Here's the 2nd of 2 fics that are romantic, not steamy.
#2
The large form next to her sighed in his sleep and shifted, the arm that had lain across her hip slipping off and turning in the bed with him. Shelagh Turner felt a shiver of pleasure. It was still new, still such a delight, to lie in complete ease and comfort and familiarity with Patrick. Sharing his bed, their bed, was perhaps the greatest symbol of her new life. She almost blushed to herself. Of course, the place of sharing their love. The wonder and joy and pleasure of that still left her stunned. She'd had no idea what making love to Patrick could be like, and it was beyond words.
But beyond the pleasure and life-affirmation of their passion, was the simple joy, the assurance, the comfort of just being with him. Of sharing his life. Of being his wife.
She did miss her sisters, missed the rich silences, the gentle support, the fathomless sharing of the spirit, even the occasional abrasions. She loved the company of women.
But, now, she loved the company of her men more.
Life in an all-male household, even though one of the males had not yet reached puberty, was a novel experience. They were just louder, noisier, messier. It was life with the fine edges sanded off. Not that Patrick was a rough or inelegant man. He just didn't notice the nuances, the fine details that made a lovely home and a well-ordered world. That was now her job, and she reveled in it.
She might have worn a habit for ten years, but she hadn't lost her sense of style, and Patrick's was abysmal. She was working on it, subtly moving the knitted vests and dated ties into the charity bin. Slowly his wardrobe was becoming more professional, well-fitted and dignified. He had always been handsome, but now he was well-tailored too. The change was working. She'd overheard Trixie the other day, after giving Patrick an appreciative once-over, "There is something so attractive about a man in love, especially when he's well-dressed."
Beyond the powerful physical attraction between them, she noticed just the different physicality. Sister Julienne's loving hug was soft, warm, spiritually strong. But like embracing a comforting pillow. Patrick's embrace was strong, hard, enveloping. He loomed over her and brought her into his protective arms and she felt infinitely loved and safe. And Timothy, hugging him was like holding a wiry, vibrating colt that would spring into activity as soon as she released him.
Next to her, Patrick's breathing changed to soft snoring. She smiled and laid a hand on his shoulder, feeling the rounded swell of muscle. He grumbled, still asleep, and rolled back toward her. His arm found its way around her waist and drew her against him, and she molded her body to his.
She'd spent ten years being cold. In her bare cell at the convent, piled beneath blankets, she had still always been cold in the night. But now, curled up against her husband, it was like sleeping with a roaring furnace. She didn't know how he could always generate so much heat, but for that if for nothing else, she giggled to herself, marriage was worth it.
She relaxed into the warmth and love of his embrace and drifted back to sleep.