Having been held so far away for so long, I envision Emma needing to revel in touch after she's freed from the darkness. (I'm still dying from last night and how much they love each other and how they can't keep their hands to themselves)
She wonders if he notices. He doesn't say, but she feels he does. The answer doesn't matter much, because it's what she needs. She knows he will always give her this, and will let her take in return.
While caught in the dark, her loved ones first instinct was to recoil, protect, her touch dangerous and full of lies. He'd allow moments, granting access to his hand, his lips, briefly given and quickly taken away. His promise to always fight for her was hard to see when she was so entrapped, so lost and so alone. In the end, she had to choose, and she did. She chose herself and their love, proven true by the shape of a sword and the beat of their hearts.
Now, she's allowing herself to take back what she was denied. To revel in the sheer joy of touch, the tenderness, the love that can be conveyed in a gentle brush of skin or the press of ankles hidden beneath a table. It's not overt, but casual, though in her head it does feel a bit calculated. She can't stop her eyes from scanning whenever he approaches, searching for new options, unexplored places she can has yet to reach, to connect.
When they're in public, it's the soft skin along his wrist or the dimple in his cheek she somehow manages to deepen beneath her thumb. She cherishes every tangle of fingers or gripping of elbows, brief presses of lips and heads rested on shoulders. Her mood brightens just by the pressure of his hook on her back as they find themselves standing side by side.
Alone, she finds his treasures. Her lips now know the shape of the hollow of his throat, her nose the underside of his jaw. She has left no inch of his collarbone unexplored, greedily tasting the salty warmth of his skin with her tongue. Her hands have brought him to life and beyond, no barriers between her palm and the strength of his desire no longer held back. Every hidden place she finds he reveals, open and welcoming, as he reciprocates in kind.
She knows how warm his mouth can feel, slowly tracing the path of her spine or furiously sucking a mark into the soft skin of her thigh. The complexities of his fingertips are well studied, at once soft against her breast can turn bruising when wrapped around her hip as exploration inevitably turns to need. His wrist, uncovered and scarred, has steadied her through passion, anchoring her close as their bodies danced and worshiped and eventually fell.
The darkness, it left a bruise, deep and slow to mend. But his touch, it heals her and she hopes hers does the same. He doesn't say, but she feels it does.