Just a oneshot I wrote, which could be set in any series. This is for the chapter of MOMB which is being delayed while I work through Call the Midwife prompts; thank you for your patience.
They lay in bed together, sprawled about in the white sheets, their bodies bare and touching each other closely. The room was full of light from the thin wide glass and a breeze, the first one they had been able to feel all day, fluttered the pale curtains about her bedroom window. It had been decadent of them, it had been lavish and extravagant beyond forgiving for them to go to bed in the middle of their day off, but it had been so hot at midday that they did not see the point in standing it. They shed their sticky clothing at the same time as one another as soon as her bedroom door was shut behind them and, inevitably, as they stood there, facing one another in only their underwear all thought of the oppressive heat outside had been forgotten as they lost themselves in a heat of a different and much more welcome kind.
He was lying quite still on his side, watching her beside him. She lay flat on her back, watching the moving light on the ceiling cast by the flickering shadows of the trees outside. Her face was relaxed but she watched intently, and bathed in natural light, she looked utterly beautiful. The sun washed over her hair, making it seem golden. Her fingers played a little with the ring on her left hand. She was so beautiful, and she looked so cool, even after the heat of their passionate embrace. He wanted to kiss her, and leant forwards. She turned her head to look at him, the smallest of smiles passing across her lips before she accepted his kiss, raising her hand to cradle his head carefully.
"I love the summer," she murmured as his lips left hers.
He leant back a little, resting up on his arm to watch her again.
"What is it you love about it?" he asked, curiously.
"Lying in bed with you on days like this," she replied, her eyes closed in an expression so close to utterly serene bliss that it almost caused his heart to physically swell.
He laughed a little at her words, though.
"You've never done that in any other summer," he reminded her gently.
She grinned back up at him.
"I didn't say I've always loved the summer," she pointed out, her voice teasing.
"True," he admitted, "You didn't."
She let out a deep, contented sigh.
"I have, though," she continued, "Ever since I was a little girl."
"Why?" he pressed, "I want to know."
She opened her eyes lazily.
"What is it that you love?" he asked her.
"The colours," she told him, raising her hand to brush his cheek tenderly, "The light. The warmth. When I was a child we usually went to the seaside, when Father's practice allowed, and they always remind me of that. They stay the same, even though so much else is different. I love being able to wear lighter clothes, and to take my shoes off in the garden when nobody's there and feel the grass beneath my feet."
His hand rested gently on her stomach, his thumb caressing her softly.
"When I was little, I always got new shoes for our holiday, and I have such weak feet, the shoes always made them bleed," she continued.
"You love the season that gave you sore feet?" he asked her.
She smiled at her own absurdity.
"Yes, I suppose I did," she told him quietly, " I never thought of it that way. What do you love about Summer?"
"Oh, I don't know," he told her, then after a moment, "I never said I did. That was only you."
"Yes, but I can tell," she smiled at him, a completely winning smile, telling him she had seen right through his bluffing remark and at the same time making completely alright with that, "So, come on. What do you love?"
"Oh, much the same as any other chap does, I suppose. I like to play cricket in the village."
"And I like to watch you playing cricket," she added to her own list, her eyes widening a little at the thought, as well as her smile, letting her hand trace gently, lazily and appraisingly down the front of his chest, "In those white flannel trousers. What else?"
He thought for a moment.
"I like how it's light later at night," he told her, "So if I get home late the sun is still up, usually. And it's still warm."
"What else?" she pressed.
"The plants," he told her, thinking for a moment, "It brings out the best in my garden. I love the summer flowers and how they bring out the bees. They fascinated me as a child, bees and butterflies. The lavender being out-.."
"And what else?"
His eyes settled back on her.
"And lying in bed on days like this. With you."
Her eyes found his, and they looked at each other for long moments.
"Making love to you," he continued quietly, his voice distinctly lower than before, "Like this. In the middle of the day."
He reached out his hand, brushed the side of her face. Her smile had faded a little, she was watching him intently and leant her face instinctively into his gentle hand.
"You are the summer, Isobel," he told her quietly, "Most people are so cold and boarded up like the winter, but you're not. You're warm, you're bright and you're beautiful. You're everything."
