tagRomanceThe Bastien of Winter

The Bastien of Winter


"Mmm, Bastien..."

Sebastien Byrne looked down in dismay, watching as his new bride lovingly faked her way through another orgasm. She was very good at it—soft and sweet, and imminently realistic. No glass-shattering screeches, or siren-like banshee wails. In fact, if he hadn't been inside of her when it happened, he would have sworn that it had been real. His pleasure greatly diminished, he rolled over onto his side, and pulled her body tightly against his. Winter wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing the length of her body to him. He could sense the tension strumming through her, so he gently stroked her smooth, curving bottom until she relaxed.

Her face was buried in his neck, his hand still tangled in her hair. He knew that Winter loved him, just as he knew that she was aroused by him. But here they were, on the last week of their three-week honeymoon and, to his knowledge, she had yet to have an orgasm. At first, he wasn't surprised. She had been a virgin when they married, so he knew that the first few times would be an adjustment for her. However, now he was starting to worry.

Winter wasn't frigid...he knew that as truly as he knew his own name. He knew that she loved being with him almost as much as he enjoyed her. Within three weeks, he had seen her blossom from shy, sweet, eager virgin, to generous, willing, sensual lover. Sebastien couldn't understand why she had yet to climax. They had done a number of things...in a number of positions...in a number of places, but within several days, he started to suspect that she wasn't reaching her peak.

Unlike Winter, Sebastien was no virgin when they wed. He had never been too wild, but he had been in a few sexual relationships—enough to know how it felt when a woman came on his cock. He remembered feeling dry-mouthed at their wedding reception just thinking about her sweet little butterfly flutters moving up and down his hard shaft while she softly breathed his name in his ear.

He sighed. He just didn't know what was wrong. Winter had yet to say no to any of his advances—in fact, several times, she had seduced him. While they were together, her body told him that she was aroused. The flush under her tawny skin, her tight little cinnamon nipples, her dilated pupils and darkened irises, her accelerated breathing, her elevated pulse, her writhing, trembling body, not to mention the delectable wetness that literally dripped--dripped--from her swollen sex, down her soft thighs, all told him that she wanted him. Sebastien was a biology professor at Duke University, whose Ph.D from the University of Dublin had been on human sexual response. He knew what arousal looked like.

Winter had been a law student when they met. They waited until she had graduated before seriously dating, in order to quell any rumours on the surprisingly small campus. The first few times that they had been in each others company, he had thought her cold and methodical. Upon seeing her more and more however, he realized that, though she was methodical, cold couldn't have been farther from the truth. Once Winter opened up, she was charming, loyal, conscientious, and...as he had learned in the last two weeks, exceedingly passionate. Sebastien kissed her warm shoulder, while she purred, and snuggled closer, breathing slowly regulating into that of sleep.

He didn't know why his wife wasn't reaching her release, but he was going to find out before the honeymoon was over, and real life came between them.


Sebastien awoke to the enchanting sight of his bride bent over, plump caramel buttocks, courtesy of a Kenyan grandmother, peeking insouciantly out of her cream-coloured lace boy-shorts as she reached between her legs to attach her garters to her silken stockings.

"Good morning to me," he lilted in a sleep-roughened Irish baritone. Winter glanced at him from between her legs, then slid a hand under her long, thick, wavy, warm chocolate brown hair to help flip it back over her shoulders as she straightened. Smiling invitingly, wearing nothing but a matching creamy lace bra, panty, and garter belt set, and pale golden silk fishnet stockings, she slowly crawled up the bed to him. Straddling his hips she slowly stroked her hands up and down the sides of his chest.

"Good morning to you, lover," she responded, leaning in for a kiss.

Sebastien turned his head and stilled her arms. "Ach...not before I've showered. You smell amazing," here he inhaled the warm, humid air that still held notes of her blood orange whipped bath soap, "and I'm chock full of morning breath, and fresh urine."

Winter wrinkled her nose and laughed, gracefully removing one leg and letting herself fall on her back beside him. "Oh, Dr. Byrne, you always know just what to say."

