I don't really have much to say about this other than it's finally over. I am thankful to those of you who have been supportive and receptive. This was my first foray into a multi-chapter fic, and after everything, I'm not sure what my future is with fic or fandom, but I appreciate those who have been welcoming and kind as I believe you are what the fandom is really about. This story has been quite a labor and took quite a lot of courage to continue, so I am very grateful to those of you committed to being supportive and lovely.
I owe a particularly large debt of gratitude to the lovely Dee and Kouw, without whom I have truly no idea where I'd be. Thank you for being kind - for being there during every cry and every moment of frustration and especially during times of happy, cheeky, fun. You two are the best of the best.
This starts NSFW and fades into a sweet goodbye from my Chelsie to you who have stuck around to see the end.
Elsie pants against the hollow of his throat as she comes down. She can feel herself still clenching lightly against him, and when his cock twitches inside of her, she can't stop herself from grinding against him gently, pressing her hips into his to keep him right there, to prolong this bliss.
She should feel ashamed. She does. She can feel it heavy somewhere deep in her chest, but she can't be bothered to examine it just now, not when he has lavished this delicious, slow pleasure on her and she is still reeling.
Charlie's hands are stroking her back, tracing the bumps of her spine with a gentle touch and it does something to relieve a bit of the heaviness, the dark ball of shame lodged in her gut.
He is not angry with her.
She wonders if he will be later, if she should stop his hands. If it is her role, her responsibility to make sure they are respectable, that they don't overindulge.
His touch moves to the sides of her breasts, and her shiver against him causes another twitch of his length within her, a little jerk of his hips against her nub and she bites her lip, uses all of her restraint not to moan aloud.
He is not making her job very easy.
Reluctantly, she presses her hands into the mattress on either side of his head and moves so that she can peer down at him.
She can't help but smile.
He is so handsome. His unruly curls, dark brows and grey eyes, and the way he is looking at her softly, with so much affection. It makes her heart ache, and she longs to kiss him, to trace the line of his strong nose to his soft lips.
When she remembers she has no reason to hold back, relief swells in her chest and she can't resist leaning forward, kissing the tip of his nose and then his lips, first the top and then the bottom.
She is surprised by his groan when she pulls away.
"Whatever's the matter?"
His hand finds her cheek, draws her lips to his once more for a more languid joining, lazy and soft and, shamefully, beginning to make her throb again as he explores her so gently.
"Charles," she manages, breathless, between kisses.
"Hmm?" is his reply, but it is just this side of a moan, a low growl against her lips.
She swallows hard when his attentions move to her jaw and she's forced to slide up his body just a bit, jostling them there and causing her to clench against him again.
This time his response is a definite moan.
"Charlie," she tries again, gasps when he nips the tender skin of her neck over and over, soothing it with gentle kisses now and then. "Should— should we be doing this?"
He stops then, tucks his chin and looks at her.
"Is—that what you want?"
Dazed, she can't understand what he's asking.
"Is what what I want?"
She wrinkles her brow, uncertain she's made sense, trying to ignore the hot guilt in her belly as she wishes they could not speak at all.
He sighs deeply, brings his hands to touch her cheeks again and then drops them.
"I had hoped we could avoid this."
And her heart is pounding now. Avoid what? Is he about to tell her that she has pushed them too far, wanted too much, over-indulged and acted irresponsibly and shamelessly, or perhaps—
"Elsie," he says, and his voice is so deep and calm it both stills her instantly and makes her wish to press against him where they are still, god, still joined.
"Yes?"
"I hope very much not to offend you, but I think there are matters that we should, ah, perhaps discuss, even if only because of my own lack of knowledge."
She touches his cheek, feels the urge to settle against him, but resists it in favour of staring into his dark eyes.
"Alright."
He sighs deeply and she wonders if she should move off of him, if this in itself isn't entirely inappropriate, but his hands settle on her hips and trace invisible patterns that occasionally make her want to squeeze around him. She resists as best she can, focuses entirely on his words.
"Elsie, I — I've never been anyone's husband."
It is not what she expected, but it is lovely. She kisses his brow.
"I know, Charlie."
He looks into her eyes and then away, at her shoulder, her neck.
