A Burns Thing
He met her at the train station, was once again amazed by the intensity of feeling that consumed him when he saw her on the platform, looking for him. The smile which spread across her face when she saw him made his heart stop, and he wondered how long it would be before he finally had the courage to tell her exactly how he felt about her.
They went for a light supper at a proper restaurant-Rose still enjoyed teasing him about his preference for places that only did takeaway-and were generally silent, perfectly content to just be in each other’s company. Although it had been two weeks since they’d last met, they’d spoken to each other far more often-even something as simple as a quick phone call to say “Hello” before ringing off and returning to work. They’d been doing this for three months now, Rose coming up on long weekends, he ducking down to London for a day; or, rarely, the two of them meeting somewhere in-between for a mini-break. He’d even taken her to his gran’s cottage, letting her see a part of his life that few people, other than the tax collector and his brother, knew about.
Dinner was enjoyable for both of them but he could see how tired Rose was, in spite of her efforts to hide it. It had been a long day for her, trying to get work wrapped up in Greenwich so she could come up to Kendal for the long weekend. Instead of the walk he’d planned he took her home, and her grateful smile when they pulled up to the familiar facade caused him to feel a warm contentment. He’d hoped they’d be able to greet each other properly once inside, but she looked so exhausted he encouraged her to go to sleep instead. They had three days, after all-he’d have plenty of time later to express his gratitude that she was there, with him, once more.
He’d come straight from work to meet her, and took the opportunity of Rose getting ready for bed to grab a quick shower before joining her. Hair still damp, he walked out of the en-suite tying the string on his pyjama bottoms; the sight in front of him brought him to an abrupt halt. Rose was already snug in bed, the deep red duvet pulled up around her, her blond hair shining in the half-light of the lamp on his nightstand. She was asleep, her face relaxed, and he once more marvelled at how beautiful she was, especially when she was so unguarded.
He fought back the urge to kiss her awake, to show her exactly how she made him feel, instead quietly finishing getting ready before joining her. He walked noiselessly to the bed, carefully leaned his pillow against the headboard, silently rolled his side of the duvet back so he could crawl under it and settle in for a quick bit of reading in an effort to calm his mind and body. He glanced over the books on the small bedside table, finally settling on the slim volume of Burns he’d procured from the used bookseller in the Market Hall years before. It wasn’t original, not by a stretch, but it was still old. He enjoyed the smell of the paper, the rough feel of it against his fingers, and had happily parted with a few pounds for the pleasure of owning it. It had got him through many rough patches, and he always found it a soothing touchstone when things were getting a bit intense.
He slowly eased himself onto the bed, keeping a careful eye on Rose to make sure he didn’t awaken her. Tucking his legs under the duvet, leaning his back against the pillow, he gently brought the deep red fabric up over his hips before reaching for his glasses and the volume of poetry.
He was halfway through “O Thou Dread Power” when Rose stirred. As he looked over, he saw her blinking sleepily; she shifted slightly, moving so she could look at him, and he smiled down at her.
“Sorry,” he whispered.
“Mmms’watchyoureading?” she replied groggily.
“Burns,” he answered quietly.
A soft smile spread across Rose’s sleep-flushed face. “Brushin’ up’n case y’need t’trot it out at an abandoned warehouse?” Her voice was still thick with sleep, her natural accent coming through, but her eyes were growing brighter.
He closed the book, his finger marking his place. “I’ll have you know, I don’t use it on just anyone,” he said, his voice low.
“’s a relief.” Rose wriggled, moving her arms out from under the warmth of the duvet before shifting over to lay against him. He scooted down, the book still held in one of his hands, and brought an arm around Rose as she curled against his body. She rested her head on his chest with a sigh, and he shivered as her breath ghosted across his skin.
He bent down, brushing a light kiss over the crown of her head, fighting down a smile as she ‘hmm’-ed appreciatively. He began to lightly stroke her arm with the hand holding her to him, while he brought the one holding the book up to eye level. With a bit of manipulation he was able to get the book open, using his fingers to hold the pages as he supported the weight of the volume with his hand. The room once more fell silent, Peter reading as Rose began to relax again, her hand splayed across his chest.
This, he thought, is just about the most perfect night imaginable.
