It would be best to admit everything

You ran into her in the corridor. Martha stopped dead in her tracks, a heavy copper pot cradled against her hip. She turned towards you, her sharp hazel eyes narrowing as she swept a few stray auburn curls back from her forehead with the back of a toned forearm.

“Could I have a few words with you in private”, you murmured.

A small, knowing grin quirked the corner of her mouth.

"A private talk, is it?" she asked, her voice carrying a playful, husky edge.

She shifted her weight, the movement causing her ample chest to press firmly against the fabric of her bodice, while her hip flared out confidently. "You're a bold one, Thomas. Now, I've got a roast in the oven that won't wait for a chat, but if you've something truly pressing on your mind, I suppose I can spare a moment. Come on then, before Cook catches us both idling."

With a decisive nod, she pivoted and led the way toward a narrow alcove away from the main traffic of the servants' hall, her stride purposeful and unhurried.

Martha leaned her back against the cool stone wall of the alcove, crossing her sturdy arms over her chest. As you spoke your confession, her expression shifted from amusement to a focused, intense curiosity. She didn't recoil or act scandalized; instead, her eyes tracked your face with a piercing clarity, as if she were weighing the sincerity of every word. A slow, sultry heat crept up her neck, coloring her cheeks a faint pink, though her confident grin never fully vanished.

"So," she breathed, her voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial hum.

She let her gaze drift downward, tracing the line of your frame before returning to your eyes with a daring spark.

"You spent your night thinking of me, did you? And not just thinking—putting yourself to some proper work while you pictured me out there in the candlelight."

She shifted her stance, stepping a fraction closer so that the scent of flour and lavender clung to her. The movement caused the neckline of her dress to dip slightly, offering him a tantalizing glimpse of the soft, pale curves of her cleavage.

"I must say, Thomas, I didn't peg you for the sort to be so... honest about such a thing. Most men would've kept that secret locked tight in their trousers."

Her face shifted to a wicked expression.

“The least you can do is tell me exactly what you did and how you felt. Go on. Describe it to me.”

Martha watched you, her gaze heavy and focused, as you detailed the precise nature of your longing. She didn't interrupt, listening instead to the tremor in your voice as you described the heat of your palm against yourself and the way you'd closed your eyes to conjure her image—the curve of her hip, the weight of her breasts, and the sight of her skin in the silver light. The more you confessed, the more her breathing slowed, her chest rising and falling in a rhythmic, heavy cadence that strained the laces of her dress.

"Is that so?" she whispered, her voice now a low, thick vibration. She uncrossed her arms, the movement slow and deliberate, and reached out to trail a calloused finger along the cuff of your sleeve. She looked up at you through her lashes, her hazel eyes dark with a sudden, predatory interest.

"Hiding in the shadows, imagining me naked... it's a wicked thing, Thomas." Her grin widened, becoming something more primal as she took another half-step forward, her soft, voluptuous frame nearly brushing against you.

"But then, I've always had a fondness for a man who knows exactly what he wants. Tell me... did you finish with my name on your lips, or were you too busy imagining how my touch would have felt?"

Martha let out a soft, low chuckle that vibrated in her chest, her gaze dropping to your lap. She didn't shy away; instead, she leaned in further, the heat from her body radiating through the thin fabric of her dress. The air in the alcove felt thick, heavy with the scent of the kitchens and a sudden, electric tension.

"To think of you all worked up over me, while I was just tending to my business..." she murmured, her voice dropping to a decadent, hushed tone. "It’s a shame I didn't know you were watching. I should have stayed out there a bit longer, just to give you a proper show."

Her words were intoxicating and you realized that in this moment you had no power. You were stunned - completely at her mercy.

She tilted her head, her hazel eyes shimmering with a hunger that matched your own. Her hand slid from your sleeve, her fingers grazing the skin of your wrist before she paused, looking back up at you with a wicked, daring glint.

"I imagine it must've been a sight, seeing you so desperate," she whispered, her breath warm against your ear. "I’d have loved to be right there with you, Thomas. I’d have liked to feel that hardness in my hand... to taste you, right then and there. To have you spill every bit of that longing right into my mouth while you looked at me."

Martha didn't pull away after her daring admission. Instead, she remained rooted in your space, her breathing audible in the silence of the alcove. The sheer intensity of your reaction probably acting like a fuel to her own fire. She watched the way your chest heaved, her sharp eyes catching every flicker of desire and shock crossing your face. You knew she enjoyed the power she held in this moment, the knowledge that a few whispered words had left you completely undone.

A low, throaty hum vibrated in her throat as she noticed the tell-tale tension in your trousers. Her gaze lingered there for a long, appreciative second before she looked back up, her grin softening into something more carnal and inviting. She reached up, her hand sliding slowly from your wrist to your shoulder, her fingers digging slightly into the fabric of his coat with a firm, confident grip.

"Look at you," she murmured, her voice dripping with a sultry, mocking sweetness. "All flustered and trembling. I can practically hear your heart hammering against your ribs from here. Can’t you take it? To have a woman know exactly what you've been doing in the dark, and to tell you she wants more."

She shifted her weight, her hip brushing against your leg in a slow, deliberate glide that left no room for misunderstanding. The copper pot she'd been carrying had long been forgotten, leaned against the wall behind her. Martha leaned in closer, the tip of her nose grazing your jawline, her voice dropping to a mere breath against his skin.

"I wonder..." she whispered, "if that hunger you felt last night is still simmering. Or if you've simply run out of steam now that I'm standing right here in the flesh."

Martha didn't wait for an answer. She surged forward, her lips crashing against his in a kiss that was less an invitation and more a demand. It was hungry and raw, tasting of salt and heat, her tongue probing yours with a confident urgency that mirrored her personality. She groaned low in her throat, her body molding itself against yours, her soft curves pressing firmly into your hard frame.

While your mouths remained locked, her hand slid down with purposeful speed, bypassing your waist to cup the heavy, throbbing length of you through the fabric of your trousers. She squeezed you firmly, a knowing smirk pressing against his lips as she felt you jump under her touch.

You had to be careful or you might burst soon.

At the same time, she grabbed your hand, her fingers interlacing with yours to guide your palm upward. She pressed your hand hard against the side of her breast, forcing you to feel the heat of her skin and the heavy, aching weight of her breast straining against the bodice.

"God, you're practically bursting," she gasped, breaking the kiss just enough to breathe, though her lips remained brushed against yours. "I can feel you shaking. It's a delicious thing... knowing I've got you this undone."

She gave you one last, bruising squeeze of your cock before abruptly stepping back, the sudden loss of her warmth leaving a void in the air. She smoothed her apron with a quick, practical motion, though her eyes remained dark and predatory, her chest still heaving from the exertion. She looked you up and down, her grin returning—confident and wicked.

"Go on then. Get to your luncheon before they come looking for you," she whispered, her voice a husky promise. She leaned in one last time, her breath hot against your ear. "But don't let that fire go out. Once the farewell-dinner is finished and the house has gone quiet... come find me. I'll be waiting, and I expect you to show me exactly how you've been practicing with those thoughts of me."

With a final, playful wink and a sway of her hips, Martha turned and strode back toward the kitchens, her walk purposeful and full of a promise that would make the rest of your day an agonizing torture.

You stood frozen for a few minutes - giving yourself time to cool off.