The touch is good. Reassuring, even if some of the doubt persists. That it's all well and good to agree here, alone on a quiet road in the light of day. Will it be different in the future?
She does love him. The depths of it have always been clear to her, even before Marcus put his fingers to her bare skin beneath the drape of her shawl.
There's quiet in the wake of his admission. A few moments of absorbing the lacing of their fingers, the warmth of his hand and the roughness of his palm and the certainty of his grip. Weighing out what she wants, all the different aspects of it set against each other.
Where 'everything' is simply a misalignment, a discomfort, more a herald of what stronger feelings may persist in the future than a live and present problem. But it does feel like a balm, that she loves him and wants to try, an immediate lifting of spirit that feels like clarity. The satisfaction of finding the simple thing in something complicated.
Practiced in his saddle, he leans over without compromising his balance too badly so that he can lift her hand without compromising hers and press a kiss to the back of it.
The sensation of his mouth on her skin sends prickling warmth racing up her arm. Derrica's hand turns in his, briefly cupping his cheek. Her thumb stroking there, while she balances carefully in the saddle.
It will not always be so easy. But this is the truth: she loves him, and she wants him. They can reconcile all number of things around that truth.
"I love you," she says again, without any qualifications following it. Just this sentiment, so well-worn that the only novelty to it is saying it aloud rather than taking it for granted that it's known between them.
Likewise, Marcus knows a stirring of stupid interest at the feeling of her fingers at his cheek, recalling a little how they'd held each other. He allows his hand to skim down the length of her inner arm before in the moment before he straightens back up again.
"And I, you," he says, where there is pleasure to be had in the simple call and respond.
And they have this whole trip of Ostwick ahead of them, and her to himself, for all that it isn't something he feels a great need to voice out loud.
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no subject
She does love him. The depths of it have always been clear to her, even before Marcus put his fingers to her bare skin beneath the drape of her shawl.
There's quiet in the wake of his admission. A few moments of absorbing the lacing of their fingers, the warmth of his hand and the roughness of his palm and the certainty of his grip. Weighing out what she wants, all the different aspects of it set against each other.
"I love you," she says again. "I want to try."
no subject
Where 'everything' is simply a misalignment, a discomfort, more a herald of what stronger feelings may persist in the future than a live and present problem. But it does feel like a balm, that she loves him and wants to try, an immediate lifting of spirit that feels like clarity. The satisfaction of finding the simple thing in something complicated.
Practiced in his saddle, he leans over without compromising his balance too badly so that he can lift her hand without compromising hers and press a kiss to the back of it.
no subject
It will not always be so easy. But this is the truth: she loves him, and she wants him. They can reconcile all number of things around that truth.
"I love you," she says again, without any qualifications following it. Just this sentiment, so well-worn that the only novelty to it is saying it aloud rather than taking it for granted that it's known between them.
no subject
"And I, you," he says, where there is pleasure to be had in the simple call and respond.
And they have this whole trip of Ostwick ahead of them, and her to himself, for all that it isn't something he feels a great need to voice out loud.