The windows are left open, the air from the nearby bay allowed to enter. Incense blocks out the other scents of the city, and the Mistress of Spices is also nearby, painting the air with the spices grown there, and milled there.
     The breeze moves against your skin. Has it ever felt more supple and relaxed? You are oiled with the essence of almonds and shae nut, your skin smooth and soft. The henna tattoos on your feet, customary for a bride, are slowly fading from all the pool, bath, whirlpool and sauna soaking you have enjoyed, the faint magenta making the swirls and interlocking lines appear dreamy.
     For the past week, you and your new/old husband have bathed, loved, wandered, meandered, relaxed and talked. So many things revealed in such sweet silences. There has been no need to tie you up, to bind you to the bed -- for where are you going? You are with him, there is no need for him to make you say. You have chosen him. And in the relief, in the realization, you have been given his opened hand, his opened heart. When he first came to you as a husband in this marriage bed, there was such tenderness, such great love. He let you see his vulnerability -- his joys, his fears, his need for you. Such a great need it is.
     And a week into this three-week trip, you have seen such sides of him, facets you may not have known existed. His humor, unbound. His love, unrestrained. His tenderness of heart, freed. You had been tied, bound in a thousand different, orgiastic ways -- but the one who was really restrained was Rhodri himself.
     Rhodri lies beside you, naked and oiled as you are. Only one sheet partially covers you. Though it's late at night, the air is still warm. the windows are opened for the ocean breeze. And the ceiling fans are going. It is pleasant, like a spring day in the shade. Each fan-created or ocean-borne breeze makes the flames of the various lit candles waver, tossing shadows to the walls.
     He trails a finger along your spine, his hand moving from your thighs where it has rested after your latest sensual exploration (when in India...). Smiling, Rhodri lifts one of your oaken curls, twining it around his finger. Emerald eyes are bright, and the smile is lazy-beautiful. Bending, he kisses your shoulder, his mouth opening. The oil also doubles as a condiment.
     "I love you," he says softly. "I don't think you have been more beautiful. If only there were a way for you to be naked, wearing only almond oil and lying in an expensive room in India all the time." He chuckles softly.

     Her eyes are closed, smile soft and pink. Her hair is growing long again; she'd cut it on the plane with a conjured knife, laughing as she watched the long strands slip away down into the freezing solution. She returned, laying a neat little braid in your lap, knowing that before the plane even had time to land, it'd be back down to her shoulders.
     Now she's next to you, lying on her stomach with her head turned towards you. Her eyes are partially closed; her mouth, partially open as she gives you another smile for those touches. Who needs heavy blankets, here, with the heat so thick upon the air?
     "Tsss," Fiona murmurs, a chiding hiss. "You're telling me I wasn't more beautiful on our wedding day? Or when Iowerth and Gwilym were born?" She shifts, readjusting her weight on the sheets with a soft, dreamy laugh. "I might have to hit you. Except I don't think I can get up."
     She stretches lazily, catlike, holding the stretch until her limbs shake with the tension and release; then she rolls over onto her side, facing you, her hand lifting to caress your face. "I love you, too," Fiona murmurs. "But I don't think I'd want to stay here forever." Blue eyes glimmer brightly at you, her smile just as bright. "It's too hot, after a while..."

     He turns his head into your hand, his mouth suckling at the heart of your palm. He smiles against it, his own eyes half-lidding. "Those days are in the past," Rhodri murmurs, head turning on the pillow. Beneath the sheet, his hands slide against your skin, his arms going around you. "Though, you were very beautiful on both," he kisses your forehead.
     I like the quiet with you. I like holding you like this. Rhodri tips his head to look at you. When we are traveling with the musicians in the bus, we're going to look back on this simple silence and want it back. His grin trails smooth and slow.
     Beneath the sheet, his legs slide with yours, a thigh tucking between your own, lifting to become your seat. "You do not have to get up to hit me," Rhodri chuckles. His arms squeeze you in a hug, his thigh lifting slightly as he does. "You are amazing, Fiona. I am smitten, absolutely."
     For a moment he says nothing. His hand lifts to stroke against your face, to tilt your chin up and bring your lips to his. "Thank you for letting me love you. And for loving me back."

     She looks at you, then closes her eyes. "Stop," Fiona says softly. "You're going to make me cry." She slides forward into your arms, nuzzling against your shoulder, burying her face there.
     You know I like being held. I'm a complete and utter sucker, aren't I. And she clings to you, then relaxes once more, curving against you. That's going to suck, on the bus, yes. We won't be able to cuddle all the time; we'll be too busy, won't we? But then, knowing me ... I'd be staying busy anyway.
     She sighs as you hug her, at that slight lift, toes curling. One dainty foot skims against your calf, toes grasping at your ankle before she straightens out again. "Nothing amazing about me. I'm just ... another English girl with a regrettable weakness for Welsh rogues, aren't I?"
     As one who lies under boards, now. But we won't think of that. I might go all light-headed again, and we don't need that.
     "I didn't let you. I didn't decide to do anything." She looks at you now as if you've puzzled her, lips puckering a bit; then she leans forward to kiss you, suckling gently on your lower lip. Silly man. You say it as if I made any conscious decision or action.

