He is overwhelmed. The day has passed in a daze of greetings and catching up, while he is trying to convince himself that, indeed, he is finally back. Now, his head on the back on the seat next to the fire and his eyes closed, John is happy, even relieved, that they had all gone to bed.
The only sounds are the crackling of the fire and Anna, busying in the otherwise deserted kitchen with one last cup of tea. He sighs in content. Less than twenty four hours ago he had been on a cold, damp cell, listening to the noises of his cellmates going to sleep - grunts, sighs, snores - and thinking, disbelieving, that it was going to be his last night in that terrible place.
"Are you sleepy?" He looks tired, has lost some weight and there are dark shadows under his eyes. Stubborn as he is, though, he shakes his head, smiling, and opens his eyes. She cannot help but beam at him.
"I'm enjoying all of this," he says, and with a little effort, he pulls the seat in front of him closer. She understands, and sits, carefully placing her cup of tea on the mantelpiece.
"Are you now?" she asks, laughter dancing in her voice. She cannot help it. Whatever she might have said before, she has never felt happier in her life.
"Oh yes," he says, and takes her right hand. After eighteen months, he can barely believe he is finally alone with her. With his Anna. No wardens or cellmates around, no fear, no worries. He must be dreaming, but then, not even his best dreams have been able to conjure the perfection of her skin, the softness of her touch.
She feels tears forming in the corner of her eyes and tries to stop them. He notices. "What is it?" There is concern in his voice.
"I am so very happy," she whispers, her voice cracking a little.
He smiles and looks at their entwined hands. Purposely, he strokes her index with the tip of his finger, slowly tracing the length of it. She smiles. They had been married for three days before he was taken away from her, and after years of having barely touched, and months of scarce and heavily supervised visits, his touching her feels new. Almost as if they were still newlyweds it sends shivers down her spine.
He keeps on tracing those wonderful, long fingers. Her hands are a bit callous and he would not have it any differently. He caresses her middle finger now, the base of her third finger, and lets his own rest on Anna's golden band. How he enjoys the sight of it and what it means. She is his wife. His.
He turns her hand in his and lets his finger continue exploring every inch of her palm, tracing the lines there and lingering on small scars of work mishaps. His thumb takes over; slowly, firmly, he caresses her palm and draws circles on the base of her wrist.
She inhales sharply, she cannot help it. It feels intimate; something that appears to be innocent has become so very intense. John looks at her, her eyes are dark, her lips slightly parted. His own lips urge him to take them, to taste them once again and remember their texture. Not yet, though. Without taking his eyes off her, he lets his thumb continue his exploration. Now he caresses the soft skin between her fingers, softly, barely touching it. She sighs and he's lost in the sound. She is breathing faster, her whole body leaning towards him, unconsciously. He can feel her heat, her scent, the warmth of her skin.
The tip of his index is back on her wrist, he lets it explore the small patch of skin and when that's not enough, he slides it inside the sleeve of her dress. She feels hot in her own skin, her heart beats furiously and she desperately wants to kiss him. Two can play the game, though, and deliberately, she wets her lips and swallows hard. Now he's the one unable to control a sigh and she smiles triumphantly. He is leaning closer. Any moment now.
But no. Without breaking eye contact, he places a soft kiss on her palm, and then another one on her wrist. She is about to burst, almost trembling with anticipation. With another deep sigh, she moves her hand to caress his chin, his cheek.
He is kissing her. Unable to resist a second longer, he had pulled her hand and captured her lips in his. It feels urgent, almost desperate, and Anna clings to it, her hands clutching the lapels of his waistcoat. Her lips are soft and firm and the taste, so very familiar. He cannot get enough of it. With his own mouth he pulls, teases, and almost with a willing of his own, his tongue traces the contours of her mouth. She lets him in and he groans as her tongue meets him. His own hands are on her waist now, and up her back, and down again, his body is urging him to claim what is his.
Her hands have needs, too, and she moves them to his neck, her fingers exploring his skin, playing just inside his collar. He groans and grabs her hips, his right leg between hers, pressing against her tigh.
She takes his lower lip with her teeth, gently despite her own urge. He groans and she does it again, sucking. Her body feels hot and she knows she's wet, waiting for him.
John murmurs something against her lips, but she cannot make out the words. After a moment he pulls apart, his forehead against hers, panting.
"Come to me tonight. Please."