He’d once more made it halfway through the poem when Rose’s voice startled him.
“Read to me?” Her voice was muffled, the sound vibrating against his skin, and she turned her head to look up towards him. The look in her eyes caused his heart to skip, and he once more thought about telling her how he felt about her. Maybe he could, without having to actually say the words.
“If you like,” he replied. Rose smiled softly at him, and he began.
O Thou dread Power, who reign'st above,
I know thou wilt me hear,
When for this scene of peace and love,
I make this prayer sincere.
He paused, his eyes straying to Rose’s face. She was still looking at him, her eyes full of emotion, and he swallowed before returning his attention to the poem and continuing.
The hoary Sire-the mortal stroke,
Long, long be pleas'd to spare;
To bless this little filial flock,
And show what good men are.
She, who her lovely offspring eyes
With tender hopes and fears,
O bless her with a mother's joys,
But spare a mother's tears!
He felt Rose move slightly, and glanced down to see her head had tilted forward to a more comfortable angle. Her hand was lightly stroking up and down his breastbone, and he took a steadying breath before once more reading out loud.
Their hope, their stay, their darling youth.
In manhood's dawning blush,
Bless him, Thou God of love and truth,
Up to a parent's wish.
The beauteous, seraph sister-band-
With earnest tears I pray-
Thou know'st the snares on ev'ry hand,
Guide Thou their steps alway.
When, soon or late, they reach that coast,
O'er Life's rough ocean driven,
May they rejoice, no wand'rer lost,
A family in Heaven!
Rose’s breath was even, her hand still, and he could see the dark lines of her eyelashes against the pale curve of her cheek. He moved slightly, trying to flip through the pages with minimal motion and noise, and finally found the poem he was looking for. He glanced down again at Rose, noted that she seemed to be dozing, and decided to take the plunge.
Ithers seek they ken na what,
Features, carriage, and a' that;
Gie me love in her I court,
Love to love maks a' the sport.
Let love sparkle in her e'e;
Let her lo'e nae man but me;
That's the tocher-gude I prize,
There the luver's treasure lies.
He finished, his voice soft, his throat tight with emotion, and he quietly folded the book closed as he lowered it to his side. Rose was still-too still.
She was awake.
He felt his heart begin to race as adrenaline coursed through his system, and fear began to steal through him as he worried that he might have made a mistake. Maybe it was too soon for her? Maybe she didn’t feel the same certainty he did--maybe she just liked and didn’t love him.
He knew he must have loved her since their first date, lying on the castle green and trying to find shapes in the clouds overhead. It hadn’t been until she had left Kendal-and come back-that he’d realized it, though; that magical night at the Inn, when the reality of his feelings had practically knocked him senseless. He’d spent the months since doing everything he could to keep their relationship going, to find a way to be with her all of the time instead of during stolen weekends.
He wanted her with him but knew it wouldn’t be fair to ask her to give up her job to move to Kendal; where once he would have unthinkingly demanded it of her to drop everything and come to him, he now was trying to find a way to rearrange his life so she wouldn’t have to.
He set the slim volume of poetry on the table, reached up with his now-free hand to remove his glasses. Rose was still lying against him, her hand still splayed across his chest-and she still remained motionless. He swallowed, unsure of what to do, what to say; he was only able to take shallow breaths as his heart continued to race.
The room was heavy with silence, tension permeating the small space. Peter began to kick himself for ruining such a perfect moment. Yet again, he’d been unable to rein in his emotions, to keep things on an even keel, to let Rose dictate the pace of things. He leaned his head back, closing his eyes as he let out a sigh.
He felt Rose stir, her head shifting; as she moved position, he felt the sudden chill of air cooling liquid on his skin. His eyes flew open and he looked down at her in panic: Was she crying? He’d not be able to forgive himself for making her cry again.
“Rose. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…I just…” His voice was soft, hurried; his panic at hurting her made him unable to form a coherent thought. He shifted before gently easing her head off his chest so he could roll to face her. She kept her eyes averted, looking down towards his abdomen; he didn’t miss her attempt to wipe her eyes or hide her soft sniffle, and he felt his stomach drop even further. “Rose.” His voice was quiet, carrying a plea for her to look at him.
