It had hurt for a moment, enough that Jemima had held her breath and regretted encouraging him on at all, if she was going to have to grit her teeth and bear it bravely – but as he began moving, the tension in her chest softened again. He had passed some threshold, and somehow the pain had subsided, and he didn’t need to slow down after all. It was unlike anything she had ever known before, but it wasn’t unpleasant. In fact, there was a growing pleasure in it, and less cause to overthink it, and she felt like this might even be building to something more when... oh. It was over, apparently.
Jemima laced her fingers with his with a gentle squeeze, still bewildered and a little overwhelmed, but grateful that everything had not immediately lapsed back into awkwardness. It seemed odd that it should make a difference, but she supposed they were united in something now, had shared more in this act than just some echoed wedding vows and accidentally close quarters in a cloakroom.
And Ford was glad they had – and there was something more relaxed about him now, because Jemima, in the midst of deciding whether to tuck herself under the covers or to fish her nightgown back off the floor, had turned her head sideways to look at him instead.
They were going to be married the rest of their lives. He had said this to her, as a way out, before; she thought she was a little more at ease with the thought now than she had been – not nearly entirely, of course, but getting there. The pins-and-needles anxiety of earlier had not resurfaced yet. He was genuine and warm and had nice brown eyes, and he seemed to care about how she felt, which was perhaps more than she could have ever hoped for. “Me too,” she agreed softly, resting her head back against the pillow. There was that saying about having made one’s bed and lying in it, which hit a little too close to home tonight – but there certainly had to be far worse beds to be lying in than this. Jemima had imagined she was long past all daydreaming now, but she still had a strange little well of hope in her chest for the future.
Jemima laced her fingers with his with a gentle squeeze, still bewildered and a little overwhelmed, but grateful that everything had not immediately lapsed back into awkwardness. It seemed odd that it should make a difference, but she supposed they were united in something now, had shared more in this act than just some echoed wedding vows and accidentally close quarters in a cloakroom.
And Ford was glad they had – and there was something more relaxed about him now, because Jemima, in the midst of deciding whether to tuck herself under the covers or to fish her nightgown back off the floor, had turned her head sideways to look at him instead.
They were going to be married the rest of their lives. He had said this to her, as a way out, before; she thought she was a little more at ease with the thought now than she had been – not nearly entirely, of course, but getting there. The pins-and-needles anxiety of earlier had not resurfaced yet. He was genuine and warm and had nice brown eyes, and he seemed to care about how she felt, which was perhaps more than she could have ever hoped for. “Me too,” she agreed softly, resting her head back against the pillow. There was that saying about having made one’s bed and lying in it, which hit a little too close to home tonight – but there certainly had to be far worse beds to be lying in than this. Jemima had imagined she was long past all daydreaming now, but she still had a strange little well of hope in her chest for the future.
