He wakes up first.
That's not unusual; she always did like her sleep, and more so on days like today, with nothing ahead of them but two or three days off, giving her the chance to come awake slowly.
Today she wakes to long, firm strokes all down the length of her back. He would never admit to petting her, but that is precisely what he is doing, running his hand down her back and over her flank again and again. Her body arches before she is even aware of it, and then her eyes flutter open, sleepy and warm under long, fiery lashes.
"Mmmmmmmm." Smiling lazily, she arches again, then curls one hand around his neck and kisses him.
Even this early, it's enough to make his heart flutter. Two years of waking up like this with her, and it has yet to get old. Somehow, he suspects it never will. God knows nothing else about her ever has.
"Hi," she breathes at last. She is so beautiful like this, so open and honestly happy, that something sweet and a little bit profound clenches in his heart. Of all the wonders their relationship has brought about, the greatest of them all has to be that look on her face. It's the look of a woman who knows she is absolutely loved, and who loves him back just as fiercely.
"Hello," he murmurs back, just against the shell of her ear. Her lips touch his throat, then the curve of his jaw, and he shudders with it as her hand curls in his hair.
Unhurried, she kisses him again, long and slow and sweet. But they cannot stay sleepy forever, and somewhere in the middle of the kiss the mood changes. Gasping a little, she hooks her left leg over his hip. Desire flares, hot and wanton, and he drags her closer, suddenly, acutely desperate for her. Against his thigh he can feel that she's already wet. Her hips shift minutely, restlessly, searching for friction, and when he reaches between her legs to touch her centre, her gasp is sweeter than honey. "Oh, my God. Please, love, you have to… I want…"
"Yes." He kisses her, leaving her dazed and panting as he shucks his boxers. As soon as he's kicked them off, she throws her leg back over him, needing the touch of skin on skin. The only thing between them now is her t-shirt. With quick, sure movements he draws it up over her head and tosses it away, and she moans in relief.
He teases her until she's panting and cursing him, his hands everywhere, stroking fire down her flanks, over her breasts, in the heat between her thighs. She tosses and frets, her hips bucking wildly against his, desperate to feel him.
Abruptly, unable to wait any longer, he is inside her before either of them can blink, and she lets out a sharp, shocked cry from somewhere in the back of her throat that drowns out his own groan of absolute pleasure. Arching against him, she rolls to her back; he follows her over, and whimpers as her legs grip him closer, and closer still. "Oh," she says, like she's dying and being reborn all at once, and he tucks his face into her shoulder and gasps for breath. Her glorious eyes are blinking up at him, dreamy with pleasure, and her hair is a cloud of strawberry fire against the pillow. When she tosses her head and moans, straining against him, his breath catches hard in his throat and he drives into her harder still, because closer could never be close enough. Not with her.
"Lovely," he breathes, because she is. "Oh, you're lovely." She surrounds him, drugging his senses, until all he can breathe is the scent of her.
He had asked her once, very early on, if she felt crushed, trapped, when they were like this. She had opened her mouth, then shut it again, unable to find the words. In the end all she said was, "Just look, darling, please." So he did, the next time. As he rolled her under him he kept his eyes fixed on her beautiful face, and he had really looked.
The surge of relief that had washed over her features as she went limp and surrendered to his weight answered his question instantly. She loves this, revels in it, and even if he cannot quite understand why it is enough to know that she wants this, needs it, as badly as he does.
He sees that same relief, that same surrender, on her face now, and his own heart sighs in answer.
"I love you," she is moaning now, "God, Tommy, I love you, I…"
"I know." He soothes her as best he can, hands stroking her hair as he strokes deep inside her. "Oh, my love, I know." One hand finds her hipbone then, the thin skin somehow terribly, achingly intimate. Her breath stutters, puffing warm against the hollow of his throat, and despite himself he trembles.
"Oh," she says again, and something about her voice has changed. It's darker, deeper, warmer, and just a little wondering. He knows that voice as well as he knows his own name; it's the voice that means she is hovering on the brink, as though she's always just a little startled to find herself there. Her hips hitch against his, desperate and wanting, and he feels his own control start to unravel.
"That's it, darling." He is talking but he hardly knows what he is saying; she is beyond herself now and he is there with her, blind to everything but the heat of her skin under his hands and the soaring triumph of his heart. "Oh, sweetheart, there you are, that's it, show me, let me see, yes, darling, I'm with you, always with you…"
She tips over first, a long low cry muffled in his shoulder as she arches against him, her back bowing off the bed. The sight of her beloved face, unguarded in pleasure, is more than enough for him to follow as she ripples around him. In the end it washes over him in long, sweet shivers, a hot flash of pleasure that leaves him delirious and gasping before it gently washes back out to sea. Every muscle in his body is deeply, unutterably relaxed, heavy with lassitude. He sinks back into the pillows, Barbara in his arms, his body still trembling. She is still a-tremble too, curling close against him, and he cannot remember the last time he felt so at peace.
"Go back to sleep, love," he murmurs in her ear, barely awake himself. "There's plenty of time yet." Her breathing evens out, deep and slow, her body just a little heavier against him. His eyes flutter closed, and the last thing he feels is the warmth of her breath in the space just under his chin.
The sun is blazing steadily in the sky and London bustles on outside their front door, but inside those four walls, for a moment out of time, the world is still and quiet.