without hesitation?

Claiming a seat on a low stone wall, she relished the cool, hard surface beneath her. Unconsciously fisting her skirts in her hands, when she looked down, she was surprised to find the fabric pooled around her thighs. She traced a feather-light path up her inner thigh, crossing the threshold where stocking met skin, and imagined Alexander's lips there instead. Imagined him on his knees, feasting upon her sex. Imagined not stopping until they were both spent and sore.

Obstinate, foolish man. Did he not touch himself thinking of her the way she did of him? Did he think her some delicate porcelain doll, incapable of enjoying the rough edges of passion? No. It would not do. Even if she needed to start a fight, she would have her way with him. She was not some ignorant, green girl—she was a married woman desperate to well and truly fuck her husband, once and for all.

She sprang from the wall with newfound determination and strode toward the house, knowing exactly where Alexander would be at this hour: his dressing room, changing for dinner.

She entered without knocking, closing the door firmly behind her. He stood before the mirror in his shirtsleeves, his waistcoat unbuttoned, in the process of tying his cravat. His hands stilled mid-knot as their eyes met in the reflection, surprise flickering across his features before settling into concern.

"Charlotte, is something wrong?"

The lock clicked, loud in the quiet room. She moved past him to the windows, drawing each curtain with deliberate slowness, watching his confusion deepen with each swish of heavy fabric against the sill. The warm evening light gave way to intimate shadows, the room illuminated only by the glow of the fireplace, candles lit upon the dressing table.

When she turned back, she let her most mischievous smile curve her lips. The question she'd been harboring tumbled out before she could reconsider: "Have you ever touched yourself thinking of me?"

Color flooded his cheeks, that beautiful rosy hue that made him look younger. "Charlotte! That is most… impertinent."

She sauntered toward him, feeling the sway of her hips, the brush of her skirts against her legs. Her voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "For I have thought of you many times."

His throat worked visibly, his Adam's apple bobbing. The word came out strangled: "You… you touched yourself…"

She closed the remaining distance between them, near enough to smell the sandalwood of his soap, the faint leather of his study. "Answer the question."

"Charlotte, perhaps we should continue this conversation in the bedroom…"

"No," she said, her hand on his shoulder to stop him. The muscle was tense beneath her palm, radiating heat through the fine wool of his waistcoat. "Sit down." She applied firm pressure, guiding him to the nearest chair. "And tell me."

The confession, when it finally came, was accompanied by a groan that seemed torn from somewhere deep in his chest. "Christ, Charlotte. You know I have. Countless times."

Victory sang through her veins. "Good. Now I wish you to show me."

His eyes went wide, pupils dilating in the dim room. "You mean… here? Now?"

Charlotte slid into the armchair facing him. She let her knees part, just slightly, and watched his gaze drop to the movement. "Yes. Here. Now. Undress yourself, I want to watch you."

"Charlotte…" he breathed. The warning in his voice was betrayed entirely by his body. Even in the dim candlelight, she could see the pronounced ridge straining against his breeches, the fabric pulled taut, a small damp spot beginning to show. She arched against the chair, the movement making her breasts press against the constraints of her stays.

"Alexander, you made me the Mistress of Heyrick Park." She leaned forward, the neckline of her evening dress—deliberately low, cut for dinner and display—revealing the swell of her breasts, the shadow of the valley between them. She dropped her voice to a commanding purr: "And your Mistress demands it."

The sharp inhale was audible. His lips parted, and something dark and hungry eclipsed the gentleness usually in his eyes. When he whispered "Yes, Mistress," the words sent electricity down her spine, pooling heat low in her belly.

His hands moved to the buttons of his breeches, and she delighted in watching him obey—each small movement revealing more of him. His waistcoat fell completely open, his shirt untucked, revealing glimpses of the flat planes of his stomach beneath, slightly damp with perspiration. The loose cravat framed the strong column of his throat. Then his hand moved to the flap of his breeches, and his manhood sprang free—flushed deep rose, rigid, a bead of moisture already glistening at the tip. He slouched in the chair, legs spreading wider, and his eyes never left her face.

"I like it when you call me Mistress."

"Mistress." The word was a hiss as his hand wrapped around his shaft, and she watched his fingers—those elegant, careful fingers that helped button her dresses and held her hand during walks—circle his own flesh with practiced familiarity.

