Valentine lay back against the piles of feather pillows, trying not to smile as she watched him undress, taking the time to fold his tunic over the back of a chair, and to stand his boots up smartly at the side of the bed. His fastidiousness was just another thing she loved about him. She would definitely wait until the last minute to tell him about the mice.

She was glad of the grey daylight that entered through the veiled windows as a steady rain drummed against the panes. The little fire in her grate warmed the room and gave it a comfortable glow. She was glad it wasn't dark, because she wished to see him in all his naked beauty. And he was beautiful, tall and hard, with not an ounce of fat on him, his broad, well muscled chest with it's neat triangle of dark hair, tapering to a trim waist and lean hips and long, horseman's thighs.

He knelt on the bed beside her. No, he was not young, but already she could see there would be no question of his ready ardor. Seeing her downcast eyes, he smiled, took her hand and guided it between his legs. All on their own, her fingers seemed to curl around the thick, hard stalk, smooth and slightly curved, like the arc of her bow.

"Valentine," he breathed, holding her face between his hands. "My wife. Your face is just like a heart," he said wonderingly, and then his mouth was on hers, his hands sliding under her gown, baring her shoulders, her breasts. She moved against him, her hands helping his to push the fabric away and lay her body bare to his touch. She had been wary, unsure, a little ashamed.  She knew her breasts were not as high and firm as they once had been, and she had faded marks on her belly and hips from having her babies. More than anything, she wanted him to find her beautiful as she did him, and now the look in his eyes, the touch of his hands, the whispered words, "si beau..." told her that she was.

They kissed and kissed; she was drowning in his kiss, pulling him down with her, into the deep, soft sinking of the bed. He was groaning inside her mouth as she boldly stroked at his tongue with her own. It was hot, smooth and soft as velvet and as she kissed him, she felt the passion inside her that had lain so quiet for so long begin to bubble and rise, and then to overflow, flooding her body with luxuriant, tingling warmth.

After feeling so afraid, she could not believe how suddenly wanton she felt, and when she felt his hand moving between her thighs she shifted beneath him, and did not hesitate to spread her legs wide. Oh, God, she knew she must already be hopelessly wet, and the sudden, slippery sensation as he touched her, and his fingers slid slowly along the glutted folds made her arch her back and cry out.

"I love, you. Oh, I love you!" she whispered urgently, burying her fingers in his beautiful thick hair as he began to move down her body, lingering over her breasts, causing the most exquisitely agonizing sense of conflict in her as she tried to concentrate first on the beautiful pleasure he was creating with the work of his lips and tongue, only to be wildly distracted by her urgent response to the touch of his stroking fingers.

"I love you, ma belle, my sweetheart." His voice was thick with passion as he rose and knelt between her thighs. Slowly he came lower, spreading her gently with his fingers, and she could not believe what he was going to do. Her first husband had never done anything like that, not even when they were very young and their passion for each other was such that all they wanted to do was stay in bed all day and make love. She had known pleasure then, and she felt a sense of secret relief that she could feel it again, and with such intensity for this man, for her love and desire for him was stronger than anything she had ever known. She could not believe it, but he was moving between her legs, caressing her, devouring her, pleasuring her with the warm, steady strokes of his tongue and she could not open herself enough to him. It was all but too much and she writhed over the bed, almost as if she would escape this overwhelming, intimate assault, but he was holding her, pressing her down gently with his strong hands, and then his tongue was inside her, drawing new pleasures, and all she could do was moan and sob her joy as he kept on and on.

"Andre!" she cried out. She was over the edge, and still he held her, and she felt herself shattering, pulsing and throbbing, the muscles in her belly seeming to stretch and spread, and her blood sang. It was so surprising, and so glorious, as if she had suddenly been released from some unrealized bondage. He rose on his knees and gathered her close, entering her at the very moment of her crisis, and the sensation of closing on him, of feeling herself filled with his length, his hot invading hardness, was a pleasure beyond bearing, and she turned her face into the pillows to bury her ecstatic scream.

