Chapter Text
1
Absence and Desire
Diana’s POV
I stretched as I woke up on the tenth day of our Quinzaine d’Amour to the scent of cloves and cinnamon. The haze of sleep fell away quickly as I realized I was alone in our bed, which was odd as Matthew hadn’t left my side since the wedding. Philippe had promised we would be left alone for at least a fortnight, and thus far, he had kept his word. Of course, we were still in a castle bustling with humans and creatures, but the few times we had ventured out of Matthew’s tower, they had politely pretended they hadn’t seen us.
He must be down in the study, I thought. I sat up, wondering what time it was. Judging from the light coming through the curtains, I guessed it was about mid-morning. I wasn’t ready to get out of bed, so I decided to bury myself in the pillows and go back to sleep because, to be honest, I wasn’t getting very much of it.
I looked down and noticed a sachet sitting atop a folded piece of parchment on his pillow. I picked it up and held it to my nose. The spicy aroma of cinnamon and cloves filled my senses. It smelled wonderful—much like my missing husband—but was missing the notes of carnation. I smiled and inhaled the spicy aroma again.
I set the sachet back on the pillow, picked up the paper, and pulled the curtain aside to give me better light. When I opened the letter, a tightly folded piece of parchment sealed with Matthew’s emblem landed in my lap. I decided to save that for later and read the first one.
Mon Coeur,
Philippe sends his deepest apologies.
He came to me last night after you’d fallen
asleep saying that a matter of urgency with
the brotherhood has arisen. While my status
as the family’s Congregation representative
means that I cannot officially be one of the Nine,
he needs me to make sure the Congregation
remains unaware of it or try to limit its
involvement if possible.
I will likely be away from you for most of the day.
Philippe has said that we may have an extra
two (!!) days of our Fortnight of Fucking,
as we have been calling it to make up for the
interruption.
–He finds that very amusing, by the way. :)
I will return as quickly as I can.
You are my heart, ma lionne,
and I love you entirely.
~M~
I laughed at the smiley emoji and held the letter to my heart. My very traditional husband, who sent text messages often but never used shorthand of any kind, did know about emoticons after all. I set the note aside, picked up the tightly folded note, and broke the wax seal. It had been folded several times and reminded me of the silly secret messages I used to pass to my friends in grade school. Was my husband trying to flirt with me?
I unfolded the paper. Matthew’s beautiful, flowing calligraphy covered the page. It was prose this time, in the form of a sonnet. I rolled my eyes. It was a good thing I had my adult life studying books filled with similar content. However, since sonnets were best understood by reading them alooud, I began reading aloud and got about two lines in before I stopped—
—“OH MY GOD!”
My straight-laced, tucks-his-t-shirt-into-his-yoga-pants husband had written the dirtiest—sexiest—and most pornographic poem I had ever read. He had described in 14 lines of iambic pentameter much of what we had been doing and then something he wanted to do, but I was having difficulty understanding its mechanics.
(He had found that highly amusing. “Matthew, there is no way that is possible.” He had assured me that it was and that the result was very satisfying for all parties, but I wasn’t convinced. “Where—?” I wasn’t naïve enough to be jealous of a millennium of experience compared to my own. Still, there was just no possible way that worked without injury, even with ten years’ yoga experience. He had simply smiled as though he had a special secret and told me to wait and find out.)
The room was suddenly sweltering. I found myself covered in sweat, but not the “I’ve worked out for an hour kind” of sweat. There would be payback for writing a poem like this and then leaving me alone all day. I fanned myself with the paper in an attempt to cool off.
The next thing I knew, I was suddenly pinned to the mattress, being kissed by a very pleased, very aroused vampire.
“Matthaios! Don’t think I didn’t know what you were planning!” Philippe shouted through the house.
“Philippe just laughed and said, ‘Well played.’” Matthew chuckled as he nuzzled the sensitive place behind my ear with his nose. “It took you way too long, mon coeur, to figure out that the sachet wasn’t me. I left out the carnations on purpose, hoping you’d figure it out sooner. That’s what I get for exhausting you, I suppose. He silenced my attempt at a reply with another thorough kiss.
When he let me up for air, I blushed deep red. “Why are you blushing, mon amour? It’s not like what we’ve been doing up here in my tower (—and in the hay barn, above the smithy, in the storehouse, etc.) is a state secret. Everyone in the castle is glad that I am finally happy. Philippe loves teasing me and adores you, so let him have his fun.
“Oh, I’ve given up caring about being heard.” Well, I kind of did care, but there wasn’t anything I could do about it. “I’m talking about this.” I waved the sonnet. “This is definitely not bundling.”
Matthew chuckled. “Oh, mon coeur, we are way past bundling. I thought you’d realized that by now.” He tried pulling my shift off my shoulder.
I was not to be distracted. “Matthew, you Wrote. It. Down.” I was mortified and aroused at the same time. “That is by far the dirtiest, sexiest love note I have ever read. I didn’t know you had it in you,” I quickly added, “—and I’m still not sure that last part is possible.”
“Mon amour, it’s not supposed to be in me,” he said as he redoubled his efforts on my shift, this time from the hem upwards. He laughed when I batted his hands away. He grabbed the note, holding it up out of my reach when I tried to take it back. “Perhaps if I read it aloud, it will make sense.” He gave me a wicked look and waggled his brows, “I practiced, you know, to make sure the meaning is clearer.”
“PLEASE, DO NOT READ YOUR POEM ALOUD AGAIN, Matthaios!” shouted Philippe.
Oh, God, I wanted to die or disappear. I fell back in the bed and pulled the sheets over my head.
“Service your pretty bride and get back down here,” he continued. “You have until I count to 200!”
“Did your father just tell us to have a quickie?” I peeked out from under the sheet and giggled.
“I believe he did,” answered Matthew with a laugh as he dropped the note on the bedside table. He pulled the sheet back, took my shift by the collar, and rent it from neck to feet. “Father just wondered what a “quickie” is,” and we both broke out in giggles.
“I mean it! You do not want me to retrieve you—and you know I will!”
“Fuck,” said Matthew with a growl.
I responded with, “Please do, but make it quick. I think he’s at 50.”