She could barely form words, transfixed by the sight of him, by the way his chest rose and fell with increasingly shallow breaths. His head fell back against the chair, exposing the vulnerable line of his throat, his Adam's apple prominent, a vein pulsing visibly at his neck. Another groan rumbled from him, deeper this time. His hand began to move in firm, even strokes—a rhythm that seemed to pull her in, hypnotic and utterly erotic. She watched the way his thumb swept over the sensitive head on each upstroke, the way his hips shifted minutely despite his attempt at stillness.

The intimacy of watching him like this, seeing him in a way no one else could, in their own private sanctuary, made heat pool low in her belly. Instinctively, she spread her knees wider, hiking up her skirts. The cool air kissed her exposed thighs, and she felt the moisture already gathered there, the slick evidence of her arousal.

"Please, Mistress… will you show me…?"

Her own voice had gone breathless when she finally spoke: "Very well. You have been so very good, my pet."

Her breasts heaved against her stays, the whalebone biting into her ribs with each labored breath. She gathered her skirts around her hips—layers of silk and taffeta bunching in her hands—then spread her thighs wider. His sharp intake of breath told her he could see everything—the glistening pink folds, the way her entrance clenched around nothing, desperate to be filled.

The rasp in his voice sent pleasure coursing through her, his hand moving faster now, the sound of his fist working his shaft joining the symphony of their heavy breathing. His gaze burned into her most intimate places, dark with undisguised lust, his free hand gripping the arm of the chair so hard his knuckles had gone white.

She slipped her own hand between her thighs, fingers finding wet heat, and began tracing slow circles. The texture was impossibly soft, impossibly slick. The moan that tore from him was ragged, desperate. His hand gripped tighter around the base of his manhood, and she could see how the head had darkened to almost purple, moisture now dripping steadily from the tip onto his fingers, making each stroke create an obscene wet sound.

A grin swept across her face as she watched him, her thumb circling the sensitive bud of her desire—that small pearl of concentrated pleasure that sent sparks through her entire body. Then she allowed one finger to slip inside herself, agonizingly slowly, and a shiver rolled down her spine. The moisture was testament to how much she wanted him. Her inner walls clenched around the intrusion, and she could feel her own heartbeat pulsing there. She added a second finger, curling them slightly to reach that spot deep inside that made stars burst behind her eyelids.

The room filled with the sound of wet flesh, of firm hands working slick skin, of shallow breathing and muffled groans. The air had grown thick with the scent of their arousal—salt and musk and something indefinably them. The candlelight flickered across their bodies, casting dancing shadows on the papered walls.

Dazed, she began to lose herself in the shared pleasure of this moment—the vulnerability of it, the rawness, the complete surrender to sensation. His face had transformed from adoration into wild desperation, his features tight with restraint, his jaw clenched so hard she could see the muscle jumping. A thin sheen of sweat covered his forehead, dampening the dark curls there.

"Mistress… please." His face had transformed from adoration into wild desperation, his features tight with restraint. "Let me love you."

"I don't want you to love me. At least, not right now." Charlotte slid from the chair on trembling legs, letting her skirts fall back into place, though the fabric now felt unbearably restrictive against her sensitized skin. Before he could speak, before he could question, she brought her two fingers—still glistening, still warm, smelling of her own desire—to his lips. He opened for her immediately, and the primal growl that vibrated through him as he tasted her made her knees weak. His tongue swirled around her fingers, lapping at them eagerly, and his eyes fluttered closed as though he were savoring the finest wine.

She leaned over him, relishing the power thrumming through her body like a living thing. She traced her tongue along his earlobe, tasting the salt of his skin, feeling the slight roughness of his evening stubble. She pressed her breasts against his shoulder, feeling his heat through the thin fabric of her dress, and whispered against the shell of his ear, her breath hot and damp. "I want you to fuck me."

Alexander exhaled a ragged moan, reaching for her.

"But not yet. First, it's my turn to have my way with you." She swatted his reaching hands away, the sharp sound of palm meeting skin punctuating the tension. His breath hitched. Stealing the cravat from his neck, she walked slowly around behind him, capturing his right wrist. "And just to ensure you do not cheat…" Grabbing his other hand, she pinned his wrists together, binding them with the cravat. "Is this alright?" she whispered.

"Please… I will do whatever you want, Mistress," he said in a rough, strangled voice.

"Good." She pressed her palms flat against his chest, feeling the wild gallop of his heart beneath muscle and bone and damp linen. The heat of him seeped through the fabric, into her hands, up her arms. His arms strained against the binding, muscles flexing, tendons standing out in sharp relief. His breath came in hot, shallow waves against her neck, and she could feel his pulse racing beneath her fingertips when she traced the column of his throat.

