Impatience

One of the many things she's taught him is patience. But at this moment, she's the impatient one. Impatience or desperation, he's not certain which. He senses both in her. Her new husband of less than an hour has been called to war. As soon as they're inside and he closes the door to his quarters, he finds himself shoved against it. Eager hands are pulling his head down to meet her heated kisses. Her urgency fuels his and they're both suddenly on fire.

He'd envisioned his honeymoon differently. He would have unlaced her corset with tantalizing leisure. He would have reveled in the slow peeling away of trappings and underpinnings of silk and lace and feminine fashion in between fevered kisses, until his hands found warm, smooth skin. But no. Not today. Not now. All they have is now. He doesn't want to leave her, but she understands and for that he'll give her anything, everything, even if he thinks she deserves more.

"d'Artagnan." His name escapes her lips against his throat, caught between a sigh and a moan. She's working the laces of his vest with swift, frantic fingers.

He's urging her stumbling toward the bed, removing and tossing outer garments, a sword belt clanks against the wood floor, the leather vest lands in a corner, her corset joins it, those little flowery straps are torn away from her dress and flutter haphazardly.

One of the many things he's taught her is passion. His presence in her life allowed the courage she didn't know she possessed to blossom and grow. She drew strength from him. And at this moment, she's taken control. He's always known what she's wanted. Right now, she doesn't want slow. She wants a whirlwind. She wants hard and fast, and his head is spinning because his wife, his wife (God, he loves the sound of that) has undone his breeches, shoved them down over his hips, taken him in her hand, and has him hard and trembling with need.

She pushes him onto his back and into the small bed barely big enough for two, and he falls with her willingly. She climbs over him, lifting her underskirts, to straddle him. His hands search frantically beneath yards of thin fabric, finding the flesh of her hips. She did things to him, his Constance. She made him feel things he'd never felt for any other woman. She calmed his restlessness, and eased the pain of his father's loss. She was the voice of reason, at times when he didn't feel very reasonable. She soothed his soul. She is brave and beautiful and God, how he loves her.

"Now. I need you, now, d'Artagnan," she whispers against his lips, her fevered words creating a new surge of heat in his blood like heady wine. She settles herself over him, her fingers circling around the part of him she wants most. She guides him between her legs. She's teasing him, pressing herself against the thickness of his erection. His fingers dig into the flesh of her bottom as he groans and nearly comes right up off the bed. She's pure energy in his hands. She comes to him readily, with no reservations, no shadow of guilt, or fear or pain of the past. It's more than he could ask for, dreamed of.

The entire garrison knows it's his wedding day. The voices of his fellow soldiers outside preparing for battle, vaguely reach his ears. It's merely a reminder that this time might be all they have. Somewhere in his brain he thinks they should be quiet, but the sound of erotic pleasure she makes, and the low growl in the back of his throat when he shifts his hips upward and swiftly sheaths himself inside her, makes him forget about quiet. He wants to hear more. He wants to watch her ride and grind against him, until she's lost all control. Let them drown out the sounds of war preparations and the clang of the blacksmith's hammer. He wants to savor how he feels inside her and take this moment with him as a balm for his soul. He knows not when this war will end, or if he'll see his wife after today.

Her movements above him cause her shift to fall from her shoulder, exposing a breast. It's an invitation he can't deny. He grasps both sleeves, yanks them down and groans with want as her breasts push against the palms of his hands. His caresses send her over the edge. She's losing herself. Her body arches offering and wanting more. His gut clenched tight, she slides down to him, soft, boneless, limp.

d'Artagnan rolls them, switching their positions. She's beneath him, breathless, blue eyes glistening. He cups a hand beneath her bottom, tilting her, burying himself deep-deeper until he can't stop the long, ragged groan of release.

He collapses above her, "Constance." She opens her eyes and smiles up at him. A smile tinged with worry and sadness. He kisses a tear away from her cheek. She doesn't have to say anything. He understands, because he feels the same rush of bittersweet emotions that make his heart ache .

She takes a quivering breath and a short laugh escapes her, a husky draft of amusement. "You've still got on your breeches." She says, as though to avoid the painful subject of their parting.

His slow grin makes her heart flip. "And my boots as well," he says, rising from the bed to kick off the offending footwear and pants. "My wife is impatient. You're still wearing your shift."

"Hmm," she sighs contentedly as he returns to her and arranges the blankets to their waists. She snuggles comfortably against him. "Indeed I am. I can hardly be blamed," she says, playfully feigning innocence.

They don't speak for a long time, content to communicate through touches, kisses, caresses. Each one is a promise. He toys with her hair, freeing the last auburn curls from their pins. The sounds of the garrison drift in through the closed window behind them. A clattering of horse's hooves, the voices of the men. This isn't a place for a new wife.

Constance's hand is toying with the ties of his tunic, caressing him through the fabric. Finally, he speaks quietly. "You deserve more lavish surroundings for your honeymoon. Most men would've taken their new bride to some rural idyll…"

Constance lifts her head from his shoulder, her eyes seeking his. "I didn't marry most men," she interrupts. A smile lights her face, and he thinks she has the look of a woman who's just been loved well. She's beautiful. "I married a Musketeer." She playfully touches his lower lip with a finger, before he reaches for her, kissing away her smile. Passions stir and rise again. Athos will return soon, and then d'Artagnan must leave her, but for now, he'll make love to his wife once more. And he'll come back for her.