He lasciviously grabbed a handful of smooth, soft thigh, and squeezed before rolling out of bed, and sauntering to the bathroom. "A gentleman knows never to touch a lady while he's unshowered, unbrushed, and still covered in questionable substances from the previous night." He turned in the bathroom doorway to face her. "I'm filthy--"

She rolled quickly and easily to her knees, hands planted on the bed, looking for all the world like something straight out of his most fevered transition year fantasies. "I like it when you make me dirty, Dr. Byrne," she purred dulcetly, in her husky Southern drawl.

He laughed, delighted. "Behave yourself, you impertinent young chit! I'm a man, not a sex-machine!"

Winter fell back on the bed, rolling with laughter, while Sebastien affected a long-suffering expression, and went in for his shower.

When he emerged, she was fully dressed in a figure-hugging cream wool pencil skirt, five inch black leather heels, and an iridescent golden-ebony silk button-down shirt. He held the towel negligently around his narrow hips, water still dripping from his deep auburn hair, and neatly trimmed beard. "I just don't know, darling," he started, shaking his head sadly, while his black eyes twinkled. "Are you sure that I'm not overdressed?" he finished, indicating his lack of clothing.

She turned, her large hazel eyes widening at the sight of his bare torso, water trickling slowly and lovingly down his sleek frame. Giving a breathless little laugh, Winter rejoined, "I'm sure that no one would have the temerity to complain against such a well-tailored ensemble."

Sebastien grinned, letting his towel slip casually from his hips as he walked over to pull clothing from his suitcase. Tossing the towel over his shoulder into the bathroom, he savoured the feeling of her eyes on him, as he took his time dressing. Oh, no...whatever the problem, a lack of desire from Winter was not the cause.

A sudden knock at the door startled Sebastien from his thoughts. He turned to Winter and raised an eyebrow.

"Room service," she explained. "I know how much playing with me tuckers you out, old man."

He grinned. Though he was only five years older than she, it was their running joke that he had robbed the cradle while she was busy robbing the grave. He walked over to the door, and opened it to a bright young bellhop who wheeled in the brunch cart. Sebastien tipped the bellhop, who playfully saluted him and left, whistling cheerily. Lifting the silver lid from the various dishes on the cart, he looked at her in delight.

Winter shrugged. "You worked pretty hard last night, Sebastien-mine. I thought that you deserved something more than the usual croissant and coffee this morning, so I asked them to make something a bit more substantial for you."

Lucas happily eyed the fluffy herbed omelette, steaming croissants, rich hot chocolate, and strawberries arranged artfully over creamy yogurt. "Aye, I knew that there was a reason I married you."

"What can I say?" she asked, sitting on his lap and putting a cool, sweet strawberry to his lips. "I give good room service..."


Stepping out onto the streets of Paris a short time later, they walked arm in arm on their way to go exploring. They had spent each week in a different French city, culminating their honeymoon in the City of Light, and though they knew that they probably should do the culturally relevant thing, and see as many museums as possible, they were really enjoying just finding whatever they could discover on their long walks.

This morning (okay, afternoon) however, they had an appointment to take a boat ride on the Seine. Sebastien watched his new wife's swaying bottom, as she made her way up the gangplank ahead of him. He suppressed the animalistic urge to drag her under his body and thrust into her until her body had no choice but to give her an orgasm. He shook his head to clear his mind of those thoughts. If he kept thinking like that, he'd embarrass them both.

The boat ride passed happily for them, with Winter laughing in delight as the wind made short work of her previously artful coif. Shaking her head in surrender, she removed the pins holding up her hair, and let the wind tangle it around her face, making her look like a gamin little fairy. Sebastien just watched her. He loved looking at her. Her artless delight with life never failed to make him want to protect her, and join her in equal parts. It didn't help that she was a neat foot shorter than he. Though he logically knew that she was well equipped to take care of herself, having studied krav maga at her father's knee, there was a primitive part of him that wanted to shield her from the depredations of the world. He sighed and watched as the wind blew her hair straight back, making her look like a wild siren.

After their boat ride, they took a stroll down the Rue Montorgueil, so that Winter could explore its open-air market. Sebastien purchased a wicker basket for her, and then held it as she flitted from stall to stall, slowly filling it with various vibrant fruits, freshly baked pastries, and rich cheeses. They took a meandering walk to the Parc Monceau, found a secluded spot, and shared a leisurely picnic.