"And I know— I know you've been a wife..."
Ice shoots through her core at the thought that he could ever compare what she was to Joe to all the things she wants to be to him, with him. And she knows she should hold back, that she shouldn't say anything, that she should be polite and deferential, but he must know this, she can't let him think anything other than the truth about this. Can't found her marriage on a lie.
"In a sense, yes, but Charlie, I meant what I said all those months ago. It was never — what I had with Joe was a friendship, a shared past, and it's nothing at all like what I have with you. I—"
Why is this so hard when she is not coming over him, when he is not inside her driving her over the edge with every thrust?
"I love you very much. As a friend, a best friend, and as much, much more. I — I have been a wife before, yes, but I have never felt like one until this afternoon."
She wipes the silvery tears from his cheekbones as they fall and she can't believe she's put them there, can't believe she's said what she's said, has laid herself bare in this other, newer, more difficult way.
"I suppose then," he breathes, "this is perhaps new for both of us, in a way."
When she nods, he brings his hand to the back of her neck and coaxes her down for another kiss, and then one more, and one to the tip of her nose.
When they break their embrace, he is no longer crying and she settles on his chest, still loves the feel of him inside her, and traces her own patterns through his chest hair, brushes over his nipple with her fingertips.
She hears him suck in a breath and is nervous about what comes next, for what he will say.
He does not keep her waiting long.
"I love you too, Elsie. So much it sometimes scares me. The last thing I want is to offend you, to put you off or...do anything untoward."
Her heart clenches. He is about to tell her, about to set their boundaries and explain respectability to her and all while he is still buried to the hilt inside her, while she is still open and waiting and slick with their joining.
The heaviness in her stomach moves to her chest and she feels, absurdly, as if she could cry.
"And," he continues, "that's why I think we should discuss how we will...go about this."
She holds her breath, scratches her nails against him in an anxious little move, a desperation to be closer, to hold him, for him not to push her away.
"I should like...that is, I think it would be most appropriate for me to defer to you as to how...often we might...do these sorts of things."
Her brow wrinkles even as she feels him touch her hair, pat her head lightly.
These sorts of things?
It's agony. This tiptoeing, this carefully crafted politeness. It's so absurdly heavy on top of the weight she already carries and she feels just about ready to crack, to toss it all, throw it to the wind.
They are getting nothing done this way, and she is nothing if not efficient.
Still, to honour, to obey. A credit to his name.
She tries.
"I—" she clears her throat, begins to shift, she doesn't feel he can be inside her for this discussion. "I haven't given it much thought."
Lie.
She bites her lip, sits up and begins to...she can't think of a more appropriate word than dismount him, and when she does, she is surprised at his strangled moan and the state of him, half-hard already against his thigh.
She looks up at him in shock.
"I'm―" he starts, his eyes meeting hers only briefly before sliding away. His hand twitches and she wonders if he is going to turn, to move and cover himself from her view and she doesn't know for sure what she is feeling, but she knows she doesn't want that.
"I'm sorry, Elsie." he says, "I didn't mean ― I'm sorry."
His voice is a whisper, and she wishes very much she knew what he was sorry for, because then perhaps she could help, could do anything other than look at him there and wish that he wasn't sorry, that he would touch her again.
Her thoughts are racing and she can do nothing but stare, can't look away, can't school her features to hide her shock.
Part of her is so relieved, incredibly pleased that this is just as difficult for him as it is for her, but the other part of her is terrified by his quiet, fervent apologies, terrified that she has let him down by allowing him to get to this state again, for tempting him and making this so difficult for them both.
She looks down at him, at herself, at the state of them both. She can still see the tears in his eyes, can feel her own heart pounding against her ribs so hard her hands shake.
It won't do.
"Charlie?" she ventures, relieved when his eyes meet hers. "I'm sorry if I have made this...uncomfortable" she shakes her head. "Inappropriate? I'm sorry, too. I never meant to make things awkward between us. Or to— to lure you if you—didn't want to be lured? Perhaps I should do something different? Give you more distance or?"
She looks at him and his eyes seem wild and she's very anxious now, desperate, will just have to come out with it.