He bent his head gently down, still holding her face tenderly, gently touching his lips to his, chastely almost.
"I love you so much," he whispered to her, against her mouth.
Leaning up a little off the bed, she resumed their kiss, recapturing his lips more openly, more passionately than before. Her hand clasped the back of his head, running her fingers through his hair, holding him firmly to her as they kissed each other, exploring each others mouths. She pulled him close so that his body rested over hers.
"In case you don't know that means I love you too," she told him, her breathing a little ragged, as they broke apart, "Before anything else, I love you."
"Isobel," he murmured, gently, "Would you mind if we-... that is-..." he realised to his own disbelief that he'd never before asked her to make love. It had always just happened. She was better than him at direct questions. But he needn't have worried.
"Oh God, Richard, I want you," she murmured.
He sank his lips back to hers, kissing her with all his strength.
"Isobel-... Oh God Isobel," was all he could manage.
Her hands cupped his face now, making him look at her, shifting a little so that they could sit up.
"Tell me what you love," she told him in quiet, calm voice, "Tell me what you want, and I'll do it. Anything," she murmured softly, her eyes so seductive.
He was hard pressed to hide the shiver that ran down his spine at her words.
"Isobel-..." he murmured.
"Just tell me," she stopped him, "Anything."
She was watching, with those deep brown eyes. He thought she could see right through him. There would be no point hiding anything.
"You don't have to-..." he finished weakly.
"Tell me," she commanded him, then leaning her head to the side, asked him more softly, "What have you imagined us doing?"
"Can I show you?" he asked weakly.
"Of course," she replied swiftly.
"Lie on your side?" he asked her, "Please?"
She did so without question. Shifting to lie behind her, he kissed the base of her neck, lavishing attention and open-mouthed kisses on the edge of her shoulders.
"Richard, this is supposed to be about you," she whispered.
"Do you think I don't love doing this?" he asked her, his voice hot and breathy in her ear.
She gave no reply, except to gasp a moment later when his hands moved round her body and clasped both of her breasts in his hands. He continued kissing her neck, kneading her breasts.
"I love the way you feel," he told her, his voice constrained with the effort of keeping control, "You feel so good."
He was hard against her bottom and she deliberately ground against him. He groaned in her ear and his hand slipped away from one of her breasts, over her stomach and down to her thigh; lifting it to rest on top of his. He heard her gasp inadvertently at the new feeling. His hand moved in between her legs, touching her with his fingertips, stroking her gently.
"How does that feel?" he asked her.
"Open," she managed, he could see out of the corner of his eye that her eyes had fallen closed and that she was having trouble containing herself, "And wet. So wet. And wonderful."
"I could just take you now, Isobel," he whispered to her, moving his hips forwards, brushing a little against her entrance, showing her how easy it would be, "Would you like that? Is that what you want?"
He felt her nod.
"Yes, Richard," her voice was extremely strained, "Oh, yes."
He moved so that he was inside her, filling her completely. But he did not move. He took her hand in his, bringing it down her body, resting it between her legs, in the place he knew would bring her most pleasure.
"Will you touch yourself here?" he asked her, "While we make love? I can't last long, Isobel."
She did not answer, only moved against him so that he brushed her intimately and moved her hand to show him that she was willing to do as he said. They both let out a low groan at the feeling and his hand returned to her breast to knead it. He knew after moments that he had asked her to do exactly the right thing, she was making such sounds that he could barely keep himself in check and in what felt like seconds the pace of their lovemaking had become frantic. He thrust hard inside her and came, unable to stop himself, but it was alright; he heard her give something between a moan and a cry and stiffened, rocking back against him.
All he could feel between them was heat, beautiful, blissful heat. Their bodies felt like one, burned together.
He kissed her hair feeling her recover slowly.
"Isobel, that was wonderful," he told her, "Thank you so much."
"Thank you," she told him quietly, her voice sounding hoarse, "For loving me so much that-..."
She did not need to say it. He understood. It was true. He kissed the back of her neck again, drawing her into his arms and resting his head by her hair.
"Of all things, Isobel, I love you the most."
Please review if you have the time.