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Unlaced

A long time ago, in a galaxy far... just kidding. But it does kinda feel that way, lol.

Awhile back @foreverwillbesunny tagged me on this post, which welp, got the gears turning and resulted in a teensy bit of drabbling. There was something about the original version I wrote that I disliked blah blah blah, it took me awhile to figure it out and actually produce something that I did like. So, a small snippet of Unmasked Everlark and the joys of having your husband lace you into your corset... or unlace it as the case may be. ;) This would take place roughly halfway between the final chapter and the epilogue of Unmasked. Ignore that imperfect corset picture, it’s the best I could find with what little time I have today.

RATED E for explicit sexual content and a couple of curse words. Enjoy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mary’s eye’s continually drift to the clock on my vanity table. I wince as a hairpin slides in at an awkward angle, gouging into my scalp.

“Oh! Mrs. Mellark, I am so sorry, I --” she trails off as I rest one hand on hers and smile at her in the mirror.

“Would it help if Dr. Mellark assisted me in dressing tonight instead?”

“I can manage,” Mary insists and I tilt my head and wait. She sighs and then adjusts the pin to a better position. “I’ll at least finish your hair, ma’am. The doctor may have steady hands but it takes a different kind of clever to dress up a lady’s hair.”

“How is Lydia feeling?” I ask and Mary shakes her head.

“No better’n this afternoon, I’m afraid. The fever’s gone, but she’s still feeling a bit weak. She can’t even stand up long enough to fix Mrs. Abernathy’s hair.”

“And heaven forbid Effie’s hair not be perfectly fabulous for the Duchess of Cashmere’s masquerade.” Mary giggles and then stifles her mirth with a cough.

“There,” she says as the last of the pearl studded pins slides into place. I turn my head to examine her work in the mirror. “What do you think?”

“I love it.”

“Not that it matters, but I love it as well,” Peeta says from the doorway and Mary winks at me in the mirror, curtsies to us both and then hurries from the room, no doubt headed straight for Effie’s room next. Or perhaps Prim’s. Once she is gone and the door shut behind her, Peeta moves to stand beside me and gently kisses my temple. “Is she not to help you dress?”

“I am afraid that with Lydia feeling unwell and Wilma on the continent with Mother and Father, poor Mary is pulling triple duty. You will have to suffice in dressing me,” I say as I stand and let my dressing robe slide off my shoulders to the floor. I hold my breath, but it is unnecessary. Peeta responds the same as he always has, all through the many years of our marriage, to my nudity.

A sharp inhale and a faint groan of desire.

“Could we skip the ball and simply keep you naked? The poor bed appears neglected.”

I laugh and he grins at me, catches the filmy chemise that I fling at him. “The bed is absolutely not neglected, you lecher. I am somehow once again with child, and you claim the bed to be neglected?”

“Given your penchant for making love anywhere but in a comfortable bed,” he teases and slides up close to me, his heated gaze causing delighted shivers to wrack my body. “...Yes. I would call the bed neglected.”

“Help me dress and maybe dance with me tonight and then we shall speak of the poor neglected bed,” I say, but I am smiling as Peeta carefully holds the chemise for me to slip into without disturbing my hair. The corset next, with Peeta placing soft, shiver inducing kisses on my neck and shoulders as he pulls on the laces, pausing while I make small adjustments.

We’ve become adept at this, or rather he has become adept at dressing me. And undressing me. I smile slightly as I think of the first time he laced my corset. It’s become quite the common occurrence for us, Peeta helping me to dress in the mornings and undress at night. Most mornings it is a simple task. Mundane and yet achingly intimate. Other days… well, other days it makes me think of that first morning he laced my corset for me, before we had even consummated our marriage. Those days, with that same sensual tension burning between us, usually lead to a wilder sort of intimacy and a sometimes late appearance at breakfast.

However, a ball is something else. It is not something Peeta would usually help me prepare for, and it becomes apparent in some of the smaller details. He has some difficulty with the delicate, slick fabric of my formal stockings and garters, which gives us a moment or two of amusement. Mary could perhaps complete the task more efficiently, but I find that I am enjoying myself immensely.

Then all that remains is my gown. We stand facing one another as he gathers the fabric in his hands. His eyes gleam with something delicious and he opens his mouth to speak.

A knock on the door interrupts and before we can answer, a flurry of young girl sweeps into the room.