She sniffled once more, softly, before raising her eyes to his. They glistened with unshed tears, and he felt his heart break. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have read that.”
She blinked, her expression confused, and he felt a small glimmer of hope. She closed her eyes, shook her head as if trying to clear it of cobwebs; he held his breath, waiting for her to speak. When she reopened her eyes, her gaze was clear; she focused on him with an intensity that made his breath hitch.
“That was beautiful.” Her voice was low, full of emotion, and he felt a tremor of love and excitement run up his spine. “I…” She dropped her gaze, faltering; he was reminded of the time in the Spanish restaurant, when she’d had to summon up the courage to tell him that she wanted to stay in Kendal because of him. As she had that night, she took a deep breath, raised her eyes back to his; her body was tense as she paused one last time before speaking. “I…” Her voice faltered again, and she closed her eyes in frustration.
“Shh, it’s ok,” he whispered. It was enough to know that she thought the words, that she was feeling something like he was. He leaned forward, slowly, brushed a soft kiss over her forehead.
She opened her eyes at that, her emotions-her love-showing clearly in her gaze, and he felt a quiet joy fill his soul. His lips slowly quirked into a smile, the gentle beam he reserved only for her, and her lips curved in response. They were soon giggling, both of them, the intensity of the moment and the ensuing relief that the feelings-if not the actual words-had been shared overwhelming them, and he pulled her to him in a hug.
He rolled onto his back once more, Rose curled into his embrace; his giddiness eventually wore off until he was simply grinning. Rose looked up at him, eyes bright with happiness, and it was the most natural thing in the world to lean down and kiss her, his lips lightly brushing across hers in an undemanding, unhurried, show of his affection. She arched upwards into the kiss, her lips pressing into his, warm and soft, and he felt a flash of heat at the realization that this was their first kiss as true-acknowledged-lovers.
He wasn’t sure who shifted, who deepened the kiss; he was soon lost in the movement of her lips against his, the press of her body along his ribs, his hips. She draped one of her legs over his, rubbing against him as she moved closer, the heat of her body like a line of fire against his over-sensitive skin. With his arms, he pulled her against him, helped her to move so she was soon lying on top of him, and he spared only a brief thought for turning out the light before dismissing the idea and returning all of his attention to the woman on top of him.
They kissed for a long while, each enjoying the simple intimacy. Rose would periodically break the kiss, running her tongue lightly along his jaw before nibbling on his earlobe, or trying to kiss each of his freckles; other times, he’d move to pepper her cheeks with soft kisses or to lightly scrape his teeth along her neck. He finally tired of trying to reach her collarbones and deftly rolled them, holding to her as he moved so he was above her. Rose’s back safely on the bed, he moved his arms, bracing himself so he could look down at her; she wiggled an arm free and brushed her hair out of her face before reaching a hand up and gently trailing a finger along his jaw. His eyes involuntarily closed, his body attuned to the path of her index finger as it continued, down his neck, across his shoulder, slanting a line across his chest; as she rotated her hand, moving it so her palm was flat against his stomach, he opened his eyes. She paused, caught in his gaze, and time briefly stopped.
They’d done this, several times before; he still dreamt of the reality of their first time, still thought it the single most spectacular shag of his life even with all of the imperfections of a first time together, but this was something altogether different. The enormity of it hit him, the realization that, finally, this would be about more than just sex for both of them-not that he’d ever thought that it was that simple. This time, it would be about making love in the truest sense of the phrase. He felt his chest tighten, felt his eyes prick with tears. Rose looked up at him, trusting, her love for him clear in her eyes, and he held her gaze as he leaned down and kissed her in an echo of the kiss that had started their current activity.
There was something intensely erotic about kissing a lover with eyes open, and by the time Rose’s hand had wiggled down into his pyjama bottoms, he was more than ready for her attentions.
They made love, no words spoken, in the light of the single little lamp, each moving and reacting as though this was the first time they’d discovered each other. With the exception of finding a condom and getting undressed, they moved slowly, languidly, enjoying exploring what made the other sigh softly, or take a sharp breath. Rose came first, her eyes shining with tears as she fought to keep them open, her gaze locked with his. Her muscles were still clenching around him when his orgasm hit. He wanted to weep with the depth of emotion, the profound love he was feeling at that moment; he couldn’t recall ever feeling something so incredibly extraordinary.
