Chapter Text
Say it again.
I admire and respect you—-
Not that part, you idiot.
I love you.
One breath, two, and their lips meet, d'Artagnan pushing her back against the table, hands pulling at laces, dropping guns and swords, breathlessly fighting to get closer to each other.
Constance felt overwhelmed, like she was on fire, could think of nothing but the feel of d'Artagnan's hands on her body, his lips on her mouth. Pushing, she shoved him against the armoire, pulling off his jacket to fall discarded on the floor. Pressing against him, pinning him down, she bit lightly at his lip, gasped as he kissed her neck, the sensation sending shivers up her spine. His lips are soft, for all she can feel his swordsman's calluses as he grips her arm and winds his other hand into her hair, holding her tight against him.
She writhes, breathless, and he flips them around, pressing her against the armoire with his body, one hand bracing himself against the heavily carved wood, the other running over her body, her breast, cupping her neck, stroking her cheek. There's no words between them, just gasps, breathless noises of desire and longing, and she's no idea how long they stay like that, lost in each other, nothing more than touch and scent and sound.
Constance feels d'Artagnan gather himself, forcibly sucking in a deep breath and stepping back to look Constance in the eye. His breath is laboured, his lips bee-stung, and a look in his eye suggests that it's taking all of his self-control not to start kissing her again.
"May I?" He asks, voice strained but steady, a half-smile on his beautiful, beautiful face. He kneels before her, hand on the hem of her skirt, hope in his eyes.
It's an effort of will, but she manages to find the wherewithal to nod, and then, because it seems important to actually vocalise this, says "yes", in a voice more than a little hazy with lust. She's not sure she's ever felt this way before, certainly not with another person, and though she's not certain what he's planing, she trusts him.
The look of joy on his face is something to behold, and had she not already been in love with him, would have fallen instantly for him then. He manoeuvres her back to the table, perches her on the edge, and rucks her skirts up to her thighs, unlaces her braes. He kisses the delicate skin behind her knee, and it would tickle if it weren't so unspeakably erotic. He keeps going, kissing, nipping up her thigh, and goosebumps explode across her skin as she realises his intentions.
His breath tickles at the juncture of her thighs, feeling like a tease, feather-light. But then, he slides his hands up to her hips, presses his mouth to her and nothing feels like a tease any more. That first press of his tongue, warm and wet, shocks her to her very core and her hands clench the edge of the table. He licks up, with just the right amount of pressure on her clit, and she gasps, rocks into him.
His hands are just as busy, running over her hips, her thighs, her waist. They've somehow managed to loosen her corset enough that she's got room to freely breathe, but it's still a little in the way. Constance feels that perhaps she should keep still, not interrupt, let d'Artaganan get on with it at his own pace, but it feels so good that she can't help the little movements of her hips, the tremble in her thighs as she forces herself not to slide off the edge, or the way her hand seems to have come up and taken hold of his hair. That seems terribly rude, and she forces herself to let go - but d'Artaganan's own hand comes up and buries her fingers deep in his hair. She takes the hint, and uses the leverage he's given her to adjust his positioning, ever so slightly.
She's not being quiet, but she realises, nor is he. He moans against her, deeply, and the vibrations make her shake. He follows that up with a particularly hard lick, and she clutches at him, fingers pulling his hair, thighs squeezing against his ears. He moans again, louder, and the trembling begins to spread outwards. She can hear, feel, that he's getting breathless, but he doesn't stop. One more hard flick, and she's coming, barely able to breathe out a warning before she does so. Her jaw snaps shut and her back arches, toes curl. Everything in her goes taut for a single perfect moment, before the release.
He doesn't stop, guiding her though it, supporting her as she goes boneless, sliding to the floor and into his arms. He hugs her tightly as their breathing slows, calms. The entire bottom half of his face is slick, and his smile is so broad, so open, she feels herself falling for him all over again.
"Bed?" She asks, not trusting herself to form longer sentences, but not willing to let go of this yet. She feels like a cat with its head in a bucketful of cream. This will all need paying for, in one was or another, but right now, she can't find it in her to care.
"Bed." He responds.