From What I've Tasted of Desire Pt. 03

Chapter 10: I Want it All (or not at all)

—————

"Lift your chemise. Let me see you, pet."

She feels her heart beat between her legs, her mouth dry as she begins to pant. Eyes focused on the ceiling, she reaches down, taking handfuls of the thin shift that covers her and raising it. Inch by inch, her skin is unveiled to him, breath rushing faster as the thoughts in her mind shout so loud over each other, she unable to even understand them anymore.

Using Robert as leverage, she uses the locked ankles crossed behind him to raise her hips from the bed, pulling her shift higher until it bunches up low around her belly. Her thighs tremble, and she feels slightly nauseous with anxiety.

"You're beautiful, pet. Do you know that?"

She rolls her head in a daze, her hair scratching against the duvet.

"Shall I tell you?

Her eyes slide shut as she licks her lips, fingers still holding tightly to the fabric around her hips. Robert unhooks her legs from around him, spreading them as he lets them hang over his arms.

"Shall I describe your glistening cunt?" She feels his chapped lips on her inner thigh, tongue warm against her skin.

"Flush and pink and wanting."

A whimper escapes her, and fear runs loose within, but excitement does too, coming together in a tumultuous kind of binding.

"Are you frightened," he asks into her skin, mouth moving down ever so slowly.

"No," she whines, wholly unbelievable, even to her own ears.

He chuckles, a huff of air so close to her center it causes her to unconsciously press her legs together, only to find Robert's biceps between them. He smoothes a hand low across her belly, the heel adding pressure before gently kneading the area, stimulating something within.

She sucks in a breath, holding it as she tries to wrap her mind around the strange things her body can make her feel. Things she didn't even know existed.

But before she can even get too far in her thoughts she feels his mouth there, sucking on her gently then releasing her with a pop.

She sucks in another breath, this one released quickly with a tiny cry of shock. And then he's somehow even deeper, his wet tongue gliding around and inside and it's absolutely obscene and wrong and perfect. She's not even aware of her hand clutching at his hair until she must give a rather sharp tug, making him grunt inside her.

"Robert," she cries. She thinks she might hear herself say it multiple times but she can't really be sure, her senses all seeming to be burning much too hot for them to work properly. His tongue takes a long lick up, just below the still massaging heel of his hand, and he finds that point, yet again, the one that makes her feel like her skin is on fire while her consciousness is floating.

Foolishly, she peers down the soft plane of her body, just in time to see his wet lips take her between them and suck hard. Her eyes shut tight, head bouncing back into the bed. "Oh, god!"

Then his tongue begins dancing over her devilishly when she feels his finger slip inside, quickly joined by another. He presses down hard on her hip to keep her still, almost painful, but she can barely recognize it as she squirms against him, heels digging into him and body trying to simultaneously both devour and escape his torturous touch.

Then his mouth is gone and his body is hovering over her, all while his fingers circle and pull and fill and play down between them. "You taste marvelous, pet," he pants into her face, forehead dropping atop hers. "Like the most decadent dessert."

"No, I- I- Robert. Please."

"Beg me. Beg me to make you cum, Anna."

She's too overwhelmed to try and understand his words, mouth open wide in a silent cry while her body bows tight, chest pressing up into Robert's, vaguely feeling a sting on her neck as he bites the delicate skin there.

When she comes back down, the first thing she's aware of is her emotions, chest and mind absolutely overflowing with them. With a gasp she buries the heel of her palms into her eyes, holding back the burning tears, trying to regain control over herself.

The next thing she's aware of is the throbbing, sated feeling washing throughout her, making her body feel heavy and lethargic.

Robert nuzzles the side of her face, leaving sweet, open-mouthed kisses on her temple, her cheek, her jaw, her ear. "How are you now, pet," he questions quietly, caressing between her legs with barely there touches.

"La petite mort," is the only response she gives with a sigh.

It takes him a second, holding still against her before he snorts, laughter coming out deep and infectious, making her smile. "Always the governess. Yes, I suppose it is a death of sorts. Though this one is worth it, perhaps."

She cocks her head, trying to appear serious. "Perhaps."

Eyes turning dark, yet with a playful gleam he seems unable to hide, he takes hold of her jaw, long fingers holding her firmly there. "You're quite the little wench when you wish to be."

