Ice
...
Sunday 9th December
He's been grumbling about it all day. Increasingly so, as the hours have worn past, darkness has crept in and the nagging, aching pain has intensified. It's his own fault really; if he'd had just a little more patience and waited for her, then he wouldn't have been outside anyway. And he certainly wouldn't have stepped on a patch of black ice and gone sprawling, flat on his back, on the cold, hard unforgiving driveway.
"Oh for God's sake, Peter," she finally sighs, exasperated, as he sits on the bed matching the few remaining errant socks and grumbling bad-temperedly. Putting the last of the neatly folded laundry away she stands, hands on her hips, and surveys him, shaking her head. "Just take your damn shirt off and lie down."
He raises an eyebrow at her, his attention utterly, and very abruptly, diverted. She holds his gaze, maintaining the stare down, and, subjecting her to that slow and outrageously enticing smirk he's just so, so good at, he slowly and very deliberately unfastens each and every button while she watches.
Leaning back against the chest of draws, she folds her arms and resolutely keeps her eyes fixed on his. It's something of a struggle, but she's very determined. He's ridiculously handsome though, and he bloody well knows it too. Exploits it, even. Eyes narrowing, she concentrates stubbornly on his face.
The shirt slides to the floor, pooling on the carpet in a whisper of cotton and he's still smirking, dark eyes full of speculation as he views the way she is still observing, just as intently, but now with slightly more than a hint of interest as her resolve wavers, her gaze flickering away from his.
He reclines back on his elbows, steadily regarding her but she shakes her head, reminding herself of how insufferably grumpy he's been today.
"Roll over," she orders softly, finally approaching the bed. He does, but not without giving her another long and exceedingly tempting look. Sadly for him, it fails and she merely raises an eyebrow and picks up the moisturiser she keeps on her nightstand before crawling onto the bed beside him.
"Upper back or lower?" she asks, straddling him and rubbing her hands together to warm the lotion because she just knows he'll complain like hell if it's cold.
"Upper," he murmurs as she expertly goes to work.
He's very warm, and underneath his smooth skin she quickly finds the tender spots, the sore muscles and the knots that have lent him to such irritability all day. He groans deeply as her fingers work the tension loose, kneading out the pressure and the pain.
She's so good at this, he thinks, thoroughly tranquil and languid now as she works her way down his neck and across his shoulders. Feeling muscles he didn't even know were tense warm under her touch and ease into relaxation, he wonders where she learnt how, because there is something very practiced and very knowledgeable about the way she does what she does.
She's found the spot where he hit the ground and her touch changes accordingly; there's less pressure, her fingers are a lot gentler as they glide over his skin and he feels the twinging, aching, irritating soreness that has been plaguing him all day really begin to abate. It's so soothing he feels like he's sinking into the mattress, his muscles melting under her touch.
"Feeling better?" she enquires, leaning forward and gently pressing her lips to the back of his neck.
"You're amazing," he mumbles, face buried in the quilt.
She grins at the response. "Is that a yes then?" she laughs, sliding her hands lower, working her fingers into the muscles of his lower back, applying a deep and steady pressure that elicits a long, low groan of pleasure instead of an actual answer.
He wants to ask her how she got to be so good at this, but she's found that spot that always gives him trouble when he sits for too long and whatever it is she's doing to him feels so wonderful it completely overrides his thought processes.
He's so relaxed now, so thoroughly comfortable that he's starting to drift very pleasantly.
Grace feels the very last of the tension under her hands melt away and she grins wickedly to herself. Now that he's pain free she changes her strategy, determined to pay him back for his earlier attempts to distract her.
Her touch alters, becomes lighter and a lot more investigative. Her fingertips ghost over his musculature, seeking all the sensitive places to tease and torment him. She leans down and kisses his shoulder, one hand skimming up over his neck so she can slide her fingers slowly and very deliberately into his thick, soft hair.
Completely immobile under her, he sighs and then lets out a soft snore.
Abruptly freezing, she stares down at him.
"Peter?" she queries, and then scowls when there is no response. He is absolutely sound asleep. Stunned, and just to make sure he isn't playing with her, she pokes him in the arm. Hard. He merely turns his head and snores again.
Gazing down at him, amused but still exasperated, she sighs heavily.
"Bloody typical," she mutters, before resignedly giving in, curling up beside him and closing her eyes.