Even after 5 years of marriage, Myka Bering could still take her breath away, send her heart pounding, mouth dry, and other lower areas considerably less so. There were the obvious times, on their bi-weekly date night when Claudia would drive the short way from the B&B to their cottage to care for their precocious 3-year old, and Myka would exchange her professional suits for a small black dress or silk number in deep royal blue.
There were mornings of tousled chestnut curls and long planes of resplendent skin bathed in the pale pink and yellow hues of dawn; there were moments of adrenaline-fueled chases and puzzles to be deciphered when her eyes would catch moss green flecked with amber and she’d find herself falling in love all over again, snapping out of it only to meet Pete’s impatient stare and her wife’s knowing smile. But of all the ways Myka could beguile her, it was how her wife looked now that got to her the most.
Late at night when she’d huddle over her work, swathed in the soft, warm comfort of worn flannel. When her usually impeccable posture and controlled gestures would give way to a loose but equally graceful poise that Helena had come to recognize as indicative that the younger woman was comfortable, home, in their home. With round glasses perched charmingly on the bridge of her nose, brow furrowed and nose crinkled in concentration, hair pulled haphazardly away from her face and exposing the smooth lines of her neck and jaw to Helena’s voracious gaze, and ink-stained fingers, Helena could not dream up of a more beautiful sight if she was given another century in the bronze to ruminate on it.
If Helena were to be honest with herself, and she usually was, another reason she found Myka so alluring when she was like this was because it was when her wife was the least open to her…overtures. Having spent most of her life easily garnering the attention of both men and women, she both found her wife’s concentration utterly fascinating and the challenge to break said concentration quite thrilling. Sometimes she’d employ the use of grazing touches, a soft whisper against the shell of the younger woman’s ear, and strong hands working the tense but malleable flesh between arched shoulders.
Other times, like tonight, when the case had been long and their far too intelligent child had kept them up half the night with question after question ranging from ‘how does milk, cheese, and yogurt all come from a cow’ to ‘why did Auntie Claudia say mummy had died before?’ On nights like this, Helena chose to lure her wife to their bed with a more direct approach.
Walking into their kitchen in naught but her skin, the inventor threw a quick glance to her wife perched at the dining room table amidst a sea of files before purposefully making her way to the fridge. The light of the refrigerator set her skin aglow, and her nipples hardened as the cool air came flooding out. She ran her a hand through her hair and grinned, very much aware that the light tapping of fingers against a keyboard and pen against paper had ceased, before pulling out some whipped cream and strawberries. Without another word or glance she made her way across the room with an extra bit of sway in her hips. The only sound now being the leisurely tread of bare feet against cold stone and the distinctly less laggard tread following closely behind.
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