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Mycroft has been trying to ignore its existence all morning. So far, his attempts remain unsuccessful. Even through his newspaper he can see – feel, taste – it sitting, seemingly innocuous yet irresistibly beckoning, in the middle of the breakfast table. Strategically placed to help him gain three pounds by merely acknowledging its propinquity.
Fingering his collar, he loosens his tie, clears his throat. Tries to concentrate on the headlines instead of his wife's movements around the kitchen, wiping the counters as though questioning the cleaning lady's competence. Avoiding her eyes is a delicate dance. Delicate like the perfect swirl of cream that adorns his object of affection provocation. Mycroft finds himself determining the ingredients from afar: flour, unbleached sugar, cocoa, raspberries... (He would be more accurate were he to take a whiff, if not to say a bite, but the mere thought adds another layer of fat to his ribs.)
The strain is maddening.
His wife can be a deviless, knowing how to tempt him beyond (his waistline's) redemption. In another life, she could have made a fine pastry chef.
"I told the boys to leave one for you," Victoria suddenly startles Mycroft out of his deliberations. She must have noticed the longing he couldn't hide.
"You can have it if you like," he replies, once again obscuring their line of sight behind his paper. "I had a late lunch."
"Of course you did."
"Please take it." He turns a page, appearing absorbed. That an additional stone would suit her better than it would him he keeps to himself.
Even through the rustling journal, he can feel her considering him. Probably guessed what he was thinking.
"Why, thank you," she says finally, lightly. "Don't mind if I do."
Mycroft can't help but look up. The way she peels off the muffin cup is almost indecent. She curls her lips around the icing as though kissing it, and the gesture reminds him of Sherlock, who used to torture him with similar acts when he was a child. And occasionally still does, when he knows Mycroft is powerless to stop him.
His newspaper-shield droops in front of him as he watches in rapt fascination how his wife nibbles delicately at what he would have liked for himself. Yet he remains firm on his diet.
When she has finished this work of art, Mycroft stands, throwing the paper on the table. Her expression is one between innocence and expectation. He can't help it; he has to taste her.
He closes the gap between them in one stride, runs his fingers around her slight waist, then presses her roughly against him. He kisses her deeply, almost passionately, moaning at the blueberry – not raspberry – flavour in her mouth.
She breathes his name when he parts from her, unaccustomed to this kind of attention. They rarely see each other because of the demanding nature of their jobs, and with their children home for the holidays, Mycroft stays out even longer. She has urged him to act more like a father to them, but he is unfamiliar with the concept, and thus unable to replicate it in his behaviour. He would rather avoid it entirely.
He kisses her again, savouring her residual sweetness. Lifting her onto the table, he palms the crisp linen of her cream blouse, the wool of her skirt, the silk of her stockings. He feels himself straining against his trousers, takes a deep breath, and rests his forehead against hers. If it weren't for his medication, he would like to take her now, give her the girl she has always wanted. He is aware that her wish has only become stronger since her last miscarriage, despite her reticence on the matter.
Her eyes are large and dark, so full of restrained anticipation that he finds himself unable to disappoint her again.
He smooths his hands up her sides, over her breasts, to her throat, imagining his thumb digging in. That helps. He may not last long, but he'll count his blessings.