Chapter Text
“It was very embarrassing!” The alcohol warming Francesca’s body makes the personal story feel more like an anecdote, “and a fruitless endeavor, might I add.” Michaela’s company—all soft, and relaxed, and so very late into the evening like this—only seems to heighten Francesca’s braveness, “for after all that, I continue to remain pinnacle-less.”
Michaela has seen more of the world than most—and quite a bit of it alone, despite her family’s apprehension—yet she has never found herself in a more perilous position than she is in presently, “surely you jest!”
Francesca takes a measured sip of brandy before lowering the glass just enough to speak, “I can assure you, that I do not.”
Michaela’s smile falters, her voice barely above a whisper, “Francesca?”
“How is one suppose to learn something that apparently cannot be taught?” Francesca’s frustration becomes evident in the way she sets her drink down onto the side table a touch too firmly, “Heavens, it can barely even be spoken about!”
“On, it can be taught.” Michaela chuckles but regrets the jest immediately because Francesca’s hazel eyes are widening in something akin to a plea, and Michaela tries her best to hastily backpedal, “well, I don’t actually mean—”
“It can?” Francesca questions eagerly, “why would my mother not—” Francesca stops herself, because of course Violet would not, “why would Penelope not mention this to me?”
Michaela downs the rest of her brandy, placing the empty glass on the table, before venturing an answer, “perhaps, it is because—what I am referring to is not exactly the same pinnacle that you are in search of—this one is more of a shall I say—” Michaela gestures her hands up and down the length of her own body, “a self pinnacle.”
“Wait, there’s—” Francesca feels the awkwardness make itself known as she begins fidgeting with the tips of her fingers, her eyebrows drawn together in confusion—but she pushes forward, “what I mean to say is, well, are you implying that I can reach a pinnacle by myself?”
God, it was only supposed to be a night cap—warmed brandy, shared by the fire, between friends—sleep continuing to elude them both in John’s absence.
It was not at all supposed to be…this.
Though, who is Michaela to deny anyone—least of all Francesca—the knowledge she so desires, “yes.”
“So, I truly am broken.” Francesca mutters, a small, fractured laugh falling from between her parted lips, “and in more ways than I originally thought.”
“Francesca, no!” Michaela reaches out, her hand heavy against Francesca’s thigh, to stop her retreat, “you are not broken!”
Francesca stills immediately, the heat of Michaela’s palm bleeding through the fabric of her sleepwear, sending her heart into an unbearably erratic rhythm, “if not broken, then what?”
Michaela does not remove her hand and instead slides along the settee until her hip brushes against Francesca’s, “you’ve already said it Fran—it is knowledge that is intentionally kept from women, so how is one expected to learn?”
“But you did Michaela—you’ve learnt it.” Michaela nods gently and it has Francesca biting into her bottom lip as she struggles to keep her eyes from straying lower to the unbuttoned v of the tailored men’s nightwear that Michaela insists on wearing, “perhaps, well—perhaps you can teach me?”
“Francesca.” Michaela’s voice is low, raw in a way that’s practically a groan, “you truly know not what you are asking of me.”
The veracity of the statement coils deep within Francesca—Michaela’s fingertips pressing into her thigh like an exclamation—and it has a soft gasp escaping her lips, “and does therein not lie the problem?”
Michaela can feel the heave of her own chest, breaths coming shallow and unevenly, “you are right, but—”
“But what, Michaela?” Irritation flares hotly between Francesca’s ribs, her hands balling into fists at her sides, “do you believe me to be unteachable?”
Michaela shakes her head vehemently, dark curls a blur of motion around her face, “no.”
“Then what is your reasoning?” Francesca’s stare is bold, her voice only wavering slightly, “please do not leave me without an answer, Michaela.”
Michaela wishes to scream—or maybe laugh like a mad woman—because to have her willpower tested like this has to be a sign, “because it is wicked Francesca.”
The word—and all of its implications—lick hotly at Francesca, “wicked?”
“Yes.” Michaela’s exhale is strained and the way the fire light dances across Francesca’s face has her stuttering around an inhale, “thoroughly wicked.”
“And despite this postulated wickedness, you still partake?” Michaela’s tongue swipes out to moisten her full lips before she nods, and Francesca flushes warmly as her mind supplies hazy images of what Michaela might look like partaking, “and if I were to ask you right now—to teach me—would you deny me?”
Michaela pushes to her feet suddenly, trying to put a fraction of distance between them so she can think, “Francesca, it is not wise.”
“That is not what I asked.” Francesca stands now too, unwillingly to let this go, “I asked if you would deny me, Michaela.”
“I know what you asked of me Fran!” Michaela throws her arms up dramatically as she takes a step back into Francesca’s space, “it is you who does not understand!”
