heorte | when i go towards you it is with my whole life.

The curve of his smile widens at the idea of it. Wysteria, poor at directing him.

Even in the newness of their coupling, Ellis has no doubts that she knows her mind and has a sense of what she wants that grows clearer with every passing moment.

Here, his fingers crook and nudge beneath satin. Run through the wet heat of her as she comes to the end of her proposal. It's a slow, circling touch, giving Wysteria time to acclimate as Ellis considers this idea she's outlining.

"I'd like that."

If only to see what sort of passages Wysteria might choose, what commentary she might have on artistic license.

And perhaps to see what she chooses at all, what is presented without critique.

"You might choose something for us to read aloud," he suggests, mouth against her jaw as he touches her, the fingers at her thigh echoing the motion of his opposite hand against that flexing muscle.

"Aloud," is mock aghast, and more or less undermined by the way Wysteria's knees had tightened briefly about him as Ellis's fingers had shifted in under the thin fabric of her smallclothes. Some instinctive flexion of hip or in the wrist attached to the hand which has anchored at the headboard speaks to the fluttering sensation that answers his touch from low in her belly—

"Ellis, I can't have you read risqué material aloud." His mouth is very warm at the underside of her jaw. She can feel it with every syllable. "It would be highly impolite."

All things considered, it's very easy to untangle her fingers from his dark hair, to take his chin in her hand and to playfully steer his mouth back toward hers. There's something of a sweet laugh in her voice, and in how she looks at him from so close that is so very fond and so very keen. She kisses him once; shifting absently into his hand, her own wanders back into his hair.

"Though I am very fond of the sound of your voice."

See, now seems a fine time to give his curls a teasing little tug.

And Wysteria is rewarded with a soft breath of sound, given up to her unchecked. His hand on her thigh lifts, ceding his grip there so he might catch hold of the loosened neckline of her chemise and run his fingers along the fabric, coaxing the ribbons fully apart. It is a precursor to drawing the neckline down; the trajectory of where he might put his mouth once he has finished kissing her is made very clear.

"You will have to instruct me," Ellis tells her. "Tell me what you would like to hear most."

Borrowed words are always easiest, simple to offer up to her. Nevermind the quiet amusement over what may or may not be polite to read aloud between husband and wife. He is happy to take direction in this area. Wysteria, for all her assertions to the contrary, has always been clear about what she'd like him to be telling her.

Between them, Ellis answers the minor shifting of her hips with the slow slide of his fingers. They've done this before. He recalls how he'd touched her then, and he repeats all of that now: runs two fingers through the heat of her, thumb set just so over her. It's different only because of the inescapable awareness of Wysteria's position over him, the suggestion inherent in it. Her fingers in his hair and the shallow catch of their breathing, their mouths so close together, her hand in his hair. All these things pooling together in Ellis' awareness, catching like sparks at coals as he touches her, looking up into her face.

See? How is she meant to be sweet to him when teasing him and pulling at his hair earns her all that in exchange? So she can't very well say, 'I only want you to say what you please, and to make you laugh because I find that the most pleasant out of all the sounds you make', as it's too true and too kind when Ellis seems so often to answer best to scolding. Still, the affection must show in her face—she is such an incredibly poor liar. It must be so starkly obvious when his examination of her is so intent.

"Well obviously you're meant to tell me how beautiful I am," she informs him. It's so much more reflexive to shift into the press of his fingers without that hand at her thigh; her breath catches only a little over it and it turns into a soft laugh after, gusting warm across his mouth because she's going to say something very ridiculous— "And how mad with desire you are for me. I believe that's how they all approach the matter in most of those terrible books. I can't imagine that most of them are very creative, Ellis."

Besides, she would swear he'd promised to give her some instruction. It hardly seems fair to ask for the reverse now, she might say but doesn't. Not because it doesn't meet the requirements for being a little teasing and inconsiderate, though. Rather, the thought is driven briefly away by some motion of his thumb—a sharper hitch of breath followed by a more prominent sigh, and the impulsive press of her mouth to his.

The kiss is brief and kind and not remotely coy, just like the way she asks him very close, "You do want me, don't you?" is too genuine and tender to be at all provocative. It's a real question. Likely, knowing Wysteria, it's the first of a half dozen.

"Yes."

Immediate, with his hand warm at her neck, thumb at the hollow of her throat. All intentions interrupted to give up an answer to her, respond in kind to the tenor of the question.