"Will you tell me? Tell me how it should be? How I might...please you and be a respectable wife? A credit to you?"
She feels as if her heart is making a steady ascent up her throat as she asks, can hear her own voice tighten and quake, and is only mildly surprised by the thunder in his eyes.
"Mrs. Hughes," he says, harshly, and she's suddenly jolted to attention, alarmed until his voice softens and he addresses her again.
"Elsie, I am the last person in the world you need to tell you about respectability, about being a credit to me. You are already that and so much more. I have been honest in my assertions that I am the happiest and luckiest of men. You have more integrity in your little finger than most people have in their entire bodies. You could never — "
He looks at her helplessly and she stares right back because she also feels helpless, trapped, completely unsure.
"In my eyes, Elsie, you have only ever been honorable, and it is my shame to say that I only raised the matter because I didn't want to offend you with my eagerness to be intimate with you in that way — as often as you'll allow it, as much as an old codger like me can."
She listens to him, slack-jawed until the tears well in her eyes and she is shaking with her relief, with the dark melancholy in her chest crumbling just that bit further.
"Oh, my darling," he says and pulls her down to him again, kisses her hair and strokes her back again and again. "You have never, ever been anything less than honourable and I'm sorry you've ever felt you were. You are more than a credit to me, Elsie, you are a credit to all of those fortunate enough to know you, to work with you, to call you friend or neighbour."
She is still crying, listening to him with half a mind and telling him her fears with the other.
"But Charlie, I want," she sniffles. "I want to be with you, to love you, I want so many—" she casts about, seizes on his own word, "untoward things with you."
He touches the backs of her arms, the swell of her bum and she clenches her eyes against the feeling of herself still wanting, still responding to his touch.
"Elsie, I think it might— I think it would be alright for us to want as much as we...want."
She sits up, wipes her eyes and dries her hand on the quilt. "How can you say that? How can you know?"
He licks his lips, looks her in the eye and holds her gaze.
"I don't. I don't know for sure. As I said, I've never been a husband, but Elsie, surely we've shown enough restraint over the past two decades, surely we held back when it mattered most — when what we did could have gotten us both sacked without reference, could have ruined us—"
"What what about in Scotland? What about there, Charlie, on the table. God, our first time was on a kitchen table that I shared with Joe, god."
He winces at the name and she appreciates it because it means he is feeling a bit of her discomfort, her worry, and for the first time she finds she wants to share it, wants him to help carry.
"Perhaps...that was not our clearest moment, but Elsie, we have been in love, I think, for many years. Is that true?"
She wants to deny it, wants to hide this last bit of shame that she's desired him nearly since she started as head housemaid at Downton, since she laid eyes on his tall, lean frame and dark hair and strong profile.
But he is being so brave, her man, so good and understanding and she can't deny him now, doesn't even want to. She wants to surrender to this, to relax into it, to share with him fully.
"Yes, twenty years or more in my case."
Her voice does not shake and she can't bring herself to regret it one bit as a grin breaks over his features and she can see the tips of his teeth between soft lips.
"For me, too," he says, and she understands his expression because she can feel herself mirror it as her heart bursts with pride and joy and love for him, for them, for how far they've come to say these words, to finally be here as man and wife.
"I think, then," he says, "that it is perhaps excusable that we sometimes do not act entirely proper. Don't you? We have spent years being very good and now...well, now is different. Although I am willing to concede that the table was perhaps not our finest moment, I must confess I don't regret it."
She looks at him, marvels at his gentle words and the love she feels for him. She thinks for a moment, absorbs what he says and wills it to sink in. And she does feel a bit better, a bit more reassured, but she still isn't sure what he's saying.
It is excusable if we sometimes do not act entirely proper.
What did that mean?
"Do you?"
His voice startles her from her thoughts.
"Do I what?"
"Regret it."
She takes in the delicate tilt of his brow, the worry line stitched in the middle and smooths it with her thumb, reveals her greatest sin.
"No, I don't. I think I probably should, but I don't."
"I understand," he says, taking her hand from his hair to kiss her palm, wrap her fingers around his touch. "I'm sorry for where it happened, but not what happened."
Her eyes shoot up.
He's made it so simple.
"Yes," she echoes, breathless, "me too."
