A little something that came out of nowhere and was written very quickly yesterday before work. As always, thanks to Joodiff for the beta. :) xx
Spring
…
Bright sunlight, intense rays of it. Streaming cheerfully in through the tall windows of his living room.
It's mid-morning.
Spring.
A Saturday.
The Saturday after the best Friday night of his life.
The best, and also the most unexpected.
Sitting at her ease, dreamily curled into the corner of his sofa, a mug of tea cradled almost reverently between her hands, is the woman he has quietly and secretly obsessed about for more years than he cares to remember.
The woman who, last night, he somehow ended up sprawled across the wide expanse of his bed with, naked and thoroughly entwined in a tangle of limbs and hearts, heat and passion.
Deliciously hot, intensely pleasurable.
Incredible.
Unbelievable.
More than once.
He thinks that perhaps he finally knows what it feels like to be wholly consumed with desire. By the sheer overwhelming intensity of feeling, of connection.
He thinks, he hopes, that maybe if he is very, very lucky, his life might just have changed for the better.
That maybe, just maybe, a happy accident has altered his path, given him a gift he knows he will treasure forever.
If.
If he is allowed to.
He watches and he observes, because that is what he is trained to do. Because that is who he is.
And the sight is more beautiful than any he can recall.
The sunlight is caressing her, revealing the highlights in her hair, the deeper blue threads in her eyes, the rosy glow of her skin.
He's never wanted a woman more in his life. And despite their long and memorable night, he can feel himself stirring yet again. Feel the first rush of blood heading south to his groin.
One leg crossed over the other, ankle resting on his knee as he leans back into the deep comfort of the heavy armchair, he watches and he thinks.
"You're not talking," he observes, for it is perhaps the most unexpected of all the things that have happened in the slow march of midnight to morning hours.
Those blue eyes find him, hold his hazel counterparts. The smile that he watches form on those soft lips he wants so badly to kiss is genuine and laughing.
"After all these years, what could we possibly need to talk about right now, Peter?"
It's a fair point, he thinks, but it does not tally with his understanding of her.
She talks. He – mostly – listens. And shouts.
The bicker and argue and go round and round in pointless circles.
It's deflection and a game, and sometimes it is just fun.
But still, she talks…
Always.
In all honesty, he loves it. Because he loves the sound of her voice.
Is inordinately soothed by it.
Is keenly aware that even angry words from her can take away pieces of the pain that bubbles inside him, unbidden, untamed.
There is a hint of seriousness in her now, though. Soft raw honesty as she places her empty mug on the coffee table and rises, uncurling her body from the sofa like a cat, smooth and graceful.
He can think of nothing to say, so settles with a nod. A conceding, "Okay."
The hardwood floor is bathed in the same warm, cheerful spring sunshine and Peter watches as a pair of small, slender bare feet make their way towards him. He vividly remembers the feeling of one of those feet running down the length of his calf in the early hours as her spine arched under his fingertips, her breasts pressed against his chest, and his name leaving her lips as a breathless, burning plea.
The feet stop in front of him, her toes brushing against his. Slowly, taking in every single inch of her and committing all the fine details to memory, he lets his eyes find their way up the fascinating shape of her legs to the hem of his stolen shirt – the dark purple an arresting sight on her.
She is… intensely desirable like this.
Somehow, magically, the buttons are unfastened, and he finds the place where his lips made her cry out raggedly last night as he pinned her to the sheets. Then there's the gentle curve of her hips, the indentation of her bellybutton, the line of her ribs, the heavy fullness of her breasts where he genuinely thinks he could play forever.
Her throat, a little red with the fading marks left by ardent kisses and the rasp of his beard, which makes him smirk inside in masculine pride, and then her chin, stubborn and strong, a sign of her character, reminds him that she gave every bit as good as she got in the darkness of his bedroom, the light of the full moon streaming down on them.
Her face is so wonderfully familiar, etched permanently in his memory since the first time he heard her laugh, really laugh, nearly twenty years ago now. And those lips – he thinks now that he could spend an eternity kissing them, being kissed by them. Finally, there's her nose, and then her eyes. Eyes that he is quickly learning can tell him far more that he ever dared imagine.
"Are you unhappy?" she asks him.
How can she even think that?
Peter shakes his head. "Far from it, Grace," he tells her, and never has he been more honest.
"Well then…" Grace pushes his foot from his knee back to the floor, climbs into his lap and settles herself there, gazing steadily at him.
"Yes?" he prods, when she says nothing further.
Grace smiles, and it is more beautiful than even the spring light that is still caressing her. "If you're happy, and I'm happy, what would be the point of talking?"
Her hands rest briefly on his bare torso before beginning to move, to dance across his skin, and then she slides forward to kiss him, to push him back into that incredibly blissful place where there is nothing but him and her and that startlingly powerful and sensual compatibility.
This is real, he realises, very real. And just like the promise of spring, there is suddenly brightness and happiness glimmering before him.
Before them.