"You don't like it," she asks, biting her lip as she toys with the fabric of her shift.

He raises his brows, smile coming easy yet sly. "On the contrary," he starts, finger reaching to free her lip before tracing the sensitive skin all around, "I quite enjoy your smart mouth."

His eyes burn for her, low, like embers but ready to catch fire at any moment.

"Why do hate Mr. Marriott?"

The question catches him off guard, mind obviously somewhere very different. But he's so deviously shrewd, that times such as now, with his head full of a passionate need, and body longing for release, are the only times when she has him on an even playing field.

He looks down at her, silent and with an expression of utter dismay. She can also be cunning, and she wonders if he's realizing how much he's underestimated her.

"I've told you," he says quietly, words laced with an anger he tries to hide.

"Not really. Not about Marriott. Not about the deed-"

He clenches his jaw, turning away from her before pushing himself off the bed with an irritated huff. "Jesus, Anna."

She pulls her shift down as she sits up, watching him with a wariness as he stares down into the now cold fireplace. "What more do you want?"

Thinking for a moment, she considers apologizing, asking him to come back to bed, but this is too important. If he expects her to help him, she refuses to do it without knowing why.

"Everything," she answers, soft yet steady. "I want to know everything."

He looks at her over his shoulder with a strange mix of fear and bewilderment before turning around completely. "Who are you Anna Smith," he asks slowly - accusingly.

She frowns, confused by his reaction.

He strides back to her, leaning over so they're on eye level. His are curious as well as dangerous, and she has the sudden urge to crawl away from him. "You're very determined to play in the dark corners of my mind, little schoolgirl."

She raises her chin, back straight as she returns his stare. "It's only fair. You did try to play with mine. Or do you stand by your earlier assessment of my being stupid as well as unattractive?"

He gives a mean huff of laughter, and her belly is absolutely quaking as the rest of her trembles, but she holds still with determination. She didn't wish to provoke him to such hostilities, but she refuses to be a mindless puppet, merely because he's made her feel things no one else has. If he wishes to tell all about how sinful and wanton she is, then he can do just that.

"Perhaps you were right," he says, standing, looking down on her with disappointment. "Perhaps we should end this."

She does her best not to show any emotion, eyes locked with his for an uncomfortable amount of time, the air thick with a virulent bitterness and heady arousal.

She expects him to slam the door, but somehow the soft click behind him is worse. She sits alone and cold, staring into the darkness of her room, trying to understand what just happened.

—————

She keeps an eye out for him the next day, both wishing to avoid him at any cost as well as march up to his room and demand they finish their conversation.

And despite not at all trying to keep herself or the children out of site, she never sees him. She sees Marriott's party leave for a hunt, sees them return and prepare for dinner, but never once does she see him.

After whispering her good nights to John and Mary, she makes her way down the dark hall, her candle held aloft to light her way.

She broods along her walk, wondering if he's left completely. Would he do that? Leave without saying a word? She releases a soft laugh in the quiet darkness. Why wouldn't he? They've only known each other for a handful of days, despite their intimacy. And they owed each other nothing.

Turning the corner, her jaw drops as she comes to a stand still, nearly walking right into a pair of bodies. Her heart seizes in her chest, her breath leaving her as she jolts at the cry from the servants.

"Oh ma'am, I'm so sorry! So sorry!"

After her panic has calmed, she finally understands what exactly she's walked in on. Tom the footman and Martha the servant, huddled against each other, trying desperately to right their clothes in the darkened alcove.

With only her candle to provide light, it's difficult to see, but she's certain they're blushing as they scramble to right themselves during their incessant apologies.

"The nursery is just down the hall," she whispers curtly, "what on earth are you thinking?"

She tries not to chide herself about the fact that just the other day she'd done similar, and in the children's school room no less.

"Please, ma'am," Martha begs when she comes up to her, head bowed and face grave. "Please don't say anything. Mrs. Flynn will dismiss me for sure."

After easing their worries and accepting their undying gratitude, as well as promises to never try this sort of thing out in the open or near the children again, she watches as they move fast to disappear into the darkness.

Without thinking, she reaches out, quickly grabbing Martha by the elbow, halting her escape.