Sebastien loved to watch her eat. He felt like a secret pervert at mealtimes. Winter was just such a sensual eater. He didn't think that such a thing existed until he met her. When she bit into something that she particularly liked, she'd purr, or sometimes give a little soft moan, and close her eyes. Also, in the absence of silverware, if something dripped onto her fingers, her quick little pink tongue would dart out and slowly lave the offending digit, looking like nothing so much as a serious little cat. The best part of it it was, she was totally unaware of this behaviour. He'd seen her do the same things when she didn't know that she was being watched.

He cleared his throat, surreptitiously adjusted himself, and sighed, wishing that they were back at the hotel. Winter looked up quizzically at him, sensing his mild distress. Sebastien smiled reassuringly at her, and took a hearty bite from his crispy, still-warm croque monsieur.

They went wandering around the boulevards, stopping to watch interesting street performers, or to peer down dark, narrow streets like nosy children. At the entrance of the first bookstore that they found, Winter stopped and sucked in a breath like a child on Christmas. Sebastien looked around, seeing nothing but stacks upon stacks of dusty old tomes. His wife moved easily through the claustrophobic shelves, chattering gaily in French with the shopkeeper. Sebastien finally leaned against a wall and just watched her as she traced her fingertips over the spines, occasionally stopping to open a book and briefly read what was inside. She ended up buying several first editions of various children's books for sister-in-law

He grinned as they left the store. "Winter, Fiona just had the baby. He won't be able to read English for years, let alone French." She peered at him haughtily over her tortoise-shell spectacles, her hair unbound and wild, several dusty smudges on her face. "I'll have you know that my nephew is a genius. While I was playing with him at the wedding, I asked him what the cat says, and do you know what he said, Bastien? He said, 'Miau'. Does an ordinary three month old know that? No, unless they are as perfect as Aubrey, which is highly doubtful, as he is the pinnacle of everything that a baby should be."

Sebastien stopped her as she started to brush by him, resting his arm above her head on the building behind her, and said low, "And you don't think that you're just a wee bit biased?"

Winter looked up at him, smiling beatifically. "No!"

"Should I be jealous?" he smiled down at her, ebony eyes alight with good humour, his fingers gently stroking her jaw.

"Mmm...maybe," she flirted. "You know that I've always had a thing for short, chubby, bald men!" Laughing, she slid past him. They spent the next few hours flitting through dusty old used book, and ephemera shops. After the last little antique shop, where he had bought her a coquettish little fan, and she had purchased a heavy set of silver and garnet cuff-links for him, he followed her from the store, catching hold of her hand. Smiling at one another, they leisurely made their way to Le Cordon Bleu for an open dinner demonstration.


Winter sighed wistfully as Sebastien knelt before her, removing her shoes, and gently stroking her calves. "Who knew a knife could move so fast! And the designs that he carved into those carrot shavings were so intricate! They looked like filigree! Oh—and that rosemary smoke that he infused into his tuna sashimi amuse-bouche was such an transcendent experience, both visually and olfactorily..." She drifted off as she realized that he wasn't saying much, just looking up at her indulgently, one hand around her right ankle, thumb stroking it gently. She smiled ruefully. "I'm babbling, aren't I?"

He smiled lazily up at her. "I like to listen you talk." He traced his fingers slowly up and down the front of her left leg. "You have the cutest little accent."

"Me?!" she gasped in mock surprise. "Your accent is cuter."

He grinned mischievously up at her. "The Irish don't have an accent—we're just the only ones in the world who know how English is supposed to sound."

She ruffled his hair playfully. He wrapped his arms around her left leg and leaned his cheek against it. He began placing slow, gentle, sweet kisses on the outside of her knee. "Winter," he started softly.

"Hm?" she responded, savouring the feel of his soft lips and warm beard against her leg.

"I want to talk to you about something, lovely," he said, his voice low and caressing.

"Hm?" she said dreamily.

"I love you," he started.

"Love..." she trailed, stroking his hair.

He could feel the heat of her arousal warming his cheek as he knelt at her feet. He smiled, hiding his lips against the outside of her knee. Winter was terrifyingly articulate. She had a savage intelligence that at times awed him, and she was a mistress of debate, and rhetoric. When she was aroused, however...her level of verbal communication nosedived.

