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She speaks his name in the afternoon quiet, with such a smile; he could take her on the spot if only it weren’t three in the afternoon and the door weren’t open. Even then, perhaps.
Their kitchen table stands solid between them.
‘Anna’, he replies, and he wills his voice to be as easy as hers, but there is paint upon her cheek and it makes him falter with warmth. She’s trying not to laugh at him, and failing, and he loves her, more than ever, when she’s here like this – here, all bright and marvellous and so very impossibly his. Loves her always, yes, but most particularly like this, and she leans across as though she knows it, and perhaps she does, and she kisses him soundly and well, whether the door is opened or not.
Her hands are warm against him, fingers hot against his open collar, and damp with paint against his skin.
‘John’, she says, again, and the sternness of her voice fights so nicely with her eyes, ‘You’re going to make me extra work if you’re careless like that,’ and he follows her gaze to see paint upon his rolled up shirt sleeve. She could be cross, but she isn't.
Her fingers flit behind his ear, tickle beneath the hair there.
Her mouth is soft against his, and open, and he loves the feel of it, the feel of her, shameless and shame-free and wanting. She tastes of black tea and jam drops, and he hungers for her, hungers for her and for the way she leans to press against him, the way she makes their table wobble (oh the eager warmth of her, late at night, fighting sleep to lie with him, knees soft as he presses between them, soft hairs golden in the lamplight); the knowledge that she loves him, that she needs him, that she trusts him.
Her lips make him drunk on her loving.
She speaks his name as they talk, as they kiss, as the world outside moves onwards, and the paint dries upon the walls; and here, here, here is all he needs.