"Ma'am," the young servant questions, swallowing nervously after watching Tom's retreating back, leaving her to her fate.

Anna wants to laugh with bitterness at the sight of yet another man running away from his lover. Are all men like this?

Her attention back on Martha, she scowls at the anxious girl, hoping a show of authority forces her to answer her questions.

"I was wondering if you knew about one of Mr. Marriott's guests?"

"His guests, ma'am?"

"The tall man. Robert Hall. Has he left?"

She knows she needs to be careful, surely talk of what happened in the billiards room had gotten to the servants, not to mention the many heated looks between she and Robert throughout the last few days, but hopefully, in her fear of getting outed, Martha will keep any suspicious inquiries Anna makes, to herself.

Martha shakes her head, brows furrowed in confusion. "I- I- don't believe so, ma'am."

Anna releases a breath, hating how much it feels like relief. She swallows hard, deciding to push her luck further. "Where is he then? I've not seen him all day."

Martha gives her a knowing look, as if confirming certain suspicions. Anna stands straighter, holding her shoulders back whilst looking as imposing as she can with her short stature.

Martha drops her gaze, and the confidence it gives her spurs her on. "Do you know something, Martha?"

"I was told not to tell, ma'am."

Anna frowns, hoping this girl can feel her glare. "Well, you will tell me. Or I will unfortunately be forced to have a discussion with Mrs. Flynn."

Her head raises quick, panic setting on her face. "No ma'am, please! My family needs this money-"

"Then talk!"

Martha looks at her with something akin to hate before giving in. "Mr. Marriott ordered Mrs. Flynn to periodically check on the man as he finishes out his visit in his room."

"Why?"

"According to Mr. Marriott, he is unwell. Quite ill apparently, enough that he and Mrs. Flynn discussed going for the doctor."

Her stomach knots. If they meant to get him a doctor he must truly be ill, not just sulking in his room. But how did it come about so quickly?

"Why hasn't he come yet? It's been an entire day."

Martha looks around, as if searching for any eavesdroppers hiding in the inky blackness around them. Anna rolls her eyes.

"Because he's not truly ill. I may have heard mention of opium."

Her brain seems to quit, surprised at first until she really thinks about it. The paleness, the dark circles, and the lethargy she sometimes noticed. The man was self-medicating his demons away.

Anna grabs the girl's arm, squeezing tight. "On pain of death, you do not speak to anyone about this."

"No, ma'am."

"Good," she nods, not all that confident in Martha's assurance to keep quiet. "Now, go."

After the girl runs off, Anna turns towards the stairs, determined to confront this stupidity herself.

—————

Chapter 11: An Unfortunate Slight

—————

The sweet scent of flowers invades Anna's senses when she opens the door, permeating the small room, and no doubt clinging to the sheets and curtains as strong as it is.

She closes the door behind her, careful of any noise and squeak of its hinges.

With soft steps she walks straight to the bed, eyeing the unmoving form of Robert in nothing but his thin shirt, the slow rise and fall of his chest the only proof he's even alive.

His pale skin, blonde hair, and white shirt appears luminous in the moonlight as he lies atop the dark duvet, and she touches the back of her fingers against his temple, grimacing at how cold and clammy he feels.

Moving quickly, she sets a fire, lighting various candles throughout the room. And soon her surroundings are glowing with a pleasant warmth and coziness.

A pipe lays innocently beside its owner on the bed, reflecting the light around it in its polished wood. She reaches for it carefully, as if its very touch would have her too sprawled out and dead to the world.

She's surprised at its weight and craftsmanship. It's not bamboo as she first thought, but ivory, meticulously carved and shaped, with a strange ceramic figure at the top. After inspecting it closer to the light, she sees it's a dragon's head, a tiny hole in its mouth. It's a gorgeous piece of artistry. Beautiful and innocent in appearance, yet if the state of the inert man on the bed is anything, it's truly a deviously wicked little device.

She sets it, and the tin stamped with exotic oriental symbols, on the nearby drawers, planning on locking them away when she leaves. Searching his wardrobe, she finds clothes, choosing a clean shirt.

