Work Text:
‘Where is she then?’ he finally asks.
‘Who?’ Dutch’s voice sounds light and curious, but underneath it even you can hear the teasing tone.
You catch Arthur’s slight grumble of annoyance. After all, why would he be asking for anyone else?
‘My wife,’ he growls. His voice still sends shivers through you, the barest hint of his possessive nature and strong affection for you.
‘I have a feeling she’s over by that tree.’
You vaguely think about circling around the tree, forcing Arthur to run round it. When you haven’t seen each other for a while Arthur’s very keen on pulling you into his tent; running his hands over your waist, pressing hot, needy kisses along your neck and inhaling the scent of your hair.
You know he isn’t one for letting others see his affection for you. But that doesn’t stop you teasing him at times, staying at arm’s length for just a little bit longer than necessary, shifting away from those eager hands.
If you can stand it yourself, sometimes you have the intention to tease him and then it all crumbles apart when he rides back into camp. You want to pull him close to you, press your nose against his neck, kiss his jawline rough with stubble and smile happily when his blue-green eyes stare into your own.
You’re about to move away from the tree, but heavy boots crunch against the dried grass and broken twigs that litter the ground. You think about darting away, but two hands are placed against the tree firmly either side of your head and Arthur looks at you keenly. You gaze up at him and take in his wicked smile.
‘You ain’t welcomin’ me home, Mrs Morgan?’ he asks.
You can’t help but smile at him. ‘Welcome home, Mr Morgan.’
You fold your arms over your chest and lean back against the tree. His own smirk is quickly replaced with a scowl.
‘Tha’ all I get?’
You shrug. ‘I don’t know, what more could you want?’
His eyes dart quickly over to his tent, back to you, down to his hands as though considering all options. But he gazes into your eyes and suddenly cups your chin, his fingers lightly brushing against your cheeks, his thumb tenderly strokes your lower lip. ‘Hella of a lot more than tha’, Mrs Morgan.’
He lowers his head and gently kisses you. Your resolve melts away as it usually does and you find your hands slipping around his back, sliding up his shoulders and tangling your fingers into his golden-brown hair. He deepens his kiss and nips at your bottom lip, slipping his tongue into your mouth and sighing softly. You feel his hands tighten around you and you delight in the sensation of being needed, wanted, loved.
He breaks away from you, though his hand finds your own and he pulls you away from the tree. ‘C’mon,’ he says simply, and it’s all he needs to say when guiding you towards your tent.