“Can we see your gown, Aunt Katniss?” Maysilee asks and then halts, blushing prettily as she sees my state of undress. “Oh! Why are you not dressed yet?”

“If you’ll give me one moment, then yes, you may see my dress,” I manage to say through my slightly annoyed laughter.

“Well. We’re about to be put to bed, so do hurry, Uncle Peeta,” she says and glances quickly at Peeta, blinks, then turns her back to us. She stays right there and begins to chatter. “Now you can surprise me! Mother was already dressed and Papa says I should not be so nosy, but I cannot help it! You’ve always worn such lovely dresses to balls, mayhaps because you attend so few, each dress seems all the more special, and besides! I want to start planning Miranda’s trousseau. We’ve only got two more years before her coming out and we haven’t a moment to lose. Aunt Effie says we have to be careful with her red hair. That we’ll need to use muted colors, but I think that’s just ridiculous.”

I grin at her indignation and I can feel Peeta’s silent laughter in the shaking of his hands as he fastens the buttons of my gown.

“Bold colors, I say. Like a siren or a mermaid! Colors that belong to the sea. Aunt Effie says that means muddy brown sand colors, but I think that’s uninspired. I suggested that we use the colors of the Carribean as inspiration and didn’t she think that was an inspired idea! Actually, she rather seemed cross at me, but Uncle Haymitch loved the idea! What do you think, Aunt Katniss?”

Maysilee turns slightly then and gasps. “Oh! You’re done! It’s beautiful!” She practically runs around me, examining the dress from all angles. “We must show Miranda and Beatrice!”

From the moment Maysilee takes my hand and whisks me out the bedroom door, the night is a whirlwind. First with her, Beatrice, and Miranda admiring my dress. Miranda reaches out, almost mesmerised by the shimmering satin, but Beatrice stops her hand.

“You’ve ink on your fingers!”

Miranda apologises and I ask about her current story project before she can retreat. I spend a few moments with the girls before Madge sweeps into the room, a vision in plum silk. The girls are whisked to bed. I manage to kiss each of them and ask after William and Daniel, both already asleep. I sneak into their room with Peeta to kiss them as they sleep. Miranda, I remind not to stay up too late.

Effie ushers us out the door and into the carriages. I forget my mask and a footman is sent back inside for it. Finally, we reach the Cashmere ducal seat. The setting is no less glorious than it was eight years ago. Peeta and I have not had much time recently for such frivolities, what with our children, and Everdeen, and his medical practice. I find myself strangely and familiarly excited at the prospect of such a party.

We alight from the carriage. Peeta tucks my hand into his arm and I tap his chest with my fan. “At least I can be assured that you will not keep me waiting, husband.”

He laughs and lifts my hand to his lips.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Come darling, let’s allow Mummy to sleep a little longer. She’s very tired this morning,” I hear Peeta whisper and barely lift my head in time to watch him lift Beatrice into his arms, kiss her on her temple, and slide out the door of our room.

“Why, Papa?”

“I’m afraid I kept her up late dancing last night,” he says.

“I wanted to hear about the ball,” she complains and the door shuts, dampening the sounds of their words. I smile and burrow back into the covers. I had not planned on sleeping late this morning, but if the doctor orders it, then who am I to argue?

It is true that Peeta and I were up late last night, dancing away at Duchess Cashmere’s masquerade ball. We discovered a terrace adjacent to the ballroom, and after that, any sort of socializing Effie may have expected of us was forfeit, I’m afraid.

With the music drifting into the night and the fragrance of flowers growing in vines over the terrace walls, it was perfection. A wide stone space where guests retreated to catch fresh air between dances or to escape the heat of the ballroom but still be within sight of chaperones. Not quite as scandalous as a garden rendezvous, the area was wide enough to have open places where a couple might also dance undisturbed, and for the first time in our marriage, Peeta danced with me publicly and unencumbered. No fear or concern of his leg causing us to lag in the dance and become an obstruction to other dancers, for there were none around us at all.

I, for one, think they should all go hang themselves if they think that way of my husband, but Peeta’s kind heart is more often concerned with the opinion and convenience of others than mine sometimes is. Which is why the terrace was such a wonderful find. At last, my husband and I were able to dance the night away and tease one another at how scandalous we were, sharing so many dances in succession.

“People will talk,” I had whispered as he led me through a series of breathtakingly dizzy turns during our fifth shared dance on the terrace.

“And say what? That the Mellark bastard is madly in love with his wife?”

