morning
Even though his eyes are closed, he feels her move across his room, past the foot of his bed to the window. Two swift tugs part them, allowing the sunlight to stream hazily into the room. He knows that she will stand for a moment to look out the window, lifting her chin to welcome the warmth with her face, before turning to fill the water jug on his night table.
He sees all of this without opening his eyes because he has replayed this routine over and over again in his mind, and experienced it over and over again each morning for the past few days since Merlin had fallen ill and Gaius had quarantined him in their chambers.
He knows that she is treading softly so as not to wake him. Even though she has not said it, he knows that being in his room causes her some discomfort. While she is too chaste to give words to her feelings, he, being more earthy, has not only defined his thoughts and feelings, but given shape to them in his dreams.
The quiet gurgle of the water tells him that she is near. His hand, flung over the side of the bed, is at such an angle that the slightest movement of his fingers would allow him to brush against her skirts, perhaps rub the fine material of them between his fingertips.
He does not know how, but his thoughts have become actions and he can feel the light coarseness of her dress and combined with the smell of the flowers she has in her hair and now, the light gasp of surprise as she realises he is awake, he is overwhelmed.
Reflexively she steps back, exclaiming his name. Instinctively he rises, moving towards her. And before she can utter another word, he has pulled her down on top of him, and despite her efforts to brace herself, she is poised above him, regarding him with a look of surprise, fear and longing that reinvigorates his daring.
He strokes her face gently, moves his hands ever slowly to tangle in her curls. When she realises she is entrapped, she tenses, then relaxes, the heaving of her bosom marking time with her breathing.
Not so gently, he pulls her face to his. She does not resist. Their mouths connect somewhat roughly, the softness of her lips cushioning the impact. His other hand encircles her waist, his thumb begins drawing lazy circles on her side. He feels her arms give way, and now her full weight is on him. There are no longer any secrets as she gasps once more into his kiss, feeling his arousal beneath her. He breaks away from her lips, and begins kissing the side of her mouth, her neck, the slowly pulsing v of her throat.
At the back of his throat he feels, then hears, a low growling moan building. Her hands are now in his hair; her lips on his forehead, his ear, then back to his mouth. His hands, unbidden, begin raking up her skirts, gathering and pulling at the layers of material to gain access to her skin. He knows what he wants to do now and knows that if she does not stop him, he will not be able to stop himself.
Finally, she sighs his name. It is almost his ruin.
Then she stops, her movements sad and reluctant. Slowly her hands move to his chest, where he feels them gently, yet resolutely, push against him. His hands still. The blood pounds in his ears.
For a moment, the only sound in the world is their breathing.
Resting her forehead against his, she sighs his name once more.
And he sighs hers.
It is morning, and he is already mourning the absence of her touch.