When was the last time he’d slept in? Mace couldn’t remember.
A slant of light was falling through the curtains, tracing over the curvature of his wife beneath the covers. There was movement beyond the folds of velvet that enclosed them like a cocoon – Mace was vaguely aware of having reacted to the person’s arrival – but everything else was the sleepy stillness of a morning with no urgency. Morgana tucked herself against his chest and he murmured contentedly, folding her up against him, his hand resting on the slight swell of her belly. She felt so small like this, and safe, like he could protect her from anything. He felt his heart might happily explode.
“Heavenly,” he confirmed, his voice still rough and low with overnight disuse. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “And I would keep you here, but seeing as you’re eating for two…” He extricated himself with a chuckle, meaning to get up. Her hand arrested him; he let her push him down, quirking a brow.
Not now, thoughts.
Mace made a sound of protest as she moved, but quickly fell silent when she stood in the light. There she was, pale skin and dark hair, the curve of her hip more exquisite than any sculptor had ever made, and in the moments before she pulled on her robe Mace was struck with a feeling of total unreality: she was his. Not only that, but they had somehow survived their trials, and now he could watch her walk around naked until the end of his days. That is, if he could just keep her from getting dressed.
“I should be the one waiting on you,” he scolded roughly, desire tightening in his stomach. Did they really have to go anywhere? “It’s your holiday, too, after all.”
She returned to bed, smiling and perfect. Mace barely registered the tray of breakfast on her lap; it was an effort to look at anything but her mouth, her eyes.
“I want to take this back off,” he said, trailing fingers over the collar of her robe on their way to a coffee cup. He lifted it to his lips, watching her over the rim. “That’s it. That’s my plan.” He smiled while he sipped, foregoing the pastry and fruit and other delicacies on the tray, content with just the coffee and the view. If he was being honest, he could have just watched her sleep all day. Or read. Or eat. He would have peeled her grapes and fed them to her, individually.
Unless, that is…“How are you feeling?” The thought struck him suddenly, he was still so unused to all the new ways he could be worried about her. About them. Protectiveness stampeded though him, along with the powerful knowledge that he would do absolutely anything for this woman and their child. It nearly eclipsed the strong urge to pin her to the bed.
Nearly. But there would be time for that, later; the day was young.
“If you do want to leave this room in the next several hours, we could go into town. Pick up a few things.” He smiled at her, replacing the now empty cup on the tray. “For the baby, I mean.”
|
|