“So teach me, Michaela.” The energy is electric and Francesca has never before felt anything close to it, “make me understand, please.”
Something inside Michaela snaps—and she is almost certain it is her self restraint—which sends her hand out, fingers circling firmly around Francesca’s wrist as she pulls her towards the doorway, “not here.”
Francesca allows herself to be led—scarcely a step behind Michaela as she’s tugged along the dark hallway—only stopping once they reach the closed door that leads to Michaela’s bedchamber.
Michaela releases Francesca’s wrist before opening the door. She takes a few steps into the room before turning around and meeting Francesca’s dark eyes with an almost challenging tilt to her head. The silence is heavy but when Francesca steps into the room with not an ounce of hesitation—taking care to close the door behind her—Michaela lets out a ragged breath, “take off your robe.”
Francesca makes quick work of the knot at her waist, allowing the silky material to part down the centre before shrugging out of it, letting it fall to the floor where she stands, “like this?”
“Yes.” Michaela swallows thickly, “that’s good.”
Francesca manages a nod and is more than a little thankful for the darkness of the room, that shrouds her body’s unexpected reactions to Michaela’s heated instructions, “what do you want me to do next?”
“God Francesca!” Michaela’s voice is guttural as arousal pulses through her veins, “do not word it like that.”
Francesca nods despite not knowing exactly why Michaela reacts to her phrasing in such a way, “should I continue standing?”
“You should not.” Michaela side steps out of Francesca’s way, “make yourself comfortable on the bed.”
The room is large and Francesca can feel Michaela’s eyes on her with every step she takes towards the bed—feels them watching her as she climbs atop the blanket and situates herself amongst the pillows—and after spending her entire life uncomfortable under the gaze of anyone, it takes Francesca by complete surprise when Michaela’s eyes on her have a warmth blooming low between her hips, “will you be instructing me from across the room?”
Michaela laughs softly, “it may very well be the wisest option, but I know that’s not what you asked.” The way Francesca’s eyes narrow at the tease has Michaela’s chest aching with affection, “so, no Francesca, I will sit on the bed beside you if that is alright.”
“It is.” Francesca nods so fiercely that a few strands of hair fall loose from her plait, framing her face charmingly, “alright with me.”
Michaela strides towards the bed with purpose, hiking her sleepwear up above her knees as she climbs on top of the bed, “maybe you can start by telling me what you do know—about…pinnacles.”
“Michaela.” Francesca’s voice is almost a whine but the sheer embarrassment keeps it from being so, “I thought I had established that my knowledge is non existent.”
“Well, I suppose—” Michaela bends her legs, tucking them at her side which allows the white fabric of her nightshirt to come to rest just above her knees, “that knowing you have not yet experienced one is enough.”
Francesca watches intently as Michaela pushes up the sleeves of her nightshirt—starting at her wrists and slowly exposing the smooth expanse of both her forearms until the fabric is bunching slightly at her elbows—and something about the way the muscles flex and relax have Francesca inhaling sharply, “yes, more than enough—so can we begin?”
Michaela smirks and gives Francesca a resolute nod, “now when I said that giving a pinnacle could be taught it was mostly a jest—of an inappropriate nature.”
“I do not understand.” Francesca traces the stitching on her nightgown before meeting Michaela’s gaze, “will you explain it to me?”
At this point Michaela is sure she is digging her own grave, “it’s just, well—instructing someone on how to give themselves a pinnacle is something that people do to excite each other.” Francesca nods along so Michaela continues, “it can be used as a prelude for couples—much like kissing or grinding—to intercourse. Or the act alone—telling someone how to pleasure themselves—can be enough for both involved.” Michaela takes a deep breath and her body is so very aware of the way Francesca’s eyes dip down to follow the motion. “So, it’s actually less about being taught and more about learning exactly what arouses your body enough to achieve a pinnacle, does that make sense?”
“Yes.” Francesca worries her bottom lips between her teeth as the information continues to sink in, “it is an act between couples Michaela, is that what has troubled you with my request?”
“Absolutely not.” Michaela leans forward, not enough to make contact, but enough that it feels intimate, “I want to help you Francesca—but I need to ensure that you are aware, lest you want to change your mind.”
Francesca is still against the pillows, “thank you, Michaela.”
Michaela’s voice is low, “so, do you wish to table this then?”
“I do not.” Francesca shakes her head softly, allowing her upper body to sway forward until she is almost nose to nose with Michaela. Francesca has never felt quite so utterly undaunted by her naivety, instead—she is eager, and brazen, with a heat settling below her skin, “what I wish, is for you to teach me something wicked, Michaela.”