Andre had never felt such a sense of triumph and power. This was what it meant to make love, he understood suddenly. To create from nothing this glorious one, to give all of oneself to the beloved, to be consumed and created anew as a whole. He entered her slowly, watching her beautiful, enraptured face as her body racked with the power of her orgasm. Pressing deeper, sinking to his full length, he held himself above her, hesitating, holding his breath as he felt her closing on him, and he savored this victory, the unbelievably gratifying pleasure of watching her come. As the contractions began to subside, he lowered his body onto hers, and turned her tear-stained face to his kiss once more.

"Oh my God. Oh, yes, " Valentine whispered, wrapping her long limbs around him, holding him close as he began to move, so slowly, inside her. "Oh, my love, come deeper, as far as you can!' She was tender, still tingling, her body humming, her blood throbbing through her like a pulse of warm, sweet honey. He moved slowly, and she moved with him. It was as if his iron hardness was exploring her, reaching, seeking the place at the very center of her being where he had always belonged.

"Come deeper," she urged him again.

"Turn over," he whispered, and he was sliding out of her, rolling onto his side. She turned, willing to obey his every wish. Her hands and knees sank deep into the lush feather bed. "Don't stop," she said. "Do everything to me." She thought she heard him laugh, lowly, and then he was behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist, and coming into her again, faster this time, and he drove into her, riding with a steady rhythm, longer, harder and deeper than before. His hands stroked her lower belly, her hips, and she heard herself beginning to moan again as the tension began to build once more. His hands were on her breasts, his fingers crushing her nipples, holding her tightly as he moved her forcefully upon him, seeking his own pleasure now, but she was coming too. It was true, she had heard, that after the first great rush and loss, desire could come back stronger, and more fiercely, and she felt that now, a second explosion of pleasure that snapped her spine and rolled over her with tremendous shuddering spasms that left her muscles trembling with something deeper than fatigue, and she sank down into the pillows as he held her against him, thrusting into her with increasingly swift strokes until she felt that beginning pulse, the beat of him inside her, the surging charge, the catch of his breath, and a soft sound, almost of despair, as the warm stream poured from him into her.

He collapsed on top of her and they lay, cheek to cheek, only breathing. He was still inside. He never wanted to leave her. She found his hand, twining her fingers with his, and pressed them to her mouth.

"Valentine," he sighed, "I never." Burying his nose in her fragrant hair, he laughed softly. "Now the world is mine."

****

"It is getting late."

"It's no use. I cannot move. Do not think that this will be a regular occurrence, Madame. Three times in one afternoon could kill an old man like me."

"Or help you to live forever?"

"Is that Marie's secret, do you think? Has she a young lover hidden in her boudoir?" He rolled onto his back. She snuggled in close, propping herself on her elbow to look into his face. What a handsome nose he had. It turned up in such a haughty way. And what a kissable mouth.

"Are you very certain you wish to leave Paris?" she asked, after a moment.

"Yes. I have told you, Valentine, and still I think you don't believe me. I know I will come back, but it is time, my love. I need to find peace. I have been fighting for most of my life. I need to learn what else there is for me to do. And…I want to be alone with you." He smiled, stroking her cheek. "The Duke asked if I meant to spend the rest of my life in bed."

"It may be where your true talent lies," she remarked, kissing him. "Apart from fighting, But it does not have to be the Auvergne, Andre."

"But I do want to go. Are you trying to talk me out of it now?"

She giggled. "I've seen it, you haven't. But we can make it beautiful again, Andre, and it will be peaceful. We can live there and in Paris, and the children can come with their children one day. Everything of Thibaut's must belong to them, Andre. It is want I want. But La Belle Fleche belongs to me alone. It is all I have left of my papa."

He reached for her, pulling her into his arms. "And in a way", he said, "It is all I have left of mine. Poor Papa. He thought we had all gone mad! Once we are there, I want to see again the very spot where you felled me with your arrow!"

"Hm," she said, pressing her finger against the old round scar on his shoulder. "That's not mine, is it?"

"Oh, no," he said. "Did you not see? It is here, still." He moved her hand to the spot just to the left of his breastbone, where, just visible under the hair, was the thin, crooked line of a small white scar.

She gasped. "Oh my God! Andre! Look at that! I narrowly missed your heart!"

He laughed and pulled her full on top of him, squeezing her, and her long, loose hair fell all around them. He looked so happy, so handsome; he made her heart ache.

"Oh no, you did not miss, not my Valentine!" he cried. "Your aim was ever true!"

The End

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