Yes—this was exactly what Charlotte had been missing, been craving. This surrender, this tension, this delicious control over a man who controlled so much. She traced the firm lines of his chest, his abdomen, his forearms, revealing more skin. Shimmying his breeches down with his assistance, she admired his well-formed, muscular thighs. When at last her hand wrapped around his arousal, he gasped, and his hips bucked involuntarily against her touch despite his best efforts at stillness. The skin was softer than silk, burning hot, and she could feel the blood pulsing through the prominent vein on the underside. More moisture leaked from the tip, coating her palm, making her grip slide smoothly.

When her tongue traced a stripe achingly slowly up the velvet length of him, he released a ragged moan. Grinning like a cat, she worked him slowly, toying with him.

At last, she gathered her skirts and positioned herself over him, her knees sinking into the cushioned seat on either side of his thighs. The proximity was intoxicating—she could feel the heat radiating from him, could see every flutter of his eyelashes, could count each individual whisker of stubble on his jaw. The wild hunger in his eyes made her own desire surge.

"Mistress please… this is torture. I have always known you to be a good and fair Mistress." 

Slipping a finger into his bindings to loosen them, she relented. "Very well. Now you may touch me."

Swiftly unbinding himself, he surged forward like a man possessed, like a man who'd been held underwater and finally broke the surface. His hands were everywhere—squeezing, caressing, claiming every part of her he could reach. His fingers dug into her hips, her waist, swept up her ribcage to cup her breasts through the fabric of her dress. His mouth found the delicate skin of her neck, her collarbone, the swell of her bosom above her neckline, leaving hot wet trails across her skin. She caught him by the shoulders—feeling the solid muscle there, the strength he was barely restraining—and captured his tongue between her teeth, greeting it with her own. The taste of him, of herself on his tongue, was intoxicating. 

As he moved to lift her, undoubtedly eager to carry her to bed, she pushed against him with all her strength, forcing him back down. "Let me ride you."

"Yes! Yes, please…" he gasped.

She wrapped her hand around his base and guided him to her entrance. The first press of his head against her opening made them both gasp. She sank down in one fluid motion, and the sensation of being filled—stretched, completed—made her head fall back, mouth open in a silent cry. To feel him inside her from this angle was entirely different—every ridge, every vein, every pulse of him pressed against new places. The angle made him feel impossibly deep, impossibly thick. She could feel herself clenching around him, could feel the way her body struggled to accommodate him and then surrendered, welcoming him deeper.

But it was the sight that undid her—her husband so completely undone, so wild and desperate with need while she remained in control. His eyes had rolled back slightly, his mouth hung open, and the cords of his neck stood out in sharp relief. Anchoring against his shoulders, feeling the flex and bunch of muscle beneath her palms, she rocked slowly against him, grinding down to take him deeper with each movement.

"Good. Ohhhh… oh so good," he groaned.

"What else?" She hovered above him, rising until only the tip of him remained inside her, feeling the way her body tried to hold him, tried to draw him back. She lingered there, teasing, not allowing him to enter fully as she danced on his shaft, rising and falling just barely, just enough to drive them both mad. "Tell me how it feels."

"Wet. So warm and so wet. And…oh! So… so very tight around me."

"Yes," she agreed. Charlotte began to move in earnest, lifting and sinking, bouncing on him with increasing desperation. She scraped her nails through his hair, gripping the dark strands hard enough to make him hiss. Breathless moans escaped her with each downward thrust, each time he filled her completely. She could feel her control slipping, feel herself spiraling toward something vast and overwhelming.

His hot mouth carved a path up her jaw, and she could feel his words vibrating against her skin as much as hear them. "Heaven. Heaven when I'm inside you. Feeling you, watching you lose yourself around me." His breath came hot and ragged against the hollow of her neck, the words barely coherent.

His fingers dug into the fabric of her dress hard enough that she heard stitches strain. His lips pressed against every inch of bare skin he could find—frantic, open-mouthed kisses that left her damp and tingling. His hands gripped her hips with bruising force, pulling her down harder against him with each thrust. She could feel the way his fingers dug into her flesh through layers of fabric, claiming her, marking her.

"So often…" she managed to pant out. Her eyelids fluttered closed as she arched against him, back bowing, breasts thrust forward against their constraints. A keening cry tore from her throat as her climax built rapidly, her inner walls beginning to flutter around him. "I thought of you Xander… just like this… beneath me."

"Oh Charlotte…!" The desperation in his voice, the way his fingers squeezed lovingly at her waist even as he growled his need, nearly sent her over the edge.

