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Fleur Delacour

A formal engagement Part II (Hard R)

Fleur Delacour

Blue Fleur

A formal engagement Part II (Hard R)

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Bill Kiss on Shoulder
I find myself staring at possibly the loveliest engagement ring I have ever seen, the setting is exquisite and the stones flawless. Of course a ring of such beauty and precision will be the perfect star upon the perfection of my hand. Bill kneels before me, his long legs getting in the way of his gesture.

“I can finally afford the kind of ring you deserve, Fleur,” he tells me as his nimble fingers remove the ring from the tiny decorative box. “You never answered me.”

“What?” I ask, distracted by the candlelight flickering upon the surfaces of the diamonds.

“Will you marry me again?” his voice wavers this time and my vision is drawn to his face, his eyes, shining with the glimmering evening candle flames. A thought that he fears I might tell him no pierces my heart as I study his chiseled face. His brows crinkle together in momentary doubt and suddenly I see the same man who proposed to me all those years ago. Frightened that I will turn from him.

“Oui, mon loup,” I respond as my fingers grace the backs of his hands, “Oui, I will.” As I touch him I notice that he is shaking slightly. “Bill?” I ask as he slowly caresses my left hand until my fingers are extended. His eyes move from the task of slipping the ring onto my finger and meet my eyes. “Je t'aime beaucoup, mon mari,” I whisper. (”I love you very much, my husband.”)

“I love you too,” he marvels through shortened breath. When he inhales I watch his eyelids flutter shut as if in prayer. I cannot resist the pull to touch his face as he simply kneels before me in silence, the most penitent man in the world. He dies at the thought of losing me. Through his hard exterior and demanding nature lies a frightened child who is terrified of being alone, being without me. But to whom do I lie? Only myself if I ever entertain the thought that I could survive now without this man. I would kill myself rather than spend a life without him.

His jaw sets as my fingers brush the skin. I relish the feel of barely grown stubble, red and animal-like. “Your earring? You took eet off?” He inhales sharply as my fingers glide up to his earlobe and his head turns slightly to give me contact. But his eyes remain closed…as if he is concentrating on picturing this moment in his memory. Then I realize that he is recording this very instant with his sense of touch and hearing, but most of all with his now-heightened sense of smell. “Can you tell?” I ask as I lean into his neck below his ear, “Can you smell me? How much I want you?” His jaw clenches once more at my inquiry. “You can, I know you can.” My tongue darts out to test the saltiness of his throat. “You like eet better zis way?” I continue, “Since your change, I know you do.” I reach back to the tether that holds his hair away from his face. “I like you zis way aussi, ma bête.”

“Fleur,” he sighs as his arms pull me to him, “Don’t ever leave me. I love you too much. It would kill me.”

“Not to worry, mon loup,” I coo against the skin of his throat before I nip. “I will never leave you. I never could, not now.” I slowly turn my head inward and snuggle against the dark fabric across his chest. “And if you ever left me again I would pursue you to ze darkest corner of ze earth to find you again and bring you back to me.” His arms constrict and I find that I savor the physical control he exerts over me.

Somehow we both decide to silently stand before he steps away from me. He motions his head toward the back of the cottage where our bedroom awaits. “We can start our plans tomorrow, ma belle, tonight I want to be with you, make love to you.” It is almost a plea as he steps back and I follow his slow, purposeful journey to our room. The darkness and shadows lap at us as we make our way through the golden glow of our home.




When we reach the bedroom he is gentle, tender, achingly slow. He studies my body as he removes the silver gown (another gift, he loves me in silver). The sterling cloth puddles at my feet and Bill watches me intently as he and I unbutton his robes and undress him together. Nothing rushed, nothing lost to the moment. He is mine and I am again his. Only his.

“I ‘ave waited so long for you to come back to me,” I hum into his lips as he covers me, lays me down into our bed. “I ‘ave only ever wanted you, mon loup.” He enters me swiftly and gracefully. “Place douce du compagnon I mon destin dans des vos mains. Montrez-moi où la magie se trouve…” (*”Sweet companion I place my fate in your hands. Show me where the magic lies…”) As he moves over me I find myself telling him that I will go where he leads, willingly follow him, just to be with him, owned by him. “I want you so much, Bill, so much. Je vous suivrai au-dessus des terres en friche du coeur.” (*"I will follow you over the wastelands of the heart…”)

His voice yielding and gentle, begs for my heart, my love, as if he fears they do not already belong to only him. His lips worship and surrender, plunder and submit as my body hums with ecstasy beneath him. His long red hair falls forward between our faces and he chuckles before he brushes it behind his ear and my heart bursts at the sight of him.


He is going to marry me…






*From ‘Full Moon’—Robert Miles
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