The one joy to her situation is that we'll picked maids aside, if she elected not to wear her draws, it would be her secret.
Or theirs now, a last minute choice like she knew that expendience was foremost in her mind when she dressed for the day. A choice she is glad for making, she means to watch them, surely she does, as she feels the guide of Thomas' grip to James'. Feels the broad set of seaman's hands to the softer letter worn callouses of her husbands as thry slide up and up. Sinking against heat and the roll of the carriage rocks them that little and her eyes fall shut, her head tilted up and back in a brief shudders enjoyment that times far too well. Yes, to have them both, to have James caught between them to know each rocking motion as both of them when she let's James sink over and into -
When her eyes open the heat and the flush is unmistakable and the turn of her hand is purposeful as she sets it to theirs. Guiding up against warmth. A unmistakable heat, slick and wanting, waiting. She has been waiting. A open warn eagerness. She wears it differently, perhaps, but for them she has it nonetheless. Her own Apollo and Poseidon that come like sea and sun, equally parts to each other.
"We will surely be home soon." That either comes as a promise or a warning and impatient in either case.
Please he says and Thomas kisses him claiming and needy, pushes his tongue into his mouth to curl against the other, every restrained inch of passion and God how I've missed you opened into a searing moment. His hand finds the sweet center between Miranda's thighs and the sound he makes against James's mouth is as much approval for her last minute choice as the warm ache tasting his lover so deeply again inspires. Thumb atop their sailor's against her, Thomas rubs over the so-soft skin there before pressing fingers inside her, wasting no time curling them in the way she likes best. Because she is correct.
"But not yet," is breathed out, breaking way from the kiss but not moving at all, his nose and mouth against James's, lips moving against the side of his as he speaks and presses messy kisses there until he has to, has to kiss him fully again, the hand at his shoulder gripping him as though he might vanish from beneath their four hands. He fantasizes sometimes about a world where James lives with them properly, where he is not pulled from them for these stretches of time-- and yet he'd never wish it, knowing how connected to the sea he is (the salt of him, on his skin, on his clothes, down to his marrow Thomas thinks) and finding the idea of asking someone to change or chain themselves so miserable. This is James, elemental and unbound, choosing to be here with them. Perfect-- perfect.
There are people on London given to gossiping over Lord and Lady Hamilton - that one is mad and the other is far more flexible than anyone would desire for a wife. They don't know the half of it, thinks James. And what a loss.
Because Thomas's mouth and tongue are as mesmerizing as the heat between Miranda's legs. His hand under James's there-- he can feel himself jerk as a string plucked when Thomas turns his hand there and presses fingers into her right there. He can feel the answering twitch of Miranda under the line of his thumb and hears himself make a low, thoughtless sound into Thomas's mouth. It's easy to imagine-- anything. Everything. Thomas with his beautiful hands, so astonishingly articulate as he pins him or strips Miranda down.
(That's a ridiculous fantasy; James is so much more adept at taking Miranda out of her clothes than her husband is. The ties fastening stays, the ribbons there, come open under his fingers as easily as any other knot might.)
Still. How easy it is to get swept up by the appeal of them when he's been so far awat. If he had been in London these last months instead of on a ship, he might not be so easily convinced to make a fool of himself in a carriage with a very immediate destination. As it is, he kisses Thomas so fiercely it's as if they're the only ones who know how to; he feels where Thomas's fingers press into Miranda and lingers over the possibility of doing the same. Of pressing a third finger into her. Having Thomas demonstrate exactly how he touches her. James thinks and thinks and thinks and none of it has amything to do with how near they might be to the Hamilton house until the sound of the road under the wheels alters and the horses slow.
"Fuck." Which: yes. That's probably the idea. He balks, hand drawing abruptly out from under Miranda's skirts so he can desperately begin putting himself back together. "The pair of you--"
He doesn't finish the thought, twisting under Thomas to do up rows of unfastened buttons.
"Have been waiting too long." Is the only end to that sentence that matters.
Her eyes open, brief, the sigh she refuses to help. The rock against the set of Thomas' fingers and the steadiness of James' hand. She enjoys it, to the purpose entirely, without shame. Enjoys them, watching - hers and her own, and completely lost in each other, all of a self-evident truth:
The rest is sheer practicality. Something she flicks in practice of the many years managing her husband's lack of it. Loathe as she is to lose their touch, that ease of his fingers inside of her, she shifts - her own cue of following along. She flicks her skirts, smoothes them to neatness again, and with the bulk of that material in hand, shifts herself between her men and the carriage door. Her hands moving up to check the set of brown curls, redraping herself with half the effort as she settles in the bench the other side of the small space to allow her to step out first - whatever it took to give James' the time to rearrange himself.
Thomas is less abrupt removing his hand, so gentle and sensually thoughtful at every opportunity, and he sits back to watch James scramble to button himself back up. Unhelpful in his lack of offered aid, but then-- he smiles, a mischievous self-indulgent one that no one outside this carriage sees for long enough to know the truth of it, and brings the hand that has been against James's fingers under their lady's skirts to the sailor's lips, pressing fingers in, sharing the warm and wet evidence of too long.
