for the rosvolio drabble: bed
Still half asleep, Benvolio reached out his arm into the space beside him, expecting to find the deliciously warm body of his wife, and finding only a shallow, Rosaline-shaped depression in the bed.
He groaned as he rolled onto his back, squeezing his eyes tight against the insistent brightness of the morning sun. Only after a moment of adjustment did he allow himself a squinted peek into the daylight and what he saw standing near the side of the bed was nearly enough to send him back under the covers.
She was awake and fully dressed, clad in a t-shirt, shorts, and leather sandals, her curls pulled back into a sensible ponytail. A pair of sunglasses sat atop her head, one hand clasped around the handle of her daypack, the bag made heavy, he guessed, by the weight of several guidebooks. From the exasperated look on her face, he assumed he had done something to cause it, and as Benvolio had learned with his wife, the best course of action was always to just let her speak first and say whatever was on her mind.
“Are you planning on staying in bed all day?” she asked, one eyebrow arched into a question mark.
He grinned and held his forearm over his eyes to shield them from the sunlight.
“Fair Rosaline, my dearest, my beloved, light of my life, fire of my heart: today is the first day of our honeymoon. I had factored in a few trips to the bathroom and a quick break to answer the door for room service, but, yes, I really was planning on us staying in bed all day.”
“Benvolio, I did not take a nine-hour flight and a four-hour train ride so that we could lay around in bed,” she said, her free hand settling on her hip. “We are in Italy, one of the most beautiful places in the world, and I’m not going to miss it because of your misguided notions about what people do on their honeymoons!”
“Wait a second…” he teased, as he propped himself up on his elbows. “Does this count as our first married fight? If so, I think it’s going pretty well, don’t you?”
She tilted her head, breathtakingly beautiful even when visibly irritated.
“No, darling, our first married fight was on the way to the airport, when you told the Uber driver to ignore Google Maps because you knew a ‘quote-unquote’ shortcut and we ended up nearly missing the flight.”
Benvolio sighed a little even as he nodded in agreement, and with a quick heave raised himself up and swiveled his legs so he could sit on the edge of the bed. He held out his hand for his wife to take, a clear admission of surrender.
“So what’s on the agenda for today, then?” he asked, as she slipped her hand into his.
She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could answer he pulled her towards him, his other arm quickly snaking around her waist so that he could drag her down onto his lap. She squealed – in apparent pleasure and surprise – and Benvolio found himself face-to-face with a particularly delectable expanse of bare skin, just above her collarbone, an opportunity he felt no need to squander.
“According to the Michelin guide, Verona has a particularly stunning… cath…e…dral…” she stuttered, as his tongue danced circles along her dark skin. “Built in the late 16th century by some noble family… Jesus…”
He smiled in partial triumph even as he kept his lips pressed against her, migrating slowly up the curve of her shoulder until he reached a sensitive spot on her neck. One of his hands slid higher and higher along the smooth length of her thigh, stopping only when his fingertips found the hem of her shorts.
“The bed’s looking pretty good right now, isn’t it?” Benvolio murmured.
“I swear to god, Montague,” she said, stifling a breathy moan, and then her hands quickly clasped around his face, pulling his mouth to hers. She kissed him hungrily, her tongue brushing against the seam of his lips as her hand gripped tightly around his upper arm. “Okay… one hour,” she managed to get out. “One hour and then we go.”
“Marriage is all about compromise, Capulet,” he said as he turned and rolled her over and onto her back, the duvet billowing all around them like a heavenly cloud.