"I want you," he tells her, voice dipping low over the words. Their noses brush. The kiss that follows is very open, Ellis catching her mouth as his thumb presses slow circles into her. Seeking that hitch in her breath, wanting to hear that again. "Wysteria, I always want you."

There is clear intent in the work of his hands. She'd asked him to touch her here, and he means to draw that sound from her, to take her apart before entertaining anything else. Is he more creative than the protagonists of these books? Maybe not. But he is very sincere. It burns in his expression, whatever she might see of his face when they are wound so close together.

There were meant to be follow up questions. How does he know it, and in what way, and won't he tell her how she might make him happiest? She is very good at talking through all manner of things including, apparently, Ellis's hand pressed in far enough under her smallclothes that the lacing is drawn tight across her hip. But there is something in the low pitch of his voice, and the kiss he gives her, and most of all in the way he looks at her from so close up which cuts those questions at their root. It reduces the intended interrogation to "Oh good," breathed softly into his mouth, sounding like relief, and real joy, and taut from the circling of his thumb all at once.

She kisses him again, open and warm, and after lingers so close that it barely qualifies as breaking back. How rewarding, to be touched like she asked and to be addressed so directly.

"Tell me again, please."

If he does—surely he will; Ellis rarely refuses her—, it will be rewarded with a further hitched inhale and sigh, the wandering of her hand from his hair to Ellis's rough cheek, and the shift of her weight as she presses herself so eagerly to him. So maybe all those uncreative protagonists are onto something after all.

"I want you."

Because of course he tells her again. Of course he offers these words up, thick and ragged at the edges. These small movements of her over him, the way her weight bears down to meet his touch, is so evocative that Ellis can do nothing but match and meet her, breath gone shallow, skin fever-warm as he says these words back to her.

It might be all he intends to say. Wysteria has not pressed any other question to his mouth. There is a beat of quiet, in which their breath mingles and Ellis runs his fingers through the slick heat of her while at she cups his face and they breathe together. His hand at Wysteria's neck slips, drawing aside the loosened neckline of her chemise so he might flatten his palm over her chest, feel all the gathering flush and the thud of her pulse there before he does anything else.

"I have always wanted you," is a different assortment of words, carrying a different meaning. He has loved her for such a long time. Of course he has wanted her. These two things have existed alongside each other, parallels, held in check.

Her laugh is brief, reflexive, and more than partially something else other than satisfaction with his answer—a pitched note like a little cry, a hitching catch of breath.

"Again, please," could be for what he might say, or could just be a slightly absurd encouragement for the slide of his fingers. He is so warm in every direction, and the draw of his breathing is so endearing. If she shifts her hand and sets her fingers under his jaw, she can feel his pulse heavy in his neck like they've been in the field and Ellis has been swinging his mace.

It's an entirely indulgent sort of pattern, this. Leaning into his fingers and the press of his palm over that ugly scar drawn over her chest, and kissing him or not kissing him as it suits her. Behind him, there is some uncomplicated carving at the edge of the headboard; the thumb of her spare hand has found an edge of it and presses absently there, and then harder as that cinched tight sensation in her begins to clarify itself. As with most things, it's very obvious when Wysteria is close to unraveling—some change in the tenor of her breathing, a sharpening quality to the sounds she presses to his mouth.

"You're so beautiful," is nothing Ellis hasn't said before, isn't repetition or return to any of the things he has told her since they have settled into this bed. But he tells her anyway, between the kisses she drops to his mouth. He has found a rhythm, some echoing cycle in time with the rasp of her breath and the flex of her thighs around him, and they have all the time in the world that he might keep her here just like this in his lap, except they all the time in the world and they might do this again, and again after.

That has been the most difficult thing to reconcile in his mind: he might have this, with her, for the rest of his life.

"Let go, Wysteria," he tells her, what might pass for instruction. What follows is so deliberately chosen; Wysteria has already instructed him, piecemeal, as to what she would like to hear: "I want to see you let go."

Her answer of "Oh Ellis," has a distinctly chiding tenor alongside how hitched it is, as if she means to tell him You can't say that. Only he can, and he has, and yes actually, that is what she'd wanted from him—to know how he would like to see her, to be given instruction so she might show him clearly how ready and able she is to follow it.

So practically at his direction, she shudders against him—her hand at his cheek falling to brace at his broad shoulder for the unconscious leverage with which she might press in tightly to his hands on her. The sound she makes is sharp and small, briefly bowstring tight, and then at once louder and more pronounced the moment before she does as he'd asked her to: letting go, the line of her spine lengthening as that liquid heat of pleasure rises through her from his hands and sparks through every part of her bright and golden and very like what she imagines the good sort of magic done by proper magicians must be like.

