Roses and Lace
Chapter 25
Morning found them still wrapped around each other in a tangle of limbs. John woke first and simply watched as the rising sun brought out the pink and cream hues of his wife's skin, the shimmer of gold in her auburn hair.
He had never had much of an appreciation for art, even during his few years at school, but now he thought he could understand something about awe-inspiring beauty. Lovelier than any sculpture or painting, and here she was, warm and naked in his arms.
Part of him wanted to pull her even closer and feel her, feel all of her. Part of him wanted to slip out of the bed down onto his knees and pray in fervent gratitude.
Margaret was stirring. She slowly blinked open her chestnut eyes and looked straight into his own. He could almost see her remember where she was. He saw a flush spread over her cheeks and all the way down to the space between her breasts. But she kept watching him. She did not look away.
"Good morning, wife," he murmured.
She smiled.
"Good morning, husband."
He hadn't planned to inconvenience her this morning. He had ignored the urgent throbbing that had accompanied his waking. But there she was naked in his arms and watching him serenely, and then she tilted her head back a fraction just so, and so he had to lean forward and kiss her lips... and then her jaw... and then her neck... He had to run his fingers through her glorious hair. He had to trail the palms of his hands around the soft heaviness of her breasts, the gentle curve of her belly, to the thick curls of hair, and then...
He started slowly. He listened for her soft sighs and quiet gasps. And it was so much easier this time. She was so wet and so soft and so ready for him. Her gasps turned to moans and then she was holding onto his back and before he knew it he was thrusting into her faster and harder than he'd ever intended but she was clinging onto him and crying out and clenching all around him and then his own crisis came.
After they had washed up and dressed they only had time to take a couple of pasties from the cook in order to get to the station in time. Any train leaving London was crowded, and this one was no different. John longed for an empty train car but had to settle for one with a man in the corner engrossed in his newspaper. The man only grunted at them when John and Margaret took their seats.
Now that she was put back together in her maroon traveling dress and brown duster Margaret looked almost the way she had when John first met her, when she had reprimanded him for striking the man who lit a match in his mill. He had been astounded by this forthright, passionate, beautiful woman, and that feeling had never changed. It almost seemed like a dream he had had that they had been married, that they had come together as man and wife. The image of her undressed, her hair falling across the sheets, with the morning sun shining gently on her skin... it was like some heavenly vision.
Fully clothed she was just as beautiful, but there was something less approachable... but for her eyes and her lips and the wisps of hair that caressed her forehead and her delicate hands and wrists.
John wondered for how many stops their train car companion would remain on the train.
Margaret had been quiet all morning. Shy. Not that he himself had spoken much.
She was sitting next to him and looking out the window, but there was something quietly content in her posture. Her hand was entwined with his and she was sitting close next to him, and when he looked down at her, she looked over at him and smiled.