A/N: It's so long since I've written smut I've forgotten what it's like. Anyway, have some nice smut. I hope it's not too bad.
To explore her, that's all he wants. To explore every inch of her, map her, engrave her on his memory forever. (He is not quite certain that he is not dreaming her here.) To hold her hands spread wide, their fingers interlinked, and kiss her throat, that column of smooth, delicate cream. Trail down along her pulse, feel it beat against his lips. Kiss her clavicles, run his tongue along the dip right at the base of her neck, and the hollow where the two bones do not meet. Taste her salty sweat tempered by the soft lavender of her soap. Breathe her in, as close as he can.
Brush his lips against her collarbone, the skin so smooth and soft. His heart aches, twisting desperately for that closeness. He would not hurt her, he would be ever so gentle, as if she were a newly-hatched chick cradled in his hand, so very fragile.
His exploration would not stop at her clavicle, of course. It would continue, his lips pressing and twitching and nuzzling down that gap between her breasts. He would spend some time there, existing in that perfect space, his hands cupped so carefully around those neat, soft globes. (He would live there, if he could, in that dip. Live there and never leave.)
And eventually his exploration would continue, his face pillowed in the flesh of her abdomen. She has gained flesh lately and it becomes her so very much. He had feared, for a time, that she was too thin, at risk of becoming little more than bone, like him. Lately, her beauty seems to have only grown.
Having rested, he would continue, mouthing his way along the crease of her hips, his fingers firmly wrapped around both of her hips, and sweet gasps escaping from her throat. He would groan his response into the soft curls between her legs, the twisting tension in his stomach tightening, forcing him to arch his back or else go mad from the feel of the sheets against him. Yes, he would groan into that secret, hidden place, his tongue probing until finding that little nub, lifting the flap of frighteningly delicate skin to lick right at the spot that always makes her whimper.
(If he were a contortionist, he might lick her and enter her at the same time. But he is not and so must content himself to lick her and swirl that hot nub with his tongue while his fingers slowly push into her tight wetness, one, then two, then three until she clenches tight around him, the nub so much harder now. And he would keep licking while she writhed beneath his ministrations, until her hips bucked into his face and she stilled beneath him, chest heaving with each ragged breath. So beautiful, so very beautiful.)
And he would smile, and…kiss her forehead and…pull her into his arms. Wrap himself around her as they both slipped away in the night…
He sighs into her stomach, murmuring against the soft cotton of her shift. What he is dreaming she doesn't know, but it is so lovely to see him at peace, free from his nightmares. She squeezes his fingers tight, rubbing her thumb in gentle circles over the back of his hand. Carefully she smooths down his ruffled hair, and draws the bed sheets up to his shoulders, tucking them tight around him. He is not wearing the mask tonight – she eased it from him and set it on the bedside locker, beside the gas lamp. It is so nice to see his face, smooth and easy now in sleep. How she has grown used to those strange hollows and sharp dips…
Her poor husband. Her heart twists for all that he once endured. If she could – if she thought he would let her and not balk for fear of disgusting her with his scars – she would kiss every inch of his body and swear never to leave him. Perhaps she will convince him, someday, and repay some of the tremendous love he has shown her.
Her throat aches with all she dares not speak into the darkness, and her back protests as she twists herself, bending down to press a kiss to his forehead. He snuffles slightly, and she smiles, lying back against the pillows. For tonight, this is enough, at least.