Which is a ridiculous and insensible thought, but she thinks it all the same and finds it still there at the edge of her fingertips like a hungry little beast eager for scraps when she eventually comes back to herself, and to Ellis. Her breath out is very long, and the easing of her grip on him (with both fingers and knees) slowly done.

Still, he is touching her. All through the arch of her body, the sounds she makes, the way she does come apart, the rapid, unsteady pull of her breath under his palm, it is near blinding. He cannot stop looking at Wysteria anymore than he can stop touching her, answering the shivering cinch of her body until all the tension flows out of her and Ellis is obliged to relocate his hand from beneath the stretch of satin fabric to her hip.

"Wysteria," comes so softly, hand lifting from the line of scarring on her chest to cup her cheek. She is so close that it is no effort at all to draw her into a kiss.

They might kiss for some time. It is open and lax; Ellis has left no time for her to catch her breath. His fingers dig in at her hip, gentle pressure without any particular insistent bent; Wysteria has gone nowhere, remains satisfyingly close.

"You," he says, thick against her mouth. "You are so beautiful."

A stand in for many other sentiments. Some that would perhaps draw that same scolding tone from her, should Ellis wind his way towards working them into proper sentences.

She's very pliable in that state, and drawn easily into kissing him. Not that she often challenges him on the subject, save perhaps when it comes to matters of propriety and there can be no question as to that when they're here, alone, behind a firmly locked door (nevermind that sound has the potential to carry, and the landlady makes a point of being fully informed when it comes to all business that occurs below her roof—).

And he is so warm, and his hands are so sure where he lays them, and she dearly loves the way he sounds when he says her name like it's the only one he knows. You says Ellis, and never has that word been so particular or so sweet.

"You're beautiful," Wysteria repeats back at him, just as close and half as thick as she catches her breath and the sparking dregs of that pleasure flickers through her. She is distantly aware of his fingers leaving slick marks on her hip and the sweat prickling between her shoulder blades under her undone chemise, but far more immediate is the pulse in Ellis's neck as she moves her hand to touch him there, and the heavy sound of his breathing rumbling so close.

She kisses him again. "I love you." Another, softer press of her lips. "You're so good to me." And another. "I told you, didn't I?"—because again, he answers so well to scolding—"That you ought to tell me what you wanted."

"I thought I had."

As if there can only be one thing, a singular request put to her at the very last moment, when he has sufficiently distracted her.

He'd had some intention of putting his mouth to Wysteria's throat, or her collarbone, or lower. But it is a wrench to even consider anything else but kissing her. Even the space between these kisses, where they trade these murmurs of conversation, feels like a significant delay.

"Do your legs hurt?" is a very practical question, divorced from the concept of which of them might want what. It has occurred to Ellis that he's kept her in his lap for quite some time, and all desires aside, they might take stock of their respective states before considering any other courses of action.

Her breath is a laugh, and then the sound she makes that follows is low and humming—a murmur of objection pressed to his mouth. In the interest of arguing the point—yes, alright, he had; but consider the benefits of repeat requests, Ellis—makes for a fine reason to drape herself more fully against him.

"No, I'm quite comfortable." Sitting in his lap may not be quite like riding in a saddle is, but it's not so far removed either. "Though if you mean for me to remove my stockings, then these are less than ideal circumstances for that."

But obviously that's only the case if he wishes for her to be bare legged. Oh no, how terrible! A decision directly in need of making!

"Am I too heavy?"

"You're perfect."

Not a determination as to whether or not he intends to remove her stockings, or her undergarments, or even her chemise.

With Wysteria cinched so close, Ellis occupies himself with nipping her lower lip. Laying another kiss there, then another, as he nudges her chemise from one shoulder on the way to running his hand up and down her back.

"I've a mind to keep you here. As long as you'd indulge me."

Well, so long as she is perfect.

Like a cat stretches toward a sunbeam, Wysteria places her other hand there on the headboard—bracketing him there between both her knees and arms—and settles in so flush that she can feel his breathing as his hand wanders.

"I enjoy indulging you."

She does. It's among her very favorite things even outside of circumstances like these. It helps to that it's often so easy to grant him what he wants. Take for example here and his she also would prefer to remain as she is, right like this where he's so shockingly warm and she can wrap herself so easily about him.

The answering smile is pressed to her temple. Ellis' palm is smoothing slow circles across her back, along the wings of her shoulder blades.

"I'm lucky."