They settled into a demanding rhythm, each chasing their own pleasure to new heights. The chair creaked beneath them in rhythmic protest. The wetness of their coupling made the sounds absolutely obscene—wet slapping skin, the squelch of her arousal coating him, the creak of upholstered furniture never meant for such activity.

When the last shred of her control snapped, Charlotte screamed her pleasure, the sound muffled only by the thick walls and heavy curtains of the room. He swallowed it eagerly, his mouth crashing against hers, smothering her cries with his lips and tongue. He pulled her down hard against him by the shoulders, and she seized around him, every muscle in her body going rigid before releasing in waves of pulsing ecstasy. Her inner walls clenched rhythmically around his shaft, trying to milk him, and she felt him throb inside her in response. Her hot breath caught against the open collar of his shirt, her body going loose-limbed and pliant as she sighed and shuddered against him, aftershocks rolling through her in decreasing waves.

“Please, may I come, Mistress?” His whisper against her temple was so soft she almost missed it, but the desperate edge to it made her focus. 

“Yes,” she replied, breathless and well-sated. It pleased her greatly that he had waited so long, and had thought to ask.

At once, he moved with surprising speed and strength. With three hard, stuttering snaps of his hips, he found his pleasure. She felt the exact moment he came—the way he swelled impossibly larger inside her, the way his whole body went rigid, the heat of him spilling deep inside her in pulsing waves. He shouted her name into her hair, and the sound was raw, primal, stripped of all his careful gentlemanly control. A violent shudder tore through him, starting from his core and radiating outward until even his fingertips trembled. He pressed harder against her sex, grinding as though trying to get even deeper, seemingly unwilling to sever their connection. She could feel him still twitching inside her, could feel the wetness beginning to leak out around where they were joined, dampening the brocade cushion beneath them.

She ran a soothing hand over his back, feeling the damp fabric of his shirt clinging to heated skin, the rapid rise and fall of his breathing. Her other hand tangled in his hair, finding it damp with sweat at his nape. "Xander? Are you alright, love?"

"Yes," he replied, still catching his breath. Alexander pulled back just far enough to look at her, and that look of love filled his eyes once more—softened now with satisfaction, with wonder, with something like awe. A smile curved his lips, crooked and boyish. "Charlotte… where did you learn to do that?"

She trilled a laugh. "I didn't. I just sort of… went with it. Although I was well aware that there were other ways our bodies might join."

His eyes widened. "Really? Who told you that?"

"Susan. She even drew pictures."

He snorted, the sound inelegant and genuine, and she felt him slip from her body finally, a rush of their combined fluids following, soaking into the expensive fabric beneath them. Alexander helped her sit up, his hands gentle now, steadying her when she swayed slightly. "Then you wish… that is… you would like to try…"

"I wish to try everything with you, my love." She took his hands in hers, feeling the dampness of his palms, the slight tremor still running through his fingers. "Nothing is off limits between us. You needn't restrain yourself so."

"Then… that is… did you not enjoy it before?" A brief look of horror flickered across his face, his brow furrowing deeply. 

"I did like it, Xander. Very much. But variety is the spice of life." She squeezed his hands, drawing him back. "And what of you? Did you like having me in control like that?"

His eyes darkened at her question, desire rekindling even in his stated state. One corner of his mouth curled upward in a way that made her breath catch. "Very much, Mistress." He kissed her hand reverently, his lips soft and warm against her knuckles, his stubble scratching slightly against her skin. 

When he looked up at her, his eyes held that pleading quality again. "I would make myself a servant to your pleasure. Although perhaps… not every time," he added, a twinkle in his eye.

"No, not every time. But sometimes," she smiled, feeling the delicious ache between her thighs, the slight tenderness that would remind her of this evening’s activities for days to come. "And not always in our bed. Did you enjoy christening this room?"

He huffed a laugh, and she felt the warm breath of it against her skin. "I would christen every room of this house in this manner, if you would allow. It is what I thought of while I touched myself."

She favored him with a kiss, humming against his lips, tasting salt and satisfaction. "Me too. Oh Xander, I do love you so." She wrapped her arms around his trim waist, feeling the solid warmth of him, and ducked her head against his chest where she could hear his heart still racing. "Moreso each day."

His arms came around her, enveloping her completely, and she felt his smile against the crown of her head. "And I you, Mistress of my heart."

They held each other on the ruined armchair, limbs tangled, watching the candlelight flicker patterns on the ceiling, neither willing to move yet to dress for a dinner they would certainly be late for.