He didn’t want to lose this. Ever.
He finally closed his eyes as the wave of his orgasm receded, the image of Rose under him proving to be far too much on top of everything he was feeling. As he dropped his head forward, he felt Rose move; her knuckles brushed lightly over his cheek before her hand turned over, her fingers now running through his hair. God, how he loved the feeling of that. While most women he’d shagged liked to run their hands through his hair, Rose was the only one who treated it as something special; she’d not done it until well after they’d started dating, and she only did it when it was just the two of them, when things were particularly intimate or intense. It made him savour the action-the sensation-that much more, and he sighed in pleasure.
His arms were growing tired, and it was with reluctance that he slid out of Rose and rolled off of her. He turned to the edge of the bed, removed his condom and disposed of it before once more moving to lie on his side, looking at her. She rolled to face him, her hands tucked under her head, her eyes drinking him in. They’d still not said a word, and he wondered who would break the silence first.
They gazed at each other for a long while, content to look, to think about what they were feeling. Peter was tactile, though, and finally reached out to lightly stroke Rose’s cheek. She closed her eyes, then, leaned into his touch; he scooted just a bit closer, to make it easier to gently caress her, his eyes following his fingers as they mapped her features, as they ran lightly through her hair, as they traced a line along her collarbone or her shoulder. He shifted his eyes, watching as she relaxed once more, her lips curving gently; and it was only a matter of minutes later that she was deep asleep, her breathing even.
He moved slowly, making sure he could find the edge of the duvet before turning, reaching over to the bedside table, turning off the light. The room plunged into darkness; he sat up, found the duvet, and pulled it up along the length of the bed. Ensuring that Rose was tucked underneath, he lay back down on his side facing Rose.
His eyes adjusted to the darkness, Peter watched Rose until his eyelids began to droop. As he was starting to doze she rolled over, her back now to him, and he moved to spoon against her. He brought an arm protectively around her waist, scooted forward that last little bit more until her body was flush against his, and let out a sigh. Brushing a final goodnight kiss across her hair, he whispered, “I love you, Rose.”
“I love you, Peter,” she mumbled sleepily, before snuggling into his warmth.
They went for a light supper at a proper restaurant-Rose still enjoyed teasing him about his preference for places that only did takeaway-and were generally silent, perfectly content to just be in each other’s company. Although it had been two weeks since they’d last met, they’d spoken to each other far more often-even something as simple as a quick phone call to say “Hello” before ringing off and returning to work. They’d been doing this for three months now, Rose coming up on long weekends, he ducking down to London for a day; or, rarely, the two of them meeting somewhere in-between for a mini-break. He’d even taken her to his gran’s cottage, letting her see a part of his life that few people, other than the tax collector and his brother, knew about.
Dinner was enjoyable for both of them but he could see how tired Rose was, in spite of her efforts to hide it. It had been a long day for her, trying to get work wrapped up in Greenwich so she could come up to Kendal for the long weekend. Instead of the walk he’d planned he took her home, and her grateful smile when they pulled up to the familiar facade caused him to feel a warm contentment. He’d hoped they’d be able to greet each other properly once inside, but she looked so exhausted he encouraged her to go to sleep instead. They had three days, after all-he’d have plenty of time later to express his gratitude that she was there, with him, once more.
He’d come straight from work to meet her, and took the opportunity of Rose getting ready for bed to grab a quick shower before joining her. Hair still damp, he walked out of the en-suite tying the string on his pyjama bottoms; the sight in front of him brought him to an abrupt halt. Rose was already snug in bed, the deep red duvet pulled up around her, her blond hair shining in the half-light of the lamp on his nightstand. She was asleep, her face relaxed, and he once more marvelled at how beautiful she was, especially when she was so unguarded.
He fought back the urge to kiss her awake, to show her exactly how she made him feel, instead quietly finishing getting ready before joining her. He walked noiselessly to the bed, carefully leaned his pillow against the headboard, silently rolled his side of the duvet back so he could crawl under it and settle in for a quick bit of reading in an effort to calm his mind and body. He glanced over the books on the small bedside table, finally settling on the slim volume of Burns he’d procured from the used bookseller in the Market Hall years before. It wasn’t original, not by a stretch, but it was still old. He enjoyed the smell of the paper, the rough feel of it against his fingers, and had happily parted with a few pounds for the pleasure of owning it. It had got him through many rough patches, and he always found it a soothing touchstone when things were getting a bit intense.