Lucky that she ever entertained any of this, that she kissed him back that first night in her kitchen, that she wanted him for a husband. Ellis is very aware of all the ways in which he is exceptionally blessed.

"Wysteria," is only a murmur, aimless and fond, as Ellis puts a soft kiss to her jawline. There is some vague intent towards her bare shoulder, the line of her throat, but Ellis is content to wind his way there slowly.

She answers him with a low hum of satisfaction and by turning her face very faintly to press a kiss to his bristled cheek. It will be a small miracle, she thinks with some pleasure, if tomorrow her face isn't tender from kissing him with all this hair on his face.

"Only as I'm very selfish," she says after a time, in no more hurry to rush him along through charming banter as he is to progress south with his mouth. "And had become very jealous at the possibility that anyone might think you weren't mine."

Her knees close briefly about him for emphasis.

"And I am," he reminds her, a murmur against the curve of her neck. "I have been."

For a long time. Years. It is truth stitched into his sinew. Even before there was any proposal, before there was any kiss in her kitchen. He was hers. It would have always been true.

His hand slides down her back, along her thigh, the rucked hem of her chemise, then back upwards again.

"You feel so good," comes as a breath, pressed against her skin.

In answer to this praise, Wysteria shifts in his lap—a cheeky little twist of hip, the shifting of knees, and some alteration to the line of her shoulder under his warm mouth as if to make herself more comfortable there. Yes, he has been hers. But what a pleasure it is to hear him say it so plainly with his voice, and his mouth, and his hands all at nearly the same time.

"You may thank our landlady for the washtub tomorrow then," she says near his ear, breath very warm in the narrow space and the precursor to a gentle and impulsive set of teeth there at tender cartilage.

The last thing Wysteria likely wants to hear is that Ellis wouldn't have minded a little mud.

The catch of teeth draws a ragged sound in return, his grip at her waist tightening. He turns his face against Wysteria's neck for a long moment before lifting his head up, creating just enough space to look at her. Ellis lifts his hand, brushes the tendrils of curls back from her face.

"It's nothing to do with the tub."

She is, after all, perfect. Tub or no tub.

He looks at her in that narrow space and oh, it warms something low in her as air over embers does. How beautiful he is. How striking his attention. How easy it is to decipher him like this.

Her hands draw down from the headboard and together move to touch his face: fingers to the wide set of his jaw; thumbs tracing cheekbones, and the lines drawn from his nose to his mouth; running across the prettily swollen shape of his mouth and pressing a thumb softly into the divot below his lower lip.

"I want you," is so sweet and plain. "I want to look at you. I love looking at you like this. I mean, I love looking at you always, but like this—"

If he's only hers, then this way he looks now is among the most exclusive things in the world.

"Oh, especially."

Under her hands, the draw of her thumb across his lips, Ellis' mouth had parted. There are moments where he looks at her and thinks that he might burn to ash if he cannot kiss her. And he feels that in this moment, despite having been kissing her for what seems like hours.

He's nearly light-headed with it, wanting her. As if Wysteria is not as close as she could possibly be. As if she isn't touching him now, telling him such sweet things.

"Then we'll arrange for it often."

Often. A reminder: they are married. She might have him whenever she wished.

"You can look at me until you've grown tired of it."

The tracing, lingering slip of his fingers on her skin has resumed. Slick over her hip, down her thigh beneath the rucked up folds of her chemise. There is such a scarce amount of room between them for it. He can't bear to sit her back, and so they make do as they are now.

"Don't say that," is the most gentle form of scolding she's capable of, soft and not at all serious. "I would be far too busy to sleep, or to eat, or to write anything down ever again. And eventually your Commander would come scold me for keeping you away from the war."

But gods, how much she cares for him. How much she likes his hands about her and to be cinched in so close so that he might easily touch her however he wishes to. That she might do the same—

With his face between her hands, Wysteria seeks his mouth out again with hers. The resulting kiss is very warm and very open, not tentative but slow and achingly thorough.

He gives up to her so easily, sinks into the kiss. His hands still as his attention narrows down to Wysteria's hands on his face and the way she's kissing him. His grip loosens, fingers falling to her hips.

"You would write things down again," he murmurs. "I wouldn't distract you for so long as that."

How long could he hold her attention? Ellis has marveled that he's managed as long as he had, all shortcomings acknowledged. His thumbs rub back and forth along the inside of her thighs, following the wrinkles of fabric where it's draped and wrinkled over her legs.

"Will you let me distract you now?"

Again. As if they are starting fresh, rather than retreading familiar ground.

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