Of the Night

I brought him to my bed...

Dastardly, I know.

There's a school of thought that suggests keeping your business and your pleasure separate. But mine are two star-crossed lovers simply dying to tangle together.

Of course, I had already achieved this, given that my business was in fact pleasure. However, tonight, I took it a step further. I aimed to blur the line another brushstroke.

-

So I brought him to my bed.

There was something enamoring about this one. A young, seemingly educated lad with tussled brown locks and derby eyes. He had a hunger, that fighting spirit I grew familiar with down at the racetrack with Daddy. It was evident that I was to be his trophy.

He reached for me with those damned caramel hands, and I melted like sugar on a stovetop.

Edward, as I came to know him, was a carpenter. A man of handiwork and detail orientation. And lord, did that hold true.

I'm often pressed to unruly beds by unruly bastards. But this Edward, my Edward, pressed me to himself. He held me like a delicate teapot, hands in careful curves around my corset. It felt as if in his arms, nary a floor in the world had purpose.

He clutched my hand, twining our fingers about like littles at a lake on holiday. And he danced with me across the hand-planned wood of my bedroom. My private chamber became a ballroom for just the two of us. Our feet stepped in time with a rhythm in his chest. I followed his lead, thriving in the sensation of being swept away every third beat.

He spun me with a gusto, dizziness rivaling the giddies in my head. With the care of a man to his newborn babe, Edward let loose my curls. His fingertips breathed over my skin, traipsing from neck to shoulder to back. He toyed with the ties down my spine. Never, had a man attempted them. They'd simply toss me down and flip up my dressings.

My forehead knew well the hem of my skirts.

But not tonight, no. And not with my Edward. He mused in my ear, lips whispering beautiful nothings while his fingers worked down my dress. Finally I stood bare before him. A spring foal in evening light.

Doused in flirtatious flattery, I was laid to crisp bed linen. He took his time preparing me, as if I were a creature in need of calm and coaxing. He learned my body and inscribed it on his palms. The notes he drafted of my needs, oh my, they sounded of birdsong.

I'd never needed much. Yet I needed him.

Edward danced a solo form as he shed the clothes of a fortunate heir. And then he was atop me. The pressing began, though this was a comfortable weight securing me against the bed. He nestled his rugged face in the delicate curve of my neck, kissing searing hymns to my skin. The strong bridge of his nose traversed north and south.

His care and attention drew lavish wails from my lungs. No other man had done so before. His touch was ethereal. We moved as waves against a shore, reveling in the swelling of the tide.

Still adorned in innocent stockings, my feet met the linens on either side of my head. My Edward grew stronger in his work, his motions becoming rougher, the dulling of a horseshoe's sharp edge.

I watched that hunger in his eyes fade. It left on a breeze that replaced the scent of fresh citrus with the stink of cobbled streets after a hardy rain. My Edward's hair grew longer, and the tangles hung wetly beyond his brow.

I was pressed further into the bed. He became uncomfortable above me. His movements grew sluggish and portly. His clothes were covered in coal dust. I coughed his smoky air.

I blinked and found my vision obscured by white. A familiar rubbing of hem against forehead. A crusted, motheaten seam between my fingers. He withdrew from my body, piggishly pleased with himself.

I didn't dare move my skirt. I didn't want to see the horrid man again.

I prayed him to leave. He had to escape this sty and stumble back to his own. I had to wash my dressings. And my linens. And myself.

Cold coins pressed into my palm. My fingers clasped around them. I could already hear my Daddy's shouts.

Farewell, Edward. My four babes needed extra bread.