     He chuckles into the kiss, then deepens it as he rolls onto his back, pulling you and the sheet with him. Now he forms your bed, the Welsh rogue with his red tattoos. He settles, his thighs spreading to give you more of a Welsh bed to relax on, and his hands rest on your waist.
     I'm irresistible, oes? The chuckle sounds again, held in his throat as his mouth busies itself with your own. His arms wind around you, snugly holding you. "I disagree," he whispers, his head lying back to rest on the pillows. "You are amazing. But then, I always did like despoiling English ladies." Rhodri winks, grinning widely. "You moan the prettiest of all, my little English kitten."
     You see it move over him -- his love and desire for you. Rhodri turns his head on the pillow, side to side, and his hands move to your hips, to curl them forward. "My little golden queen," he murrs.
     We will be busy. I'm not looking forward to that part of it, I have to say. The music will be fun. But it will be so much work. Rhodri grins, bouncing you slightly before lifting, wrapping his arms around your waist. Rhodri kisses you. It is a rolling, sweet tangle, flavored with almonds and wine.
     As his mouth travels to your neck, nuzzling, Rhodri sighs. "It is so tempting... here with you now...my beautiful bride... to make your belly full." He whispers it as his mouth wanders back to your chin. Your lips. "A little daughter," he lies back, smiling, "...to balance out all these boys you have around you."
     That's my next wish. To make love with you, knowing we are creating life. Another little hope, a little one for our growing family...

     Unfortunately. She laughs at you, from atop you, looking down with a tilt and slant of her head that has her hair framing her face. "You can't despoil me," Fiona protests, pulling away from the kiss in order to sit up on top of you. "You'd have to spoil me first. That's the way it goes, you know? You buy the girl dinner, and flowers, and jewelry, and then she lets you into her bed."
     You receive a wink as she squinches one eye closed, then the other, arching down to rub her breasts against you. A lot of work. And I'm out of the habit of work. She pouts at you, then squirms against you, into your grasp, with a little gasp as you bounce her.
     You speak against her neck, and you can see as well as feel warmth move through her. Ah; the blush you know so well, that she's never fully been able to tame. Skin tightens, aureolae crinkling, and Fiona ducks her chin. She doesn't pull away, but she looks away, the blush continuing to spread. "...Why don't we get something to drink..."

     "In a moment..."
     He can feel your skin warming with the blush. He can watch it crawl in pink and red, pooling at your skin and moving over you. He kisses your neck, his arms winding around you. "I'll get it. What do you want? Water? More champagne?"
     He rolls you against the bed again, hovering over you at the end of his question. Now, he can look at the blush in all its glory. He smiles at it, watching the reaction as it moves from your cheeks to your nipples.
     Yes, you like that idea, too...
     He doesn't say it, but you know he knows it as he looks to you again. He doesn't comment. He doesn't have to. It is in his eyes. It is in the excitement his body suddenly shows. I want you to have my baby, it says. I want to give it to you.
     Sliding down your form, his mouth comes to cover one of those tightening nipples, suckling strongly before his mouth moves to the center of your chest. Rhodri lifts his head, his eyes on you again. There is a serious look, and a meaning-crammed smile.
     "What would you like?" He begins to stand. "To drink, I mean." He knows you want another baby, he can see that clearly. When. That's the question. As he rises, you know how it moves him. Celtic hounds are on the move. What a vision.

     You are so close, and so warm. And so very, very present. Desire is crowding her out of her skin; have you ever seen her so mute? Once, perhaps, in a certain blue gown...
     But she isn't clothed at all, now...
     "Oh, anything," Fiona murmurs, distracted. You are still too close. She can't meet your eyes, now. "Whatever. Just - something, mm, to drink."
     She barely has gotten the words out. Her stomach has tightened, there is that pressure building inside of her. Your mouth covers her nipple, and a soft moan escapes, her fingers lifting to thread through your hair, tugging a little. By the time you rise, she's breathing just a little erratically, fighting it down.
     You rise, and all of you rises; blue eyes travel, flickering over you, and then she rolls over onto her side, curling up. As if by doing so, she can shake it off. Play it cool. Admit nothing, have you notice nothing.
     But you know better, don't you? She reacts to it so strongly. It is like the first time. There is something in her which responds to it - the urge to give in. To be taken, ravished, filled with your fertile seed, whether or not she says so, whether or not she says yes. The ultimate mark of possession. The ultimate surrender.
     Already, her thoughts are straying to the imagined fullness of her breasts, roundness of her belly. She can't help it...
     Fiona grumbles something, under her breath, turning onto her stomach and flumphing down against the pillows. "Champagne," she says cheekily. "Lots of it. What kind is it?"