His other hand slips from James's shoulder to help tuck the ends of his shirt back into place, but it's far from hurried. He should probably fish his jacket and wig out from wherever he's left them in here, too - his staff are so used to his dislike of those items in particular he can't imagine anyone would so much as blink at the state of him, but it's a kindness to James's nerves.
('Could' be. Thomas still has fingertips mocking the existence of propriety when the handle of the carriage door squeaks, but in in the next heartbeat is innocently arranged.)
London is as dreary outside the Hamilton home as it is directly beside the Thames, but it's warm and comfortable inside, rich colors and dense decor set as if to hold all who enter in an intimate embrace. Thomas's wig is off again as soon as the doors are shut behind them, setting one of the girls in the house to run a bath for the guest room.
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Or theirs now, a last minute choice like she knew that expendience was foremost in her mind when she dressed for the day. A choice she is glad for making, she means to watch them, surely she does, as she feels the guide of Thomas' grip to James'. Feels the broad set of seaman's hands to the softer letter worn callouses of her husbands as thry slide up and up. Sinking against heat and the roll of the carriage rocks them that little and her eyes fall shut, her head tilted up and back in a brief shudders enjoyment that times far too well. Yes, to have them both, to have James caught between them to know each rocking motion as both of them when she let's James sink over and into -
When her eyes open the heat and the flush is unmistakable and the turn of her hand is purposeful as she sets it to theirs. Guiding up against warmth. A unmistakable heat, slick and wanting, waiting. She has been waiting. A open warn eagerness. She wears it differently, perhaps, but for them she has it nonetheless. Her own Apollo and Poseidon that come like sea and sun, equally parts to each other.
"We will surely be home soon." That either comes as a promise or a warning and impatient in either case.
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"But not yet," is breathed out, breaking way from the kiss but not moving at all, his nose and mouth against James's, lips moving against the side of his as he speaks and presses messy kisses there until he has to, has to kiss him fully again, the hand at his shoulder gripping him as though he might vanish from beneath their four hands. He fantasizes sometimes about a world where James lives with them properly, where he is not pulled from them for these stretches of time-- and yet he'd never wish it, knowing how connected to the sea he is (the salt of him, on his skin, on his clothes, down to his marrow Thomas thinks) and finding the idea of asking someone to change or chain themselves so miserable. This is James, elemental and unbound, choosing to be here with them. Perfect-- perfect.
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Because Thomas's mouth and tongue are as mesmerizing as the heat between Miranda's legs. His hand under James's there-- he can feel himself jerk as a string plucked when Thomas turns his hand there and presses fingers into her right there. He can feel the answering twitch of Miranda under the line of his thumb and hears himself make a low, thoughtless sound into Thomas's mouth. It's easy to imagine-- anything. Everything. Thomas with his beautiful hands, so astonishingly articulate as he pins him or strips Miranda down.
(That's a ridiculous fantasy; James is so much more adept at taking Miranda out of her clothes than her husband is. The ties fastening stays, the ribbons there, come open under his fingers as easily as any other knot might.)
Still. How easy it is to get swept up by the appeal of them when he's been so far awat. If he had been in London these last months instead of on a ship, he might not be so easily convinced to make a fool of himself in a carriage with a very immediate destination. As it is, he kisses Thomas so fiercely it's as if they're the only ones who know how to; he feels where Thomas's fingers press into Miranda and lingers over the possibility of doing the same. Of pressing a third finger into her. Having Thomas demonstrate exactly how he touches her. James thinks and thinks and thinks and none of it has amything to do with how near they might be to the Hamilton house until the sound of the road under the wheels alters and the horses slow.
"Fuck." Which: yes. That's probably the idea. He balks, hand drawing abruptly out from under Miranda's skirts so he can desperately begin putting himself back together. "The pair of you--"
He doesn't finish the thought, twisting under Thomas to do up rows of unfastened buttons.
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Her eyes open, brief, the sigh she refuses to help. The rock against the set of Thomas' fingers and the steadiness of James' hand. She enjoys it, to the purpose entirely, without shame. Enjoys them, watching - hers and her own, and completely lost in each other, all of a self-evident truth:
The rest is sheer practicality. Something she flicks in practice of the many years managing her husband's lack of it. Loathe as she is to lose their touch, that ease of his fingers inside of her, she shifts - her own cue of following along. She flicks her skirts, smoothes them to neatness again, and with the bulk of that material in hand, shifts herself between her men and the carriage door. Her hands moving up to check the set of brown curls, redraping herself with half the effort as she settles in the bench the other side of the small space to allow her to step out first - whatever it took to give James' the time to rearrange himself.
So considerate, they could be.
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His other hand slips from James's shoulder to help tuck the ends of his shirt back into place, but it's far from hurried. He should probably fish his jacket and wig out from wherever he's left them in here, too - his staff are so used to his dislike of those items in particular he can't imagine anyone would so much as blink at the state of him, but it's a kindness to James's nerves.
('Could' be. Thomas still has fingertips mocking the existence of propriety when the handle of the carriage door squeaks, but in in the next heartbeat is innocently arranged.)
London is as dreary outside the Hamilton home as it is directly beside the Thames, but it's warm and comfortable inside, rich colors and dense decor set as if to hold all who enter in an intimate embrace. Thomas's wig is off again as soon as the doors are shut behind them, setting one of the girls in the house to run a bath for the guest room.