“That is Doctor Mellark. How dare you forget my husband’s proper address, you scoundrel. And yes. That is precisely what they will say.”

“Shocking,” Peeta had said in a way that made me shiver, pulling me closer to him. “And will they say that Mrs. Mellark is madly in love with her husband?”

“Oh I would think they shall. Especially if she were to be caught kissing said husband.”

I sigh and close my eyes to savor the delicious memories, listen to the faint sounds of the house awakening as I hum a few bars of music to myself. We were not able to do much kissing last night, unfortunately. Too busy dancing and simply enjoying the evening in one another’s company. By the time we returned to Uncle Haymitch’s town home, it was nearly dawn. We helped one another disrobe and then we fell asleep wrapped around each other. Peaceful, if not salacious.

The happy memories are comforting enough to lull me back into sleep. I awaken to different light peeking through the drapes and Peeta’s lips on my cheek, his comforting scent surrounding me. Vetiver tickles me to awareness and I sigh, turning over to face him.

“How late is it?”

“Everyone is out for the day. Effie and Haymitch took the girls for a walk in the park and an ice. Darius, Madge and Gale have taken William for a ride. Prim and Rory had some shopping to attend to. I’ve just put Daniel down for his nap.”

“So then… we are alone at last?” I ask and grasp hold of his lapel. He grins down at me as I slowly drag him towards me.

“Explain to me, my darling wife, why it is that you are insatiable when you are already with child? Seems a little superfluous.”

“I haven’t a single explanation, husband, but I feel that for the sake of your medical career, we should study the phenomena extensively.”

“Should we now?” he says, although he is laughing under his breath and already shucking his coat.

“Yes. Do take thorough notes, would you?”

Peeta hasn’t much time for note taking with how demanding I am. He complains that we neglect the beds in our lovemaking, then I intend to remedy that. The late morning heat makes the room somewhat uncomfortable, so I insist that he open the window behind the drapes, thankful for the insight that led Effie to assigning us a room with a view of the gardens rather than the street.

I demand that he kiss me. Touch me in this way then that. I make demands until I am so overcome that I must cover my face with a pillow to muffle my unhinged sounds of pleasure.

After, Peeta tosses aside the pillow and kisses me almost lazily, whispers that he loves me. I feel foolishly giddy. As though he is still courting me even though we have now been married several years. We are perspiring and sticky with love, tangled in the sheets in a way that only heightens my giddy feelings. It has been some time since we’ve managed a lazy morning love like this. For all his teasing me about how we do not make love in the bed much anymore, we both know it is because we must seize what opportunities we can find, be they hasty or unconventional or downright scandalous should we be caught.

Still, such a morning is a luxury and I do not yet wish it to end.

“I should call for Mary,” I eventually say as Peeta rises from our bed, slipping into a dressing robe. “I hate to do so, but I fear we both need a bath. She’s so busy with all these ladies in the family. Another daughter and I fear she may quit from being overworked,” I say and let a hand drift over my belly. It is still too early for me to show, although we are approaching a time when we will need to give the news to Miranda and Beatrice. William may not yet be old enough to understand. Daniel certainly is not, although we will try to explain it to them as well.

“Then pray for another son, my love,” Peeta says and I laugh a little as he bends over to kiss where my hand only just grazed, to whisper to our growing child. I would adore another son, and I know that Peeta will love our child regardless. I rather hope that if our child is a son, he too will have Peeta’s wild mane of curls like William does, but a healthy child is all I truly pray for.

“Or perhaps we should consider that it is time to hire a maid dedicated to Miranda. With her debut approaching,” I say and his brow furrows a moment.

“As much as I dislike the idea of Miranda growing up and leaving us, you are perhaps right. It does not help Mary’s work load with Beatrice inheriting her mother’s fondness for outdoor play. Climbing trees and ruining dresses,” Peeta says with a smile that reveals his adoration of us both.

A lady’s maid is such a luxury. One we can afford, and hiring a second might be feasible. Perhaps even necessary in a few years when the social requirements of a family with a daughter coming of age. I’ve become reluctant to call on Mary in the past few years except in the most necessary circumstances, preferring to leave her to care for the other ladies of my family. Peeta and I have managed rather well without her constant services to me.

Thankfully, when we do call for Mary, Sophie, one of the household maids, accompanies her, along with a footman to assist with the bath. Once Peeta and I are clean and dried off, he does not call her back. The door remains locked.