     "Well, it's French for starters," Rhodri teases. "From the Champagne region. Unlike that American sparkling white wine." He uncorks another bottle, still cold though the ice has begun to soften to water. It spills out, a virile release of intoxicating bubbles. But not much is wasted.
     Walking to the beside, he pours two deep bowled flutes full of the sparkling golden liquid. Rhodri looks to you, holding you in his gaze, as he offers the glass to you and sets the bottle down. He takes up his own glass then, tapping it to chime against your own. He drinks, letting the explosions moving against his tongue. Another swallow.
     And all the while looking at you. My wife... my bride... the mother of my children.
     Smiling slowly, he rejoins you on the bed. Reaching over to get his glass again, he surrounds your curled form. You can feel his heartbeat against your back from where the blood has swollen his flesh. "I know," he whispers against your ear, his mouth suckling the lobe. "I feel it, too." He drains his glass, leaning back to set the glass aside. His mouth traces over the nape of your neck, getting past the golden hair to move against your almond-scented skin.
     "I know, Fiona," he whispers again. "I feel the same way." His mouth moves to your neck, your shoulder again. Beneath the sheet, his hand strokes over himself slowly. You can feel him guiding himself to you again. "I need you," he whispers.

     She takes the glass from you, pushing herself up reluctantly. Long enough for a swallow; one swallow and only one, and then the glass is set down, and she curls up again, just so.
     And then you are joining her, her with her mouthful of gold trickling down her throat. And she makes a soft sound as you nuzzle her, as your mouth travels against her. Her back arches; she arches into you, legs lengthening and spreading thighs apart a little. "Rhodri," Fiona sighs, your name upon her lips and nothing else.
     She sings it, hums it, holds it on her tongue with the last of the champagne, reaching for your hand, dragging it up to her breast. "I need you, too," she admits, softly. Quietly - as quiet as any mouse. "Rhodri ... don't let me ..."
     She goes silent, mum; whatever she was going to say - maybe even she doesn't know, her desires as formless as the void, as she rolls onto her back, turning her head to look at you. Her lower lip scrapes free of her teeth with an escaping, echoing sigh - and she opens her arms to you.

     "Don't let you what?" he softly murmurs, coming into your arms. You open to him, he comes to you. He settles between your thighs, his body and his arms rolling you in his hold, spreading you, tilting you. You create a tangle, an artistic tangle.
     His eyes are on your own, though there are a thousand different stimuli to distract him. Despite that, he looks at your own eyes, your face, as his fingers slip between your thighs. The softness of his fingers slide against you, rolling against you not unlike his thigh did before.
     He sees you, sees you as you are, see you as will one day be again. Maybe not soon, but ...someday. Your breasts will swell, your nipples broadening. Your belly will swell and you will walk sweetly into rooms again, so full of life that the world shall seem to blossom from your feet.
     I can see it so clearly. How beautiful you will be when you are carrying my child. As if you hold the sun in your belly. It will be different. Amazing.
     His fingers scout the way, sliding against you, then within you. His fingers are soon replaced by the pressure of his length's head. He is swollen, the pulse pounding where he slides against you. He can't wait to fill you. Unlike the decadence of moments past, even tonight, he doesn't cover your mons with his mouth. It is too much, this pull to you, this need to fill you.
     Your skin hums against him, and his flesh tightens, his hips rolling forward. He fills you with a slow roll, a thrust that ends with his mouth closing over your own again. Rhodri closes his eyes, the intensity of the moment showing on his face. He breathes at your mouth, plucking kisses from your lips.
     So much... do you feel it now? How much I love you... how much I need you... not just like this... but in all ways. The pages of the kama sutra have been memorized, and a page of it is being illustrated by you both as he rolls you, his feet coming to the bed, he thrusts from a crouch, your legs lifted high and wide.

     She shakes her head, mute still. Whatever it is, she can't voice it; can't even think it. Can't frame it concisely, can't find the words. And her thighs spread as you tangle into her, a soft moan again rising into the humid air.
     Her fingers stroke through your hair, down your back, pressing into major muscle groups before giving up and just raking you lightly as if with her claws.
     I feel ... I don't even know how to say it. I need you inside me. I need you to be hard for me. In me. On me. In all the ways ... I need you to be my sun king, Rhodri. Fiona sighs, nodding a little, then moans as you roll her, moans as you thrust into her. I don't know, yes, I know, I love you... I love you...
     I love you ...

Posted by rowan at May 15, 2006 09:39 PM