Away With the Fairies (The Swallow Barn Cottage Series, Book 2)

Morning After

Fiona opened her eyes. It was such an odd sensation - this calm, soft waking up, her body comfortable, warm, and relaxed. He was wrapped around her, in the already familiar bear hug, both of them lying on the left sides. His arm had served her as a pillow, and his right arm lay over her, his fingers hooked on his left biceps. It's like he'd locked her in a cage - but it didn't feel restrictive. Unlike the previous morning, you have every right to touch him now, so knock yourself out, Fiona, she thought, and slowly started turning in his embrace. He made a grumbly noise and squeezed her even more tightly. Fiona snorted.

"I'm not leaving, you beast," she murmured. "Let me breathe."

He furrowed his brows, and a low hum rumbled in his throat. Fiona giggled and finally managed to face him. She properly wanted to touch everything, and look at everything, and study the beard, and the long patrician nose, and the scar in the eyebrow, and the thick fluffy lashes - and everything and everything. 'Why are you so clingy, Fee?' 'I'm tired, and I need to sleep.' 'I don't like when you touch my face.' Let's face it, it'd been years since she'd stopped trying, but the memories still hurt and made her recoil in shame.

"You're thinking too loudly," he said and slowly opened his eyes. "Good morning."

"Morning," Fiona squeaked.

They lay like that for a bit, but he didn't move or say anything - she wanted to kiss him so much! - and then she just couldn't help it anymore.

"Can I, please–" No one just asks for this, Fiona. And even if he agrees, what if he hates it?

His gaze grew sharp.

"Sure," he said.

"You don't know what I'm asking for," she said.

"Can't be that bad," he said.

"I just– I–" Oh, why is this so hard? "I need to touch things to know them." Her fingers twitched. "It's odd, I know, but–"

"It's not," he said. "Go ahead."

He intently watched her face, while she slowly lifted her hand and touched his cheekbone. The skin was warm. She brushed the tips of her fingers on the upper line of his beard - uneven, the whiskers dark and rough - and then she ran them along his jawline, and under it, onto the pulse on his throat. She felt suddenly greedy, and her hand jumped to the cheekbone again, and then to his right eyebrow, thick and glossy, and to his temple, and then the jawline again. She then stroked the bridge of his nose with her index finger, and then his bottom lip with her thumb.

"Is it for your painting?" he asked, his voice raspy.

"Yeah," she answered, distracted. "And because I want to remember you."

He drew his eyebrows together again, but didn't say anything. It still felt like they were in this bubble, cut off from the rest of the world - but there was less intimacy, and Fiona jerked her hand back, feeling embarrassed.

"Sorry," she whispered.

"It's alright," he said, and she felt some sort of tension in his tone.

Fiona sighed. Everything was so much easier the night before. They'd had that omelette she'd promised him - and then gone to bed. She'd been so sleepy by then she'd simply had no energy to worry. She'd curled into him and fallen asleep in seconds.

"I'll go make us coffee," she muttered and shimmied her shoulders.

He let her go immediately. She threw her feet off the bed. She kept telling herself she needed to stop internally whinging - but they hadn't even kissed once since they woke up. He's probably freaked out by your touching. Or maybe he regrets last night. Maybe he looked at you in the hackneyed harsh morning light and realised that was a mistake. You, Fiona King, are a mistake.