He smiles at her — a small, tentative thing.
"Can we agree then?"
She is still sorting through her thoughts, still feeling the shadows in her shift and wane.
"Agree on what?"
He tugs at her a bit, lets their hands tangle as he hugs her.
"Agree that we might be less than entirely proper when the mood strikes."
She can't help but giggle a little at how hopeful he sounds, how soft and suggestive and very unlike her strict, staunch Mr. Carson.
She supposes everyone has their vices.
Her nerves still feel heightened, she is not entirely sure it is right, but it is what she wants and what he wants and she can think of no more reasons to deny them this.
"I suppose we have a right to enjoy our autumn years," she says and loves the way he moves against her when he chuckles, tickles his fingers along her side.
When he tilts her head up, she kisses him three times in quick succession, allows herself a moment to relax in his arms, feel him against her, before beginning to untangle herself, to move from off his chest and onto her own side of the bed and then up toward the washroom.
"Where are you going?"
She looks over her shoulder at him. His eyes are dark, and she loves the way he looks like this: rumpled, bare-chested, those curls falling over his brow. She smiles at him quickly so that she can turn away before she loses her nerve. She speaks to him over her shoulder as she gathers her things, a few misplaced creams, her tooth powder, and dressing gown from her trunk.
"I do believe we decided I'd have free use of the washroom after you?"
"Yes, but," he says and she can't help biting her lip, schools her features before looking at him again.
"But what?"
His eyes rake over her and his hot gaze alone is enough to stir her, to make her nipples tighten and her sex ache.
"Nothing," he says, and she's only a little disappointed because she really does want to wash up a bit, feels sweaty and sticky and all sorts.
She moves closer to lean over him briefly, kiss his brow.
"Thank you, Charlie," she says, and when he asks her what for, she replies honestly.
The weight is not gone, but she shares it with him now and it is lessened, it frees her enough to enjoy this, then, and she has a feeling it will only get better.
"For everything."
Elise regards herself in the mirror for a long moment before she moves.
The precious little makeup she had been wearing has been eradicated by their activities, the only trace of it is the smudged lip color she finds beneath her bottom lip.
She scrubs it away with a cloth.
Folded neatly on the little washstand are two garments. The first is her cotton gown ― steady, reliable, wholesome. The second is a gift ― short, satin, frilled ― matching her new corset perfectly.
She eyes the latter and the short, closed drawers it came with.
It wouldn't be proper. She can't help thinking it even after the conversation they've just had.
She should put on her cotton gown.
She should put on her cotton gown and plait her hair and cuddle up to her husband in bed and nothing more.
Except…
Except she can't help remembering the feel of him pressing against her there, hot and hard and how she thinks she very much would have liked to...go again.
And after their talk, his words, what could it harm.
She looks at the satin shift, the drawers.
She is only a bride once, after all.
Well, once when she really feels it.
Mind made up, she splashes the water over her face, soaks the cloth with the rosewater blend she loves and runs it along her cheeks, her neck, down between her breasts and to her sex.
She traces herself delicately there, careful not to delve too deep, and it is all she can do to keep from moaning. She is still slick there, swollen and ready. Biting her lip, she rocks just a little against her pressing fingers, in the way she used to before she had this, before she could have him, touch him ― before she knew with certainty he wanted her.
As often as you'll allow it he'd said.
She isn't sure he knows what he's bargained for, but she is very tired, very exhausted tonight of pretending, of being angry with herself, of punishing them both. She doesn't know how she will feel tomorrow, but tonight she knows what she wants.
She picks up the white satin shift, pulls it over her head and feels the cool smoothness of it pass over her nipples, tight in the cool air, then bends to fetch the drawers.
Closed drawers.
She bites her lip.
There's only one purpose for closed drawers, only one, rather scandalous, message they send to a lover.
Carefully balanced, she pulls the silky material up over her knees, her thighs, feels the way it flutters about her there, just skimming the delicate skin on the backs of her legs, the insides.
She shivers.
If she is going to be untoward, if he is going to accept her at her most wanton, she may as well push the envelope. Test the waters. Live a little.
Looking back in the mirror, Elsie considers whether she should plait her hair or let it be. It will be a wild mess tomorrow either way, she knows.
