ROW80 Goals, a Bedroom Scene, and Blogging

Round of Words in 80 Days, round 3!

My goals for this round: don't slack off! Edit something, anything.

Currently, I have four contender projects:

Captive of the Sea, research and yet another round of edits. Maybe on paper?!

Blackbird's Song, short story to be entered in the Surrey International Writer's Conference contest

At Bertram's Hotel (working title), WWII spy story to be edited on screen. I could at least fill in the missing scenes...

Rome, Rhymes, and Risk (or Verse, Venice, and Viziers): Possibly to become a screenplay?

And the July writing exercise will be posted on thelitforum soon...

June's exercise was bedroom scenes, in the dark.

Here's mine, featuring Christianne and Rory from The Charm of Time. This is Christianne's pov. She and Rory have been together for a couple of years and have an 8-month-old baby. Christianne is a three-year cancer survivor. (All this to explain some of the comments she makes.):

(Warning: They go all the way! I'll put a break where you can fade to black, if you wish.)

***
"I knew I shouldn't have gone to that picnic." She paced behind the couch.
"You can't stay home forever."
"It's not forever. Only until there's a vaccine, or–"
"Aye, I know all that." Rory muted the TV. "But that's only one side. What about the social stuff? The, you know, psychological?"
"How do you mean?"
"You like going out," he said simply.
"More than you do," she quipped, then stopped beside the arm of the sofa and considered what he'd said. "But is it worth it, if I have to spend more days waiting for more test results? What about the psychological aspect of going through all that again?"
"Well, and if you have got it, seems pretty mild so far." He took her hand, as he reached over and knocked on the wooden coffee table with the other.
What if this is just the beginning? she thought, but didn’t say aloud. She didn't share Rory's hope.
Her mobile vibrated on the coffee table and Rory swept it up and handed it to her.
"Oui, allô?" She made to return to pacing, but Rory held her fast, and she gripped his fingers and stayed put. The voice continued in her ear, and she mouthed the word ‘negative’ to Rory. "Merci beaucoup, bon soirée!"
He shut off the TV and rose and wrapped her in his arms. She dropped the thread of worry she'd been unravelling, and sank against him. The sun, on its way to setting behind the mountains, found its way through the buildings all around and reached for a final moment through the kitchen window and into the living room.
"How are you feeling now, lovey?" he murmured.
As they drew apart, the light winked out. She considered again. Compared with yesterday's sinus headache and overall misery, she seemed almost recovered. Her hand itched to knock on wood as Rory had done. "Better," she said cautiously. "I'll go take my temperature again."
He followed her down the hall, and they both paused before Stephanie's room. They'd left the door ajar as they always did, and her breaths could be heard, soft and even in the dark.
In their room, she flicked on her bedside lamp and stuck the thermometer in her mouth. Rory began to undress. He was down to his shorts when the thermometer beeped. "No fever," she told him.
"Good. Are you taking your shower now?"
A sudden bone-deep weariness dragged her down. Shower. Bed. Wake early for Stephanie's first feeding. Start the day, the routine, all over again. She was lucky, and grateful, but there were moments when the repetition of it all seemed insurmountable.
"Hey." Rory slipped the thermometer from her hand and set it down. "Everything all right?"
"Just tired."
"It's still early. You'll feel better after a good night's sleep."

"If Stephanie doesn't wake."

"She's been fine the past few nights. But I was going to say..."

His tone had shifted, and she recognised it. It had been a few weeks since they'd initiated anything, their longest stretch ever except for the time after Stephanie's birth.
She nudged him with a hip. "What were you going to say?"
"It's still early – we could take a bath."
"Perfect." Already she could feel the caress of warm steam.
In the bathroom, she pulled out her collection of bath oils and bubbles, and poured them all in at once, letting them fizz and froth against the stream of water filling the tub. Rory, seated on the rim, tugged her closer, to stand between his legs as he began to undress her. Not that there was much to work with. Shorts and a nursing top, and then they both slipped out of their underwear and entered the bath together. Rory shut off the tap and leaned back, and she leaned back against his chest, and exhaled, and her muscles relaxed one by one. They rested together, quiet, so quiet she could hear the fizz of the bubbles as they settled in the water.
She was tired, certainly, but not lulled to sleep; instead, the comfort of the steam and the tang of the citrus-scented oils had her alert, and parts of her stirring that had been dormant for too long. She set a hand on Rory's leg, and inched it upwards.
He responded instantly, arms tightening about her waist, then drawing aside, hands curving low on her hips. She turned in his hold to face him. The water lapped and stirred with their movements. They'd left only the bedside lamp on, and the door was half-closed; what little light came in caught the curves of bubbles and glinted off the soapy trail she left as she traced a finger up his chest, then curled her hand about his ear. He lowered his head, and his mouth met hers, and all inside her she was languid and standing to attention at one and the same time. His kiss was deft and sure as always, and she wanted more of it, and still more. Fingers speared in his hair, she held him to her, seeking, seeking, and he met her with an urgency of his own, hands roaming as he kissed her back, hard and soft at once.

(Fade to black here, if you wish!)

One hand caressed its way to her breast, and that gave her pause, and he felt the shift, and broke their kiss. "Not yet?"
"Best not," she replied.
He ducked his head and nuzzled between her breasts, tantalising close, slippery with the bath oils, but refrained from teasing or suckling.
She shifted to sitting, straddling him, and the water, most of its bubbles gone, moved in waves about them as their lips met again. "Let's get out," he said against her mouth and there was a hint of oranges on his breath. "I'll follow you," she told him, and shifted to the side, admiring the dots of light all down his body, where soapsuds shimmered. She lay back for a final soak, as if she could trap all the heat inside her, then drained the bath and stepped out, into the towel Rory held out for her. They lingered on the mat, kissing, enveloped in lemony steam, towels held up only by their joined bodies.
Rory's hands rucked up her towel at the back and cupped her. She took one small step, letting the towel slip down completely. Kissing along the hollow of her throat, Rory slid a hand down to her waist, skimming low on her hips.
She stepped back again, and fisted his towel at the chest. "You first," she directed, and manoeuvred him towards the bedroom, flicking off the light as they reached the bed.
In the sudden full dark, as she waited for her eyes to adjust to the late evening light from behind the curtain, she knew him, where he sat on the side of the bed, only by feel. The hard lines of his shoulder, the oft-washed cotton of the towel ends she pulled apart, the strong muscles of his thighs as she splayed her hands on them and bent low over him. He was firm and hinting at oranges down here as well. He snaked his arm through hers and fondled a breast as she began to move, slowly, up and down. She added a hand, then the other, to cup him in turn, and his body quivered.
She eased off, then, and stood once more. His eyes were too dark to read, but his gaze was trained on her, as if he could see what his hands were exploring, following the curves of her body.
"Tell me," he murmured against her mouth.
She kissed him, finding his hand in the dark and guiding it between her legs. "You on top."
He rubbed gently, then eased away. They kept their hands close, manoeuvring together in the dark. He leaned over her, kissing along her throat, and she met his eager mouth with hers, as his hand returned to its ministrations below.
"Faster," she ordered, then, "slow" as she reached her peak, then "viens" she commanded, and he swiftly covered her with his body and found his way home. She wrapped her legs about him and threw her head back, let him set the pace, driving what was left of her thoughts from her mind, until she was nothing but molten sensation. He came with a gasp and a cry, and collapsed against her.
Gradually, her breathing eased. She considered that she had just strength enough to raise a hand to his head. Gently, she stroked his hair. "Je t’aime, ma force," she whispered, on the edge of sleep.
"I love you. Sweet dreams, lovey."
***

In other news, I've posted 1234 times on this blog! I need to do something once I hit 1500. Another contest, and another collation of all my posts. Some days I wish I'd tagged my posts since the start...

How do you celebrate blogging milestones?