“Here,” Peeta says and gathers my chemise from where he discarded it on the floor before devouring me earlier. “I will help you dress.”

I confess only to myself that I was angling for just such a thing anyways, but I eagerly place my hand in Peeta’s outstretched one and allow him to position me before the standing mirror in the corner. He is free with his touches while he helps me into the chemise, warm palms caressing my breasts and belly and hips and thighs, even though we already made love once this morning. A pleasant sort of tingling tickles up and down my spine, spreading out through my limbs.

With a soft nuzzle in my neck, he positions my corset with expert precision. There is something about his look of utter concentration as I watch him behind me in the mirror, my hair still a damp, tumbled mess hanging loose about my shoulders. He gathers it up, and I place my hands beneath the mass, holding my hair out of his way as he laces me up. My breath catches a few times, but Peeta is never too rough with me.

“Mary ties your laces in a different sort of bow than I do,” he remarks and I cannot help but smile.

“You know her knots?”

“The first time I truly noticed, I thought perhaps you had a lover,” he teases and nips at my ear, his eyes meeting mine in the mirror. “I had helped you dress that morning and then that night, when I helped you undress, the laces were different.”

“And who exactly did you think my lover was?”

“I hadn’t the faintest idea and that was the problem.” he says, his hands sliding around my hips and caressing over me. “Then I recalled that you’d had a rather filthy day in the fields and I realized that the entire corset was different, not just the laces. I think you had changed to an older one, perhaps.”

He traces his fingers up and down the lines of boning and I shiver slightly in his arms. A cool desire sweeps through me as I stand there, my arms shaking with the effort of holding my hair out of the way.

“Then I made a study of it. How Mary laced you up. Your mother, Madge. Even Prim had her own style of tying your laces. It’s taken me years, but now I can tell who laced you up based on the tie alone.”

“I feel as though I should be angry at you, for thinking I could ever have a lover,” I whisper, but my breathy tone belies the arousal now reawakened inside me.

“Mm, why? I’ve removed far fewer corsets at this point than you’ve had ladies lace and unlace yours.” He grins at me and then steps away. I breathlessly let my hair drop and attempt to scowl at him as he positions a chair before the bed and sits so that he can help me into my stockings. “C’mere, wife.”

I do not intend for it to be a seduction, yet as his hands caress over my legs and his nimble fingers tie my garters, I find myself clinging to the bedpost, standing there before him with one leg bent up, foot propped on his chair, chemise bunched in my hand about my waist, panting and feeling overheated. Aroused at being so on display for him. From our conversation, as mundane as it may seem, such an intimate thing.

“Now for your underskirt,” he whispers and turns his head to kiss above my garter. He nips at me and I gasp.

Only, the underskirt remains untouched on the bed as he continues to kiss me, his hand curled around my thigh to hold me open to him. My eyes drift shut and I surrender myself to the feeling of his kisses. His sensual attentions that work me into a near frenzy. My breathing competes with the noise from the city outside until finally, a quiet moan escapes me.

He releases me and stands, abruptly then, hauling me back over to the mirror.

“Peeta,” I say in a near whine. His eyes are dark in the glass and his dressing robe gapes open enough that I catch a glimpse in the mirror of his erect cock. I quiver, unsure what to expect. I thought he would love me with his mouth on the bed just now, but now I do not know. He brings my underskirt and stands behind me. We watch one another in the mirror for an interminable moment, my chest clearly heaving with heavy breaths, his eyes scouring over my reflection.

“My God. You are far too tempting to resist,” he says and flings aside the garment in his hands. He grasps my wrists and moves my arms, planting my hands on the wall behind the mirror. My breath creates a fog on the glass, momentarily obscuring my view of him. But his hands… I need not watch them to feel what he does to me.

“Yes,” I encourage as he touches me over my undergarments. The pressure and hint of his touch is dizzyingly erotic. His low growling words have my fingers curled tight in anticipation and arousal slicking down my thighs.

I wait patiently for Peeta to undress me again, but instead I cry out as his lips attack my neck. His kisses turn my knees to the consistency of jam. Only his palm spread wide over my middle keeps me from sliding to the floor. That and the thrill of perhaps having him again so soon.

“Damn. I need to feel you come again, my love. Now,” he whispers and continues to caress me all over. I shudder when his palms find bare shoulders and then trace up and down my bare arms. Any skin to skin contact is heady after so much fondling restricted to above my clothing. “Open your eyes, Katniss. I want you to watch. I want you to see what we do to one another.”