With only the slightest apprehension, and much work, she manages to strip Robert of his shirt, damp with the sour smell of his sweat. He mumbles and stirs during her handling, but never fully wakes.

She's heard of certain places, lurid stories of exotic, filthy dens in London's docklands, that prey on weak men hoping to forget. She has no experience with such places or men, so she's not altogether sure if Robert's current oblivious state is even normal.

After pouring water into the ceramic basin, she soaks a cloth in it before squeezing out the excess and setting upon her task. There's no eroticism in her actions, carefully washing away the sweat from Robert's skin. But there is curiosity that she tries not to give into, and fails abysmally.

She'd seen the light tuft of hair on his chest, peeking out beneath his shirt and loose cravat, but she had no idea the expanse of it. It's darker than the blonde hair on his head, but still light and glistening as she wipes it with her wet cloth. It covers across his wide chest, which usually seems so thin and lean under his shirt and fitted waistcoat, but the breadth of it surprises her.

His stomach and abdomen are bare though, muscles contracting easily under the skin with his every breath. The movement has her hypnotized for a time before she continues, cloth and hand moving lower.

She's not shocked by the sight of him, having an idea of what lay under a man's breeches. But the fact that this was Robert, that she'd fondled him, makes her mouth dry. Deciding not to go further, she looks away, quickly finishing his arms before grunting with effort to slip the clean shirt over him.

After covering him with his sheet, she sits in the leather chair nearby, set on watching over him until he wakes, when she can tell him just how foolish he is.

She hadn't anticipated Mrs. Flynn, forgetting Martha's explanation of Mr. Marriott's order to check up on Robert.

Both their eyes lock in astonishment, neither speaking as Mrs. Flynn stands in the doorway holding a serving tray.

"Miss Smith?"

Anna swallows before standing, trying to think of some reason she might be here.

"I heard... he was ill. I only wanted to check on him."

Mrs. Flynn gives a sad, understanding smile, though what she understands exactly Anna's not sure.

After closing the door she sets the tray on the bed, sighing wearily as she does so. "Martha's been talking again has she?"

"No," Anna says quickly. "Well, yes. But it's not her fault."

The older woman only nods. "Mr. Marriott found him like this yesterday after he didn't show for breakfast or lunch. Asked me to keep an eye on him till his wife comes for him."

Time seems to suddenly stop, her stomach plummeting as it twists painfully within her. "His wife?"

"Mr. Marriott sent a letter off to her yesterday," she explains, eyeing Anna with pity, "asking what it was she wished for him to do." With a shrug she peers at Robert before picking up the tray and laying it on the nearby desk. "I expect she'll send someone for him within a few days."

Anna barely hears her, her world collapsing under this truth he kept from her. Married? She glares at him, a hate she didn't know she possessed roiling inside her. "Hopefully they come soon," she says through gritted teeth.

"Aye." They stay like that, silent as Mrs. Flynn looks on Anna with sympathy and Anna eyeing Robert with scorn. "Miss Smith," the housekeeper starts gingerly, but Anna doesn't want to hear the pity of this old woman for a simple-minded girl who allowed herself to be misled by a man.

With a huff, she seizes the pipe and tin, skirts rustling as she escapes with haste before Mrs. Flynn can argue.

If he wished to hurt her and his wife by trying to turn her into his whore, then she would hurt him thrice.

Rushing from the manor, with no cloak or bonnet, she races with purpose through the garden and across the grounds, skirts catching as she makes her way through the heath. She tries not to think, instead only brood about the insurmountable betrayal, and anguish over how stupid she feels.

Finally, she smells the salt in the air, the damp breeze coming up from the sea nearby whipping her skirt and the loose tendrils of her hair. She walks carefully to the cliff edge, remembering the times she's warned John of getting too close. She peers down at the sharp cliffs below, the drumming sound of the sea crashing against them, soothing.

She squeezes the pipe in her hand, the ivory, cool and smooth. She knows he can get another - knows he will - but she doesn't care. If he wants to be a slave to his drug she wont stop him, but seeing the furious look in his eye when she tells him just what she's done with his fancy instrument of pleasure has her feeling just a tad bit better - as childish as it is.

With a gleeful satisfaction, she hurls it over the cliffs into the North Sea, followed by the tin, hopefully gone forever.

Like him.