He slowly eased himself onto the bed, keeping a careful eye on Rose to make sure he didn’t awaken her. Tucking his legs under the duvet, leaning his back against the pillow, he gently brought the deep red fabric up over his hips before reaching for his glasses and the volume of poetry.
He was halfway through “O Thou Dread Power” when Rose stirred. As he looked over, he saw her blinking sleepily; she shifted slightly, moving so she could look at him, and he smiled down at her.
“Sorry,” he whispered.
“Mmms’watchyoureading?” she replied groggily.
“Burns,” he answered quietly.
A soft smile spread across Rose’s sleep-flushed face. “Brushin’ up’n case y’need t’trot it out at an abandoned warehouse?” Her voice was still thick with sleep, her natural accent coming through, but her eyes were growing brighter.
He closed the book, his finger marking his place. “I’ll have you know, I don’t use it on just anyone,” he said, his voice low.
“’s a relief.” Rose wriggled, moving her arms out from under the warmth of the duvet before shifting over to lay against him. He scooted down, the book still held in one of his hands, and brought an arm around Rose as she curled against his body. She rested her head on his chest with a sigh, and he shivered as her breath ghosted across his skin.
He bent down, brushing a light kiss over the crown of her head, fighting down a smile as she ‘hmm’-ed appreciatively. He began to lightly stroke her arm with the hand holding her to him, while he brought the one holding the book up to eye level. With a bit of manipulation he was able to get the book open, using his fingers to hold the pages as he supported the weight of the volume with his hand. The room once more fell silent, Peter reading as Rose began to relax again, her hand splayed across his chest.
This, he thought, is just about the most perfect night imaginable.
He’d once more made it halfway through the poem when Rose’s voice startled him.
“Read to me?” Her voice was muffled, the sound vibrating against his skin, and she turned her head to look up towards him. The look in her eyes caused his heart to skip, and he once more thought about telling her how he felt about her. Maybe he could, without having to actually say the words.
“If you like,” he replied. Rose smiled softly at him, and he began.
O Thou dread Power, who reign'st above,
I know thou wilt me hear,
When for this scene of peace and love,
I make this prayer sincere.
He paused, his eyes straying to Rose’s face. She was still looking at him, her eyes full of emotion, and he swallowed before returning his attention to the poem and continuing.
The hoary Sire-the mortal stroke,
Long, long be pleas'd to spare;
To bless this little filial flock,
And show what good men are.
She, who her lovely offspring eyes
With tender hopes and fears,
O bless her with a mother's joys,
But spare a mother's tears!
He felt Rose move slightly, and glanced down to see her head had tilted forward to a more comfortable angle. Her hand was lightly stroking up and down his breastbone, and he took a steadying breath before once more reading out loud.
Their hope, their stay, their darling youth.
In manhood's dawning blush,
Bless him, Thou God of love and truth,
Up to a parent's wish.
The beauteous, seraph sister-band-
With earnest tears I pray-
Thou know'st the snares on ev'ry hand,
Guide Thou their steps alway.
When, soon or late, they reach that coast,
O'er Life's rough ocean driven,
May they rejoice, no wand'rer lost,
A family in Heaven!
Rose’s breath was even, her hand still, and he could see the dark lines of her eyelashes against the pale curve of her cheek. He moved slightly, trying to flip through the pages with minimal motion and noise, and finally found the poem he was looking for. He glanced down again at Rose, noted that she seemed to be dozing, and decided to take the plunge.
Ithers seek they ken na what,
Features, carriage, and a' that;
Gie me love in her I court,
Love to love maks a' the sport.
Let love sparkle in her e'e;
Let her lo'e nae man but me;
That's the tocher-gude I prize,
There the luver's treasure lies.
He finished, his voice soft, his throat tight with emotion, and he quietly folded the book closed as he lowered it to his side. Rose was still-too still.
She was awake.