During the first week of their honeymoon, while they had been making love, he had slid his hand down to her curls, his fingertips questing for her tight little bud. She had squealed, and then sighed, "Hacienda...."

"Hacienda?" he had queried, bemused. "A Spanish estate plantation?"

"Oh, I don't know! Don't know!" she had moaned, arching under him and practically ripping the sheets from the bed.

Winter didn't even speak Spanish.

He forced his mind back to the present. "I love you," he repeated. He slid his right hand slowly up the back of her left leg, cupping the back of her knee as he continued to place soft kisses on the outside of her knee. He slid his left hand up under her skirt, slowly stroking her right hip. "I love you, and I want you, and I know that you love me...that you want me..."

"Mm-hm," she nodded in artless agreement.

"I am yours. All I want is to spend the rest of my life making you happy, which is why...we need to discuss why you haven't been cumming when we make love." He kept up his caresses, watching her face.

A small frown line appeared between her eyebrows. Her head tilted, as if she were contemplating some difficult problem, and then twitched. Her head twitched again, and the she slowly shook it, as if to clear herself of a mental fog. "No...no..." she said softly, her body trying to scoot away from him. Her eyes opened, and she looked confused.

He pulled her closer, not allowing her to move away from him. She made a little sound of distress, and he slid his arms around her hips, and pulled her down into his lap. Nuzzling her ear, he whispered, "Please, darlin'...talk to me..." his lilt thickening.

She whined, and then turned to him, burying her face in his neck, arms wrapped around him. He stroked her hair and slowly rocked her.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"No—don't ever be sorry. There's no need for sorry, you haven't done anything wrong. But this is something that we need to talk about before it goes any further." He rubbed his jaw against her hair. "Before we were married, you told me that you used to masturbate...did you finish then?" She nodded miserably. "Okay...okay. Have you done it since we were married?"

"Oh, no!" she protested, backing up to look into his eyes. "I haven't needed to do that—you keep me satisfied."

He smiled ruefully, "Thanks for that, but something is awry, and we need to figure out how to take care of it." He placed a finger under her chin, gently stroking the soft skin. "You don't want to go the rest of your life without having an orgasm with me, do ya?"

"Well...no..." she replied slowly.

"And isn't it better to take care of it sooner rather than later?" he cajoled.

"Yes?" she said uncertainly.

"Alright, then," he said comfortably. "Do you want me?"

She looked up at him, speechless, eyes wide in shock. Then she she set her jaw and said, "Sebastien Alastar Byrne, if you actually think that I don't want you, why then you're dumb as a post! Want you?! I can't stop thinking about you! Your scent, your touch, the sound of your voice, the way you taste... Sometimes we're out and it's all I can do to not drag you into a dark alley, climb on top of you, and ride you like Seabiscuit! Would I have married you if I didn't want you?"

He chuckled. "Fair enough", he said, hands raised in surrender. "Just making sure that that's out of the way."

Winter harrumphed. Sebastien grinned. "So, we know that you're not frigid, we know that you want me, am I..." here he paused uncertainly. "Not...good?"

Winter melted in his arms. "'Bastien...you make me tremble." She looked down shyly. "You make me...writhe and whimper...you make me tingle...all over.... When I'm with you...I lose language. All I can think of is you, and the feeling of your warm breath ghosting across my skin. The feeling of your hot hands stroking me...caressing me... everywhere. And your voice...it's so deep...it makes me want to do...everything with you..." She finally halted, staring down at her hands, cheeks flaming.

He cleared his throat, momentarily nonplussed. He had been told that he was a good lover before, but never in such an open, vulnerable, honest way. He brought her wrist to his mouth, gently placing a kiss on the warm, delicate inside. Softly, so as not to make her defensive, he asked desperately, "So then...what is it, a thaisce?

She shrugged mournfully. "I don't know. I honestly don't. I could blame it on nervousness, but I haven't been nervous since the first time. I thought, maybe because it was because you made me so wet...too wet. But extra friction didn't help, either."

He nodded, thinking. "Let's do an experiment." Winter perked up, pressing her breasts to his chest. "Down, lass—not that sort of experiment!" he laughed.

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