Well.
She gives herself a small smile in the mirror.
She hopes.
She regards herself as completely as she can in this mirror ― hung too high― and notes the way the neckline of the shift dips, and even when she ties the little ribbon there, presents a keyhole of freckled skin just at the crest of her breasts.
She tilts her head, considering.
He likes her freckles, she thinks, maybe.
She positions the ribbons so they don't cover the gap.
Combing her hair with her fingers, she mirrors his earlier actions and twists it into a thick roll she can place over her shoulder, when her fingers uncurl, she watches the way it fans out immediately, completely obscuring one of her shoulders.
There's nothing to be done about her face, unfortunately. She can't sleep wearing the kohl, the powders and stains that have aided her throughout the day.
But he has seen her like this before ― daily, for several years.
Still, she presses lightly at the lines beneath her eyes, at the corners, pushes against the dips of her cheeks where she's smiled and laughed, smoothes the worry line between her brows.
She sighs.
Perhaps he will let her dim the lights.
She spends one more moment pulling gently at her skin before she gives her cheeks a quick pinch, licks her lips.
There's no use in stopping now, no use in trying to turn back the clock, no use in trying to go any way but forward.
She thinks of him waiting out there for her, in their bed ― their bed. She wonders if he decided to don his pajamas in her absence and momentarily pouts over the loss of watching him dress ― something she wasn't even aware she wanted until this moment.
He will be handsome either way, but she had hoped to be afforded an unobstructed view of his powerful legs, his broad chest, and strong arms that lead down to sturdy hands, large and fit and just enough this side of rugged that she has to clench her thighs to assuage the sudden flash of heat she feels at the thought of them on her body.
God, she hopes he hasn't been wrong about them wanting as often as they'd like, because she does, very much so, even after he's shattered her world once already this evening, she is ready, so ready for more.
Abandoning all thoughts of her cotton gown, she quickly dons her dressing gown, hung so sweetly behind the door, awaiting her use, and pads back to their room.
Her heart does a funny little skip when she's greeted by the sight of him sitting up in bed beneath the covers, chest bared, his spectacles on, examining a slip of paper.
"What's that then?" she asks, making her way to the bed to sit on its edge and is utterly charmed by the sweet smile that graces his features, the way he reaches for her.
She crawls across the bed, both worried and hoping that her dressing gown is gaping, is offering him what she doesn't feel quite ready to say aloud.
She curls into his side, relishes the feel of the heat of his skin, the coarseness of the hair on his chest beneath her fingers. She knows she should be concentrating, but finds it very difficult not to touch him when he is bared to her like this.
Breathing in the scent of his cologne, she can't resist leaning in to kiss the tender skin of his neck where he is warm and soft and she can feel just the edge of his whiskers.
"Our wedding invitation," he says, and she can hear the pride in his voice. "Just reminding myself it truly happened, that this is our life now."
As sweet as it is, as much as it makes her heart swell, as much as she is trying to pay attention, she is intoxicated by the feel of him, by the contrast of the softness and the light scrape of his whiskers. It is a beautifully delicate part of her strong man and she feels she must kiss, nip, trace him with the tip of her tongue.
The hand he has had resting on her hip clenches and releases and she can hear his sharp intake of breath as she bites softly at him there, tugs at his flesh and then soothes it with gentle swipes of her tongue, little kisses that leave them both panting.
"Elsie," he rumbles, and the deep tenor of it almost makes her groan.
She is feeling wanton, but she is giving into it now, embracing it and the acceptance of it, she finds, makes her all the more desperate for him, for this closeness again and again, always.
Finally, the tensions of the day are melting, and she's talked openly and vulnerably with her husband and all she can think of is how his sensitivity, his kindness, his intelligence, and patience only make her want him urgently.
She tries not to examine it too closely, to let her thoughts run away with her. Instead, she savors the feeling of him turning them, moving so that she is halfway beneath him and he is leaning over her, capturing her mouth in a heated kiss that causes her to moan as his tongue traces her teeth, teases the tip of hers slowly and leisurely, until she feels she actually cannot stand the unhurried, unbearably provocative treatment and for perhaps the