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 Did I not warn you to be shy of the blacksmith? A widow is a woman who knows already what a man is, since her immaculate days are gone. She's flesh, and it is presumed that she will not be contented until she shakes again. That is why a woman must remarry, and that is why a woman of high blood must tread most carefully.

 

 

 

Jocelyn hmmms non commitedly. She cannot swear that she will stay away. It is her curse, wanting more, wanting others. Her first man, the scoundrel. Then the doctor even though she married someone pleasant with whom she enjoyed going to bed. And when the doctor became available through fate, or God's will, she found herself desiring a dalliance with the blacksmith. And of course, implicitly and from the very beginning, the governor. The man she wanted to be, hence the man she wanted. Jocelyn imagined that, had she not born from the weaker sex, she would have been him. Powerful, reckless but under a coating of refinement and education. Handsome, most handsome. Just older enough to be titillating.

 

"If I must be careful, why are you still holding on to me?", she asks, finding her voice at last. It is his turn to hesitate. He doesn't grab her quite as strong, but doesn't break contact. "I see. Maybe it is not me who needs to watch where I am treading". Her voice is soft but she doesn't conceal the provocation in her gaze.

"Maybe it is not me who needs…". Her sentence trails own and dies. The anger - fury - in his eyes is a lot to take in. It makes her smile smugly.

"Jocelyn... Widow Castell…". He still doesn't yell, though his tone is cutting. She assumes reminding her of her widowhood, of her husband, taking away anything non pertaining to death and duty, is his way of setting distance. This time she won't let it work.

"You do need more. I don't think you appreciate them so much, those beautiful qualities… abstinence… Temperance". The last word is thrown as a little knife.

 

He tenses and startles at his wife's name, and how far Jocelyn is going. "You are forgetting yourself", he growls, grabbing her harsher now. She resists for the record, to turn him on.

"Does she say no to you, Sir? Or does she give in, yet another chore in a long day? Do you ever want more, and find yourself think". She cannot say anything else because his mouth is pressed against her rosy lips, hard and more violent than sensual. As if it was but a way to shut her up.

 

"Tread carefully, Governor", she mocks, feline as she smiles slow and dangerous after he has let go.

"What kind of woman are you?", he spits. One very weak, or very strong. One who noticed that he calls her by her first name, seeks her counsel, and still pushes her away. "Your maid wore black longer than you did", he adds, disgust plain on is face now. He images his own wife, somber forever. And devastated. And not missing his lips and his needs one minute.

 

"You asked about the nightly visit", she suddenly speaks up, against all propriety. "Well…". She forces his hand off her bodice, fisting it hard enough that he cannot escape. "First, this", she murmurs, so low he can hardly hear. It is because of that only, not because of the blood beating in his ears, high on his cheeks, when she grazes his hand against her curves. She swallows a whimper, more troubled than she would have expected at the contact, real, albeit tame. Jocelyn doesn't expect him to whimper back, to make a sound she never imagined in a man's mouth.

"This is what I am. The kind of woman I am…". There is apology, almost, in her tone, and her eyes search his. "And this is the man you are". A man who wants. Power. Lust. Always. More. "You said I am flesh". So is he, despite his intellect and his prayers and his saintly wife who cannot understand how he hungers. Jocelyn understands because she knows. "Will I be… contented? Until I shake?".

 

He is the one shaking, now, her hands are at his lapel - he didn't notice them before. He could remove his but no. Yeardley is furious, more at himself than at a weak, wanton woman. Tota mulier in utero. He is better, above, and yet. Yet, Temperance and temperance aren't enough. He exhales and closes his eyes. Not seeing her helps but with only his other senses, he can smell her perfume, he can hear her breathing, erratic and passionate. He is convinced a stray strand of blond hair, glossy and curly, is torturing his skin and his soul. It is worse, almost, or he just wants to enjoy her form so he does. She wants to kiss him but she doesn't take, and he doesn't offer. Too intimate.

 

"Ask your blacksmith", he does, last resort. Her blue eyes manage to be both tender and mocking. "Or your doctor, or whoever else…". He is not jealous. He is not. "Oh but my lord, where would be the fun in that? You declared yourself lofty, even lucky, when your lady wife was the only one around. After all, this was better than nothing. I suppose". Her joking, she hopes, is painful. She has always wanted to give him release, or hurt him, and nothing in between. "There is no better option. Believe me, I know".

 

Her hand searches for him against his breeches and his eyes widen. This time he tries to push her away. "You really are the harlot of Babylon", he all but recoils, in over his head. She bursts out laughing and he remembers how young she is. Yeardley tells himself she is less than half his age and probably had twice as many people. He doesn't know if any of this is true but it makes him swell under her hand, pushing and exploring.

"I am not that exotic, I fear…", she mumbles. She might have missed the reference. He is so much more pious and Church going and God fearing and he thinks of Lilith and the Snake when her little hand unlaces and barges in.

 

"That's nice", she comments, handling his warm hardness. She likes the firm hotness of it, and they both look down to where they touch. It is not Worth damning his eternal soul. It is not. He will not push her and defile her against the wall. He will not pick her up and sit her onto the table and have his way with her, as much as she seems to beg for it. Governor Yeardley groans and looks up toward the ceiling. It may not exist, if it cannot be seen, he thinks not realizing the blasphemy.

 

She works him, softly at first, then she gives more. Her cheeks flush slightly from the effort, her brows concentrated. "Close your eyes, think of her, if you want", she offers, voice tensed, because there is still some vague shyness in her suddenly - Jocelyn tries not to consider she is with the Governor, her hand around his manhood. He would certainly be the only man in the colonies considering his wife while taking a mistress.

 

The older man tells himself he cannot think of Temperance doing this, because this is plain impossible to picture. Nor can he drag her into this sin, even like that. He doesn't tell himself he plainly doesn't want to. As enticing as it is, it feels like defeat to a man of war. His gaze remains on the young woman's face until he cannot anymore, and closes his eyes, and shakes.