Ficlet
He waits in bed until she's returned from her morning shower - a routine that's become comfortable in the few weeks since he made her apartment his home. The décor isn't quite his style, but perhaps he needs to be grateful for the lack of cool blues and jagged edges. Waking up in sunlight in an almost-too-comfortable bed, with Martha snuggled in his arms… He'd give up more than bonsai trees and ceramic sculptures for that.
Once, he had been the one with the tiring schedule, the days plotted out to the minute, with even traveling time dedicated to briefings and phone calls and - very occasionally - such irritating needs as eating, using the restroom, and speaking to his family. Now, he's learned to use every trick in the book to keep her here.
Lionel stretches out, hearing her humming to herself in the shower, rubbing his stubbled cheek and yawning. He had never thought he might enjoy retirement (if that is what this is), but with her it seems as though he might finally have his rewards.
He combs his fingers through his hair as she comes to him, her hair dark with water, her body loosely covered in a white robe that somehow remains soft and fluffy no matter how often she washes it. Lionel has never understood the mysteries of laundry.
"I have to go," she murmurs, one knee on the edge of the mattress as she leans in to kiss him, and he reaches to untie the robe, pushing it away from her shoulders, pulling her into his warmth. She might win debates every day in meetings and committees and even on the senate floor, but not with him, not here.
"They'll wait," he says, the same way he says it every day, his arms around her, the slight dampness on her skin dissipating against the heat of his body and the dry comfort of the sheets. She shouldn't shower first. They both know she'll succumb to him, that she'll find herself in a cab on the way to her senate office with the scent of him on her body, the feel of him between her legs. He likes to think that's why she does it.
He's hard for her, and she's wet once his fingers stroke there - once, twice - and she sinks down onto him with a sigh that might be a breath more of relief than pleasure. "Lionel…"
He loves that note in her voice, that whimper of need. He might seem more restrained, but he knows that she can feel it in him as well, the tension of his muscles, the urgency in every thrust of his hips.
She's sensitive about her body, sometimes - to his mind - absurdly so: teenage insecurities emphasized and compounded by fears of old age. But she must know how he feels, she must see the way he looks at her now, as if she's a goddess, as if she's every adolescent fantasy and adult need made flesh while his hands trace her flat stomach and full breasts, rub soothingly over her lower back as she leans down to kiss him.
It's always quick and sweet in the mornings, much as he'd like to make her stay. At the weekends, or on public holidays, he'll lock the door and stock up on fine wine and beautiful music, and keep her in his arms as long as he can, savoring the taste and touch of her like a starving man. Now though, now…
Her eyes go wide as his fingers find just the right rhythm in just the right place, his breathing harsh, and he feels her, truly feels her, his back arched up, her head tossed back.
"I love you," he says when she's calm and snuggled against his chest, his heart still pounding. He says it mostly because he can, because he likes saying it and knowing that she knows it's true.
"I really have to go," she tells him, her voice just a little muffled as her fingertips absently play with the hair on his chest.
But, for now, at least, she stays.
Once, he had been the one with the tiring schedule, the days plotted out to the minute, with even traveling time dedicated to briefings and phone calls and - very occasionally - such irritating needs as eating, using the restroom, and speaking to his family. Now, he's learned to use every trick in the book to keep her here.
Lionel stretches out, hearing her humming to herself in the shower, rubbing his stubbled cheek and yawning. He had never thought he might enjoy retirement (if that is what this is), but with her it seems as though he might finally have his rewards.
He combs his fingers through his hair as she comes to him, her hair dark with water, her body loosely covered in a white robe that somehow remains soft and fluffy no matter how often she washes it. Lionel has never understood the mysteries of laundry.
"I have to go," she murmurs, one knee on the edge of the mattress as she leans in to kiss him, and he reaches to untie the robe, pushing it away from her shoulders, pulling her into his warmth. She might win debates every day in meetings and committees and even on the senate floor, but not with him, not here.
"They'll wait," he says, the same way he says it every day, his arms around her, the slight dampness on her skin dissipating against the heat of his body and the dry comfort of the sheets. She shouldn't shower first. They both know she'll succumb to him, that she'll find herself in a cab on the way to her senate office with the scent of him on her body, the feel of him between her legs. He likes to think that's why she does it.
He's hard for her, and she's wet once his fingers stroke there - once, twice - and she sinks down onto him with a sigh that might be a breath more of relief than pleasure. "Lionel…"
He loves that note in her voice, that whimper of need. He might seem more restrained, but he knows that she can feel it in him as well, the tension of his muscles, the urgency in every thrust of his hips.
She's sensitive about her body, sometimes - to his mind - absurdly so: teenage insecurities emphasized and compounded by fears of old age. But she must know how he feels, she must see the way he looks at her now, as if she's a goddess, as if she's every adolescent fantasy and adult need made flesh while his hands trace her flat stomach and full breasts, rub soothingly over her lower back as she leans down to kiss him.
It's always quick and sweet in the mornings, much as he'd like to make her stay. At the weekends, or on public holidays, he'll lock the door and stock up on fine wine and beautiful music, and keep her in his arms as long as he can, savoring the taste and touch of her like a starving man. Now though, now…
Her eyes go wide as his fingers find just the right rhythm in just the right place, his breathing harsh, and he feels her, truly feels her, his back arched up, her head tossed back.
"I love you," he says when she's calm and snuggled against his chest, his heart still pounding. He says it mostly because he can, because he likes saying it and knowing that she knows it's true.
"I really have to go," she tells him, her voice just a little muffled as her fingertips absently play with the hair on his chest.
But, for now, at least, she stays.