He felt his heart begin to race as adrenaline coursed through his system, and fear began to steal through him as he worried that he might have made a mistake. Maybe it was too soon for her? Maybe she didn’t feel the same certainty he did--maybe she just liked and didn’t love him.
He knew he must have loved her since their first date, lying on the castle green and trying to find shapes in the clouds overhead. It hadn’t been until she had left Kendal-and come back-that he’d realized it, though; that magical night at the Inn, when the reality of his feelings had practically knocked him senseless. He’d spent the months since doing everything he could to keep their relationship going, to find a way to be with her all of the time instead of during stolen weekends.
He wanted her with him but knew it wouldn’t be fair to ask her to give up her job to move to Kendal; where once he would have unthinkingly demanded it of her to drop everything and come to him, he now was trying to find a way to rearrange his life so she wouldn’t have to.
He set the slim volume of poetry on the table, reached up with his now-free hand to remove his glasses. Rose was still lying against him, her hand still splayed across his chest-and she still remained motionless. He swallowed, unsure of what to do, what to say; he was only able to take shallow breaths as his heart continued to race.
The room was heavy with silence, tension permeating the small space. Peter began to kick himself for ruining such a perfect moment. Yet again, he’d been unable to rein in his emotions, to keep things on an even keel, to let Rose dictate the pace of things. He leaned his head back, closing his eyes as he let out a sigh.
He felt Rose stir, her head shifting; as she moved position, he felt the sudden chill of air cooling liquid on his skin. His eyes flew open and he looked down at her in panic: Was she crying? He’d not be able to forgive himself for making her cry again.
“Rose. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…I just…” His voice was soft, hurried; his panic at hurting her made him unable to form a coherent thought. He shifted before gently easing her head off his chest so he could roll to face her. She kept her eyes averted, looking down towards his abdomen; he didn’t miss her attempt to wipe her eyes or hide her soft sniffle, and he felt his stomach drop even further. “Rose.” His voice was quiet, carrying a plea for her to look at him.
She sniffled once more, softly, before raising her eyes to his. They glistened with unshed tears, and he felt his heart break. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have read that.”
She blinked, her expression confused, and he felt a small glimmer of hope. She closed her eyes, shook her head as if trying to clear it of cobwebs; he held his breath, waiting for her to speak. When she reopened her eyes, her gaze was clear; she focused on him with an intensity that made his breath hitch.
“That was beautiful.” Her voice was low, full of emotion, and he felt a tremor of love and excitement run up his spine. “I…” She dropped her gaze, faltering; he was reminded of the time in the Spanish restaurant, when she’d had to summon up the courage to tell him that she wanted to stay in Kendal because of him. As she had that night, she took a deep breath, raised her eyes back to his; her body was tense as she paused one last time before speaking. “I…” Her voice faltered again, and she closed her eyes in frustration.
“Shh, it’s ok,” he whispered. It was enough to know that she thought the words, that she was feeling something like he was. He leaned forward, slowly, brushed a soft kiss over her forehead.
She opened her eyes at that, her emotions-her love-showing clearly in her gaze, and he felt a quiet joy fill his soul. His lips slowly quirked into a smile, the gentle beam he reserved only for her, and her lips curved in response. They were soon giggling, both of them, the intensity of the moment and the ensuing relief that the feelings-if not the actual words-had been shared overwhelming them, and he pulled her to him in a hug.
He rolled onto his back once more, Rose curled into his embrace; his giddiness eventually wore off until he was simply grinning. Rose looked up at him, eyes bright with happiness, and it was the most natural thing in the world to lean down and kiss her, his lips lightly brushing across hers in an undemanding, unhurried, show of his affection. She arched upwards into the kiss, her lips pressing into his, warm and soft, and he felt a flash of heat at the realization that this was their first kiss as true-acknowledged-lovers.
He wasn’t sure who shifted, who deepened the kiss; he was soon lost in the movement of her lips against his, the press of her body along his ribs, his hips. She draped one of her legs over his, rubbing against him as she moved closer, the heat of her body like a line of fire against his over-sensitive skin. With his arms, he pulled her against him, helped her to move so she was soon lying on top of him, and he spared only a brief thought for turning out the light before dismissing the idea and returning all of his attention to the woman on top of him.
