Summer's Freedom
Kicking off my boots beside the picnic basket, I lift up my skirt in one hand and tuck it into my apron. It's a good thing this clearing is so private; it would be quite improper if anyone happened on my bare legs out in the open, husband or no. The man in question is already in the brook, relieving his body from the heat with the cool running water bubbling over smooth stones. I feel immediately better as I step in beside Galahad, gripping his forearm to steady myself on the slippery bottom.
He grins at me, mouth curling open to flash teeth, and I nearly loose my footing because his smile can still drive me to distraction. The water feels wonderful, lapping at my calves and wetting the hem of my skirt. Galahad is already in the middle, knee-deep. He looks back at me, over one strong shoulder. I take his outstretched hand, letting him lead me deeper.
Once we tire of wading, I tug him back to our shoes and basket, settling in the shade of an enormous oak. The solid tree trunk pressing against my back is rough, and I carefully lean back to make sure it doesn't catch my hair or scrape my scalp. The grass is warm beneath my errant fingers, prickling against my palm. I shift my legs, rearranging my skirt to better accommodate the weight resting on them.
Galahad turns his head to look up at me from my lap, sky coloured eyes dancing merrily though his posture is lazy and his body, stretching perpendicular to mine, is lax with the contentment a good meal and warm sunshine brings. I smile back, letting my fingers tangle in his wild curls, and gently pulling them back out again. His curls fray, disheveled and disarrayed. He looks so young, almost innocent with his hair on end, thoughtfully munching on a pear in the shade.
Finished, he tosses the core into the nearby brook, and wipes his fingers in the grass, next to his abandoned boots. Galahad's trousers are rolled up, and his calves are browning in the sunshine. Faint freckles are starting to show on his nose, as well, and I can't help but chuckle at them. He looks at me, amused at my amusement. He knows he looks ridiculous, but doesn't care, as he is enjoying his freedom, rightly earned. The peace that followed Rome's retreat agrees very well with him.
I rub his jaw affectionately, smoothing a knuckle over his beard. With a sigh, he closes his eyes, and smiles, dimpling his cheeks. I am stroking his face repeatedly, when Galahad, with his damned quick reflexes, closes a hand around my wrist without even lifting one eyelid. He has such large hands, especially compared to mine, which are unusually small and stout, even for a woman. Wide, square palms, impossibly long fingers cage my wrist, and though I mock struggle, he won't let go.
Bringing it to his mouth, Galahad plants a slow kiss in my palm, and brushes his lips over my fingertips. I shiver slightly at the contact, my work-hardened skin no way lessening the effect. With my other hand I brush the hair off his forehead, and cradle his head, my thumb circling the spot where a troubled wrinkle had formed early. Managing to free my hand from his, I follow the line of his neck, grazing his Adam's apple and ending up at his collarbone.
I idly trace the lines, riding the ridge almost to his shoulder, exploring the strong outlines of muscles back. His loose tunic is unlaced at the neck, allowing easy access. His chest gently rises and falls with his breaths, and I love the feeling beneath my palm. He sighs again as I smooth down his hair. His head is pleasantly heavy on my thighs, and I feel dreamy in the warmth, both his and the day's.
My feet are dry now.