He comes to her half-asleep from his composing. She is in bed, reading by the lamplight, at such serene peace that it seems a crime to disturb her. He is too tired to fully undress, instead he strips down to his shirt and leaves his trousers on, slipping in beneath the covers beside her. Her body is warm, wrapped in her thin shift and he presses himself close, laying his cheek against her shoulder and pressing his lips to her collarbone.
"My Christine," he murmurs, kissing her gently, "my Christine." Her skin is silky with the heady fragrance of peach and tea rose - she is not long from her bath, and it has left her so very soft. "Oh, darling."
She does not look away from her book, but wraps her arm around his shoulders, dainty hand resting warm on his forearm. "Do you wish for me to read to you, my love?" Her voice is hushed and she inclines her head, pressing a kiss to his hair.
He had something else in mind other than her reading, he will admit, the fire simmering deep in his gut, but he is too tired for that. Such pleasures will simply have to wait. He nuzzles her still, craving to be closer. "That would be lovely."
"All right." She proceeds to read, the words washing over him so that he does not understand them, but he does not need to, not with her sweet voice folding him in its embrace and his eyes, so heavy, drifting closed...