[ It's bliss. His face nuzzled against the nape of her neck, one arm cushioning her head, the other snaked under her (his) shirt. She's warm against him, around him, the part of her thighs still a little slick, small in the cradle of his frame. He can feel each breath she takes — each inhale, each exhale, every breath matched with another conscious decision to relax, himself. It's tension he's never let go of before — as permanent to his state of being, he'd thought, as the poison that runs through his veins. But she's a miracle to him, always has been.
(He asks her to hold him like this again the next week, an echo still sleep-warm and flushed with desire. I want you. I want to be inside you. In their bed. He keeps odd hours sometimes, they both do, but he doesn't bring anyone else back to their room.)
Want leads them back to wakefulness, soft, sleepy breaths giving way to sighs, stuttering moans. Not possessiveness, strangely, but a statement of fact. He's hers, as absolute a truth as her place in his heart. He helps her wash, after — brushes and braids her hair as she sits between his knees, finishing each strand with a ribbon. It doesn't matter how long it takes. Rather, the time and effort are the point. ]
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(He asks her to hold him like this again the next week, an echo still sleep-warm and flushed with desire. I want you. I want to be inside you. In their bed. He keeps odd hours sometimes, they both do, but he doesn't bring anyone else back to their room.)
Want leads them back to wakefulness, soft, sleepy breaths giving way to sighs, stuttering moans. Not possessiveness, strangely, but a statement of fact. He's hers, as absolute a truth as her place in his heart. He helps her wash, after — brushes and braids her hair as she sits between his knees, finishing each strand with a ribbon. It doesn't matter how long it takes. Rather, the time and effort are the point. ]
Always.