I bite my lip to keep from whining and open my eyes, astonished at the starry grey eyes staring back at me, the heightened flush on my cheeks.

His hands roam down the front of my thighs then grasp fabric as he slowly draws my chemise higher, bunching it up in his fists a little at a time, exposing my stockinged calves and shaking knees, my plain everyday garters. My thighs. Peeta inhales sharply and nuzzles his nose behind my ears.

“Spread your legs wider, Katniss. Let me see,” he whispers. I obey and Peeta groans, prompting me to look down again. “Oh Katniss. Look at how wet you are.”

I have no words for what I look like, my legs braced wide and arousal glistening on the insides of my thighs. As I watch, Peeta gathers the chemise in one hand and shifts it higher, higher to rest his fabric filled fist on my hip, revealing the dark patch of curls of my sex. I cannot stop my wanton moan as Peeta’s hand wanders over and between my thighs, tantalizingly close and then finally spreading my lips.

Then there are no words. I wouldn’t even know the vocabulary to describe the sight of his fingers delving through dark curls and brown flesh, disappearing where I can only feel him, even though I watch it happen in the mirror. Returning to my sight, glistening with my need.

I hold myself perfectly still. Overcome and succumbing to this touch. I know exactly what this feels like, his touch seductive and familiar… but watching him touch me sends me soaring to an entirely new plane of rapture.

Peeta curses then and withdraws his fingers. I whimper until he commands me. “Touch yourself, my love.”

My fingers shake as I do his bidding. The sight is not as erotic and so I lift my eyes to watch him in the mirror as he shrugs off his dressing robe, one arm at a time so he can maintain his hold on my chemise. He flings his robe aside to join my underskirt on the floor. Then he sets his hand on my scarred shoulder and caresses down my arm, down down to the hand between my thighs. His fingers curl around and gently withdraw my hand. I already sense what he is doing and allow it with wild excitement thrumming inside me. I watch, rapt as he lifts my hand to my shoulder then higher, to his mouth. I watch him slide both of our fingers into his mouth and suck. We both moan and my heart thunders.

“Peeta,” I whine again and he places my hand back on the wall.

“Yes, my love,” he says, his hand disappearing between us. I startle slightly when I feel him there. His cock sliding between my lips and legs.

“Oh!” I gasp and nearly collapse as I watch in the mirror. The head of him slipping just into view, nestled in my curls, then disappearing. “Oh God, Peeta.”

“You like that view, my love?” he whispers and smiles at me, briefly in the mirror as I nod frantically then turn my attention back to watching us. “Keep watching then.”

How could I possibly look away? I want to ask, but cannot. All I can do is watch as he continues to move, coating himself with me. Teasing me with brief glimpses of him between my legs. All I can do is comply when he shifts my feet back a little, so that I am bent over at a sharper angle, so that I can see down into my cleavage, but only just.

“Next time, I’m going to have you naked like this.” I manage an incoherent noise as he slips inside me. My eyes fly up to his reflected face, because I love to watch his expressions when he enters me, and I’ve never seen it when he loves me from behind before. I bite my lip and tears pool in my eyes as I watch the bliss on his features. Listen to his soft moans and feel the bite of his fingers as he releases his cock, no longer needing to hold it steady once he’s half inside me, and instead grips my hip, both of us moaning at the familiar and yet still invigorating feeling of our coming together. How silly to weep at such a time, and yet the tears pool on my lashes. Tears of wonder. We pause for a moment to revel in it.

“Katniss,” he moans and bends forward enough to kiss my shoulders and back. He uses one hand to sweep my hair over one shoulder, exposing the other for him to kiss and suck at my skin. “WIll it ever stop feeling heavenly to be inside you?”

“I hope not,” I whisper and he smiles at me. Not even a mirror can dilute the love I see glowing in his blue eyes.

“As do I. Does this please you?”

“Yes,” I whisper as he kisses alongside my face and neck. My chest swells with emotion. With joy, and unburdened love for this man and the family we have built, that continues to grow. “Peeta. What are you waiting for?”

My whispered words turn his eyes dark again. Dark and hungry as he shifts his hips and I suck in air against the pleasure sweeping through me with each of his carefully measured thrusts. He is slow and methodical. Watching my face for every small expression. And something about it, watching us in reflection, seeing both of us at the same time, sends us into an unannounced frenzy.

His hands become frantic and he tells me to hold my own chemise. I do so and cannot watch, my head bending forward with sharp gasps as he stands upright and continues to thrust, even as his hands tear at my corset laces.

“You just finished tying those,” I protest weakly and Peeta growls. I shiver in delight.

“I want to feel you, wife, not your stays. I want to feel your supple skin, your heart pounding beneath my palm. I want to hold these magnificent breasts and tease your nipples with my thumbs while we fuck,” he whispers, his words thrilling and arousing. Shamefully erotic.

“Doctor Mellark!” I gasp playfully and he throws my corset across the room. “You will have to lace me up a second time, my love.”

“So be it.” His hands immediately return to me, sliding under the top of my chemise to cup my breasts as he begins to thrust harder, if not faster, delivering on his promises with exquisite swipes of his thumbs. I moan and push my hips back to meet his thrusts. Watch his face as his mouth rounds on a sensual moan. As he bends back over so that his chest lays on my back.

“I suppose you could use the practice,” I say, even though he truly does not.

“One must practice anything one wishes to perfect,” he whispers in my ear and then shifts one hand to tilt my hips just a little. After that, there’s hardly any talking. Only touching and movement. Eyes locked in the mirror then roaming over the sight of us.

Peeta curses and then his hands scramble. His hips pause as he tears the chemise from my body and I am left in nothing but my stockings before him and the mirror.

“Exquisite.”

We watch as he begins to move again. As his hands cover my body in erotic touches and his lips kiss sensually wherever they can reach. We watch as I cannot take my empty hands a second longer and reach behind me to fill one with his curls, to hold his lips to my neck. We watch as his hand slides down and strokes me. As I cry out and then bite my lip, conscious of the time and servants in the house, the open window, and the possibility of returning family.

We watch as he whispers to me. As I grasp my own breast and fondle it for him. We watch as I lose track of whose hands are whose and my knees begin to give out as the pleasure rises up inside me. I can see it in my eyes. And I watch it happen. I watch myself come apart, Peeta holding me tightly in his arms.

My body sags and my hands smack into the wall again, my eyes hazy and satiated and stunned in the mirror. Then I shift my gaze and watch as Peeta wraps my hair about his fist and pulls back slightly so that he can see my face in the mirror. I watch him as he keeps moving until he comes apart too, with a soft gasp of my name and a violent shuddering of his entire body.

I watch him collapse over me, gather me in his arms again and nuzzle his face into my neck as he chants my name. I watch our slow floating down from the heavens with his body resting atop mine until our shaking limbs will support us no longer. I catch a glimpse of him gathering me into his arms, to carry me to the bed.

He lays us out on it with our head at the foot, in such a way that I can still see us in the mirror. So I watch us laying there on our sides, naked, with his hand absently trailing up my thigh, to tease my breast, then back down to my knee.

I watch until we can breathe normally again.

“Continue to perform like that and you will have ample chances to practice lacing my corset, husband,” I croak and he chuckles. Lifts his head from behind me to kiss my cheek. I turn away from the mirror enough to kiss his lips. His fingers comb through my hair as we kiss.

“Any thoughts on your rampant arousals, my love?” he teases me and I squirm under his tickling fingers.

“Only that perhaps I should have married a less handsome man. Someone stuffy and dull. Or at least someone far less capable in bed. Or...out of it,” I tease and am rewarded with a wide, lascivious smile

“Perhaps someone more clumsy with your corset?”

“That would certainly cool ardor.”

“Minx,” he whispers, but he is smiling and blushing.

One more deep kiss as he slides from the bed, his hand lingering on my belly in a way that makes me smile.

Peeta fetches the corset and the rest of my garments. There’s enough water left in the tub that we manage a makeshift sort of scrubbing, and once I’ve cleaned myself up a touch, he helps me back into my chemise. Laces me into my corset. Plants a sensual kiss on my shoulder while he finally ties my underskirt into place. He truly has grown quite skilled at this, even swiftly braiding my hair for me, repairing my skewed garters, and then assisting me with my shoes. Although, he has had several years of practice now. When he’s done dressing himself, with a bit of assistance from me, you’d never know I’d just spent the morning abed with my husband, save for the blush upon my cheeks and what I am certain is a ridiculous expression of happiness on my face as I slide my arm into his and we exit our room to greet the day.

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