By: Dana
Summary: A cool day, and Rosie's warm touch.
Characters: Sam, Rosie
Pairings: Sam/Rosie
Rating: R
Warnings: Het, sexual content, PWP
Author's Notes: For Hyel, randomly: not only because I love her, but because she loves Rosie and Sam.
Disclaimer: The author makes no claim to owning the rights of anything to do with J.R.R. Tolkien or New Line Cinema. Any and all characters and situations that have been borrowed are for the author's personal use only, and for the entertainment of others.

She laughed, and kissed him on the mouth. If it tasted too desperate, then Sam could hardly fault his Rosie that – it had been a very long while since he'd found himself about Bywater, for all it really wasn't so far away. He took her by the hand, and she lifted her gaze, looked him in the eye. He was struck by that gaze, and he stood there, as if he'd been full mired in a daze. They'd met on the road, him walking towards Bywater, and her walking towards Hobbiton. Now, they were somewhere beyond the middle – though, they were fair closer to Bywater, than they were to Hobbiton. Sam was caught in Rosie's gaze, bright and clear; and her parted lips, and the line of her throat, and it curving so as it swelled into her –

'Rosie,' he said, in that breath and that moment, and she laughed once more, as if she knew where his gaze had been drawn, and when Rosie kissed him, again on the mouth, Sam felt a flush of heat upon his cheeks.

'I've missed you, Sam Gamgee,' Rosie said, and threaded her hand with his. They stood there for a long while, and Sam felt a sudden lump in his throat. He could hear his pounding heart. Rosie looked at him, cautious. She hadn't been cautious, that last time he'd seen her – out dancing with her brother, at her Tom's birthday party, and Rosie'd had flowers in her hair, and ribbons in the curls on her feet, and she'd been wearing her very best party dress, the one that was coloured like grass and sea. Sam hadn't ever seen the sea, though it did seem an inevitable enough thing. There was sea in Rosie's eyes, too, and the faint scent of salt, and cinnamon and flour, on Rosie's skin.

He swallowed, tried to rid himself of the wretched lump in his throat. But he could only look at her, standing there, beneath the pale autumn sky, in the cool autumn air: how it blew at her hair, her curls bound up in a fine bun, with a long bit ribbon, pale as the yellow sun.

Cool, the day was cool, but Rosie's hand was warm, and her gaze was on his, firm and steady.

'Walk with me, Sam,' she said, and he did, not tripping over his feet like he thought he might: they turned, and went towards Bywater. She looked at him, sideways, and he happened to look back at her, at the same time. She coloured faintly, and her grip tightened. The bun of her bound curls had loosened as they walked, and a long, honeyed tendril, fell down to brush her shoulder, above the faded rose of her dress. He was free for the day, all his work at Bag End done behind him, and Mr. Frodo had given him all of Highday to himself, as well. And he had come halfway to Bywater, though there hadn't been much reason for him to do so.

Sam envied that curl its touch, and he let Rosie lead him down the lane: they turned, and the Cotton farmhouse was in the distance. They followed the path further, to where it lost itself in knee-high grass, and wildflowers. There were apple trees, and they were in the shadow of them, beneath of the scent of the fruit hanging heavy on the tree. Rosie caught his other hand, and pressed her mouth against his. If Sam had been able to, he could have looked to the north and he would have spotted the Cotton farmhouse. They were not that far away, and Sam knew well enough that this was not proper, this was not right. But Rosie was warm. Yes, warm, and perfectly so, and as they kissed, she pulled him down into the grass: and Sam let himself go.

Her skirts rode up when she sat before him, and Sam was half out of his mind when he put his hands on her bare, slightly freckled, legs, as he knelt before her, and as they had stopped kissing for some insensible reason, he led his mouth back to hers. They had kissed, some, at the birthday party: out of the way, behind a thicket of blackberries and behind the tool shed that was furthest from the barn, where Sam's family wouldn't find them, and where Rosie's family wouldn't think to look after them, either. Sam knew in his heart that he loved her, that he had loved her for a long while, though he couldn't rightly specify when it had had its start: and he thought that he would love her for a longer while, yet. Until after he was dead, and buried, at the very soonest, he supposed. But they had only kissed, at the birthday part, and it had put a maddening want in him. And not only in him, he found, as Rosie kissed him, as he kissed her, and as she took him by hand and led him to what they both desired.

He pressed his hand up to where she was warm, and wet, his hand sneaking beyond her underthings, and he felt the clutch of her body about him as she gasped, mouth falling back away from Sam's, and as she clutched at his wrist: with her other hand clutching at the nape of his neck. She was lovely, with curls coming loose from the bun of her hair, more than they had, a flush of dark colour on her cheeks. She gasped, and trembled, and Sam felt her own pleasure, more than his own, with the heat of her body all around.

She pushed against him, and he pushed back – knelt between her legs, with his hand and her hand both between their bodies, and her cries were muted like dream in the shadow of the old apple trees. 'Sam, Sam,' she pleaded, shut her eyes and arched her back – a flash of one breast, as she strained sweetly against her bodice, and Sam blinked, and wet his lips, and swallowed, again. He strained, no, he gasped to breathe.

Rightly enough, he was wanting more.

With a cry that startled birds out from the branches above, Rosie came, and trembled, and slumped back, spent, against the wood of the tree. Her grip loosened, and her hand at his nape fell away. 'Sam. My Sam,' and she leaned forward, sweat on her skin and that same colour in the shape of her mouth, and she kissed him. Sang to him, as if she was giving him his only needed air. She took it, and clutched at her, and he felt her hands at his breeches. Her leg pressed against his, through his trousers, and he felt his own first thought of pleasure.

'Rosie, I – '

And she looked him in the eyes, again, steady and firm, and as she freed him from the restrictions of that cloth she told him, without hesitation, that they would be husband and wife in time, and it really wouldn't hurt them from getting such an improper start. She went on, and she was bold enough, and told him that she had had her bitterroot tea, too, though at the time, she hadn't had anything properly sweet to follow it down. But her mother didn't know, though the healer did, and Sam could hardly think, with her hand reaching where it was.

He was kneeling in the grass, and her hands were smooth and firm and they wound about him, held him. His body hadn't thought about it, before, so lost in giving her own pleasure: but he hardened beneath her touch, and he ached.

'Rosie, I – '

And it was what they both wanted, and he wound his arms about her waist, pressed his face into the messy tangle of her now loose falling curls. He was kneeling, and he held her, and her hand was down between them, on him, and that touch guided her to – oh. She sank down on him, and Sam felt that he would explode, or at least, at a perfect moment, one such as this, it most certainly had to be some sort of end. There was too much cloth between them, but they met where they needed to, and oh, the perfect feel of it might just have strove to break him, him and his heart.

But it was no end, and Rosie crooned a tune against his ear, laughed like the stars might sing, and rocked herself on him, the pulse of it and the rhythm of it: the simplest of all great things, it felt, as she clutched at him and he at her, and she rode him. Her skirts pushed up to her hips, and his hands being what had pushed them so high.

'I love you, Samwise Gamgee,' Rosie said. She kissed him once again, and this time on the cheek. And Sam held her, and moved as she did.

End Notes: Bitterroot is a contraceptive herb that was first mentioned in Ruby Nye's "Festival Dancing". (Which you can find on her journal, posted in three parts: 1, 2, and 3).