He reaches around her to the silver handled brush and takes its weight in his hands, replacing her hand with his, uncoiling tangled strands with long fingers before smoothing them further with the soft bristles of the brush. He moves uncertainly at first until he meets her gaze and she smiles, her eyes brightening, small lines of pleasure crinkling her skin.

The steady movement of the brush lulls him, his other hand falling from her hair to her shoulder, fingers playing instead with the white lace at the neck of her gown, occasionally brushing the ivory skin of her neck as it sweeps down to her shoulder. Without thinking, without examining motive, he leans down and presses a soft kiss where his hands had been, raising his head at the soft sound that escapes Maria's lips.

Her hand reaches up and touches his, stilling the brush, her fingers shaking as they graze against his skin. He backs away, watching her as she stands and turns, approaching him slowly, her tongue darting out to brush her lips as she extends her hand to settle on his chest, her touch as gentle as a breeze.

Maria stares at him with soft eyes and he lifts his hand, uncertain what to do with it. He reminds himself that she is his wife, his to touch and do with as he will, but he knows that, like a ship, a woman responds to the slightest touch, so he brushes her cheek with long fingers then slowly settles his hand against it, struggling for breath as she leans into his touch, her eyes closing, her lips parting.

He kisses her then, softly at first, then stronger as her mouth opens beneath his, inviting him in. His tongue brushes across hers and heat fills him, burning along his skin as his hands tangles the straightened mass of her hair before settling against the nape of her neck. She moans against him, the sound like a flint, sparking fire along his spine as he slides his other hand around her waist, pulling her closer to him.

Maria's hands are caught between them. She flattens them, pressing her palms to his chest, the heat and weight against his nightshirt enough to burn, to sear his flesh beneath. She runs them up and down the expanse of his chest, stroking over the planes and muscles, fingers occasionally grasping at his shirt as she raises up, seeking more.

Horatio groans thickly as her nails scratch at his skin, scoring valleys in the fabric and raking along his flesh. He pulls her closer, limiting her movement, and plunders her mouth, tasting every subtle hint of her on her lips, against her tongue. They break apart on a heavy breath as Horatio steps back, grasping the hand on his chest and guiding Maria to their bed.

"The light," she whispers, but he shakes his head and brings her closer, fingers finding the fabric of her night dress and easing it up her body, over her head. She flushes with heat and embarrassment, her head bowed as he lets the gown fall and moves back into her, his hands stroking the expanse of skin, exploring her flesh, charting her desires through the gasped and desperate reactions as he touches her. "Horatio," she begs softly, her eyes bright with desire, dark with the hint of shame. "The light."

"You are my wife, Maria," he reminds her, reminding himself as well as he lets his fingertips trail over the rosy bud of one nipple, and marvels in its reaction. "And I am with you so rarely, see you so rarely." He repeats the gesture with her other breast then carefully cups the skin, feeling the weight and fullness of both breasts. "Let me see you."

She bows her head as he runs his thumbs over her nipples. He bends his head and catches her reaction in a kiss, swallowing the surprised and hungry gasp from her lips. There's a soft mewl of pleasure that escapes her and he slides his hands down to her hips, feeling the swell of them like the graceful curve of a sail as he turns her, guides her down onto their bed.

Face flushed with emotion, Maria stares up at him. Her eyes are wide and uncertain, but full of love, full of trust that he finds himself wondering if he deserves as he rests one knee between her parted legs, his other leg on the floor to hold him steady as he eases his shirt over his head.

Maria reaches out, her hands shaking as she touches him, fingertips of one hand grazing his thigh as the other brushes against his hardened flesh, drawing a harsh gasp from between his lips, a shuddering breath as he drops his nightshirt to the floor, the white fabric falling on her gown, covering much of it as he turns to her, intent to do the same.

He is caught instead by her eyes, wide and amazed, none of the embarrassment there any longer as she reaches out and touches him again, letting her fingers follow the curve of his arousal, her tongue peeking out from between her lips, watching in rapt fascination as his body responds.

His muscles tremble beneath his skin as she continues touching him, her fingers growing bolder, wrapping around the shaft. Her mouth parts in soft surprise and she looks up at him as he makes a sound, part pleasure and part pain. He can feel his control slipping, the head of his erection cloaked in moisture as her hand grows more sure. Finally he shakes his head, reaching down and stopping her hand, curving his fingers around her wrist and easing her touch away from him.

"Maria," he whispers, guiding her hands back down to the bed, angling his body over hers. A smile ghosts across her face and her body arches beneath his, flesh brushing flesh. His whisper melts into a groan and he kisses her again, tasting the sweetness of her lips as his eyes close.

She whimpers softly beneath him, against his kiss, her tongue hot against his as he pursues the kiss deeper, thrusting into the welcoming of her mouth. He breaks off, breathing roughly and stares down at her, sees her watching him eyes that reflect him, neither of them sure of the man she sees. He is a stranger to her, he realizes, a man she does not know who shares her bed and her body when the time and tide allow it so. The thought frightens him almost as much as arouses him, the hunger for something as unknowable as the sea, and yet as familiar as the curve and swell of woman.

He kisses her again and slides inside her, sheathing himself in wetness and heat. Maria moans against his mouth and he feels her tighten around him. This is his wife, the mother of his child. He breaks the kiss to feather his lips over her skin, kissing at the dusting of freckles and the hint of blush that stains her cheek, tasting the ragged breath of desire as it passes her lips. She is his. His Maria, for better or worse. For this. For now.

Groaning thickly, he spills himself inside her, still thrusting against her pliant flesh. Her hands stroke his back softly, and he feels them for the first time, offering her a slow smile as he eases off of her, settling instead beside her. She stares up at him still as he rests on his elbow and watches her, his long fingers stroking over the curve of her stomach, wondering if his seed will blossom into another child. Maria's skin is warm, nothing like the sea or dockside whores, gentle and gentling. He would like to see her swell with child, he thinks as he sinks down to the bed, closing his eyes.

"Put out the light, Maria."

He can feel the shadow of her as she shakes her head, shifting to look down on him. "No, Horatio." He wonders as she whispers his full name instead of the hated Horry, but cannot open his tired eyes to ask. "You sleep. Tonight," her voice breaks softly and he seeks out her hand blindly, bringing fingers to his lips to kiss. "Tonight, I'll take the watch."