"Quite Different Territory"
She had specifically requested a room without the view. A view they certainly had, as every window - every magic casement - opened onto something other than the pensione, even if not faery lands forlorn, but Lucy did not want the view of the Arno. It bubbled along, now an old friend, but old friends had no place here.
Here being in George's strong arms, his rough hands round her waist, his straw-colored hair slipping over her fingers and hiding the gold band he'd placed there. Here being in the window seat that overlooked the dull, desolate courtyard, not quite perched on George's lap, feeling the warm air hit her leg where her skirt was riding up.
George did not ask for permission. He never had, the heedless boy, and Lucy tried not to worry over the differences between them; she had every right to pounce on him, to worship him with her body, and that she chose to do so in quieter, more decorous ways had not been made so much as a murmur on his lips.
Those lips, long and flexible and warm, were on her throat now, and there was heat on her breasts, the sunlight beating down on them until George's fair head interposed between them to throw cool shadow on her flesh.
There was no need for a view. She could never have summoned the courage to sit with her husband, both of them bared to the waist, in a window overlooking the Arno, toward which all of Florence was turned. And he, she knew, knew it from his eyes that looked drunk with delight, had no eyes for any view but her.
As always, I'd love to hear what you think.