They kissed for a long while, each enjoying the simple intimacy. Rose would periodically break the kiss, running her tongue lightly along his jaw before nibbling on his earlobe, or trying to kiss each of his freckles; other times, he’d move to pepper her cheeks with soft kisses or to lightly scrape his teeth along her neck. He finally tired of trying to reach her collarbones and deftly rolled them, holding to her as he moved so he was above her. Rose’s back safely on the bed, he moved his arms, bracing himself so he could look down at her; she wiggled an arm free and brushed her hair out of her face before reaching a hand up and gently trailing a finger along his jaw. His eyes involuntarily closed, his body attuned to the path of her index finger as it continued, down his neck, across his shoulder, slanting a line across his chest; as she rotated her hand, moving it so her palm was flat against his stomach, he opened his eyes. She paused, caught in his gaze, and time briefly stopped.
They’d done this, several times before; he still dreamt of the reality of their first time, still thought it the single most spectacular shag of his life even with all of the imperfections of a first time together, but this was something altogether different. The enormity of it hit him, the realization that, finally, this would be about more than just sex for both of them-not that he’d ever thought that it was that simple. This time, it would be about making love in the truest sense of the phrase. He felt his chest tighten, felt his eyes prick with tears. Rose looked up at him, trusting, her love for him clear in her eyes, and he held her gaze as he leaned down and kissed her in an echo of the kiss that had started their current activity.
There was something intensely erotic about kissing a lover with eyes open, and by the time Rose’s hand had wiggled down into his pyjama bottoms, he was more than ready for her attentions.
They made love, no words spoken, in the light of the single little lamp, each moving and reacting as though this was the first time they’d discovered each other. With the exception of finding a condom and getting undressed, they moved slowly, languidly, enjoying exploring what made the other sigh softly, or take a sharp breath. Rose came first, her eyes shining with tears as she fought to keep them open, her gaze locked with his. Her muscles were still clenching around him when his orgasm hit. He wanted to weep with the depth of emotion, the profound love he was feeling at that moment; he couldn’t recall ever feeling something so incredibly extraordinary.
He didn’t want to lose this. Ever.
He finally closed his eyes as the wave of his orgasm receded, the image of Rose under him proving to be far too much on top of everything he was feeling. As he dropped his head forward, he felt Rose move; her knuckles brushed lightly over his cheek before her hand turned over, her fingers now running through his hair. God, how he loved the feeling of that. While most women he’d shagged liked to run their hands through his hair, Rose was the only one who treated it as something special; she’d not done it until well after they’d started dating, and she only did it when it was just the two of them, when things were particularly intimate or intense. It made him savour the action-the sensation-that much more, and he sighed in pleasure.
His arms were growing tired, and it was with reluctance that he slid out of Rose and rolled off of her. He turned to the edge of the bed, removed his condom and disposed of it before once more moving to lie on his side, looking at her. She rolled to face him, her hands tucked under her head, her eyes drinking him in. They’d still not said a word, and he wondered who would break the silence first.
They gazed at each other for a long while, content to look, to think about what they were feeling. Peter was tactile, though, and finally reached out to lightly stroke Rose’s cheek. She closed her eyes, then, leaned into his touch; he scooted just a bit closer, to make it easier to gently caress her, his eyes following his fingers as they mapped her features, as they ran lightly through her hair, as they traced a line along her collarbone or her shoulder. He shifted his eyes, watching as she relaxed once more, her lips curving gently; and it was only a matter of minutes later that she was deep asleep, her breathing even.
He moved slowly, making sure he could find the edge of the duvet before turning, reaching over to the bedside table, turning off the light. The room plunged into darkness; he sat up, found the duvet, and pulled it up along the length of the bed. Ensuring that Rose was tucked underneath, he lay back down on his side facing Rose.
His eyes adjusted to the darkness, Peter watched Rose until his eyelids began to droop. As he was starting to doze she rolled over, her back now to him, and he moved to spoon against her. He brought an arm protectively around her waist, scooted forward that last little bit more until her body was flush against his, and let out a sigh. Brushing a final goodnight kiss across her hair, he whispered, “I love you, Rose.”
“I love you, Peter,” she mumbled sleepily, before snuggling into his warmth.