Warning: slightly rude post alert.

She entered through the front door, allowing in a gasp of cool air. Her knitted cap was pulled tight on her head, holding down her wayward curls. There was a sudden flush of colour to her cheeks as she acclimatised to the warm room. The fire was crackling softly, throwing up licks of black shadow on the walls of the cottage.

“It’s unbearable out.” She said. “I can barely move, I’m so cold.”

“Come sit by me,” he invited her. She took off each of her dusty coloured gloves and unbuttoned her thick winter jacket before walking across to the room to the seat where he sat by the fire. She gazed for a moment, intensely, into the flames, lost in the torrent of her thoughts. He noticed her fingers itch and knew she wanted to write. She was burning with stories – delirious at the prospect of an open evening which could be filled with unknown faces and heroic journeys.

“Just rest,” he encouraged her. “For a while.”

She glanced down at him and smiled, running a hand up over the back of his head and touching his forehead. He tilted his head back and his lips made contact with her palm. She adjusted her hand in response and held his cheek – sweetly attentive.

Finally obliging, she sat on the rug covering the wooden floor by his feet and leant her head against his knee. He ran his fingers through her curls and settled one possessive hand on her neck. Her chest was heaving up and down heavily, almost as if she were falling to sleep.

“Stay with me,” he murmured and she muttered something softly in reply.

He didn’t want to break the beautiful silence of the moment by telling her how much he wanted her. If he lifted her up into his arms now, burying his face between the unbuttoned sides of her shirt and into the cleft of her breasts, he would destroy the perfect permanence they were contentedly enjoying.

And yet – he ached for her. She had been gone too long and their days had been too full for him to take her by the hand, lead her to their little room overlooking the lake at the back of their property and make love to her with the fierce devotion he felt. Perhaps this moment wasn’t so special after all – perhaps it would be heightened by the interruption of his lips on her mouth and the smooth curve of his hand cupping around her heavy breast.

Would she mind laying waste to solitude to hear his soft and guttural breaths as she slid over him? Her eyes always lit with quick fire when he was in her mouth and his face tipped back, exposing his throat. She had told him once that the upward view of his heavy-lidded gaze and parted lips was one of the most erotic things she had ever seen. She loved the tan hollows of his neck and the soft brush of his lashes on his smooth cheekbones. She found him beautiful.

And when they did make love he would hold her, wrapping his arms around her body beneath the cotton sheets and they would continue to kiss, sleepily and happily, until fatigue rippled over them and they both drifted into sleep. The permanence of the moment could only be extended by the impression of their bodies together.

So, his hand scooped, holding back her hair and he leant forward in his chair to kiss the errant curls at the top of her neck. She turned her face around, her eyes shut, and offered a supplicant mouth, that melted into his at the barest insistence, softening around his lips. He licked inside of her and she greeted him, mewing with pleasure, and the heavy rise and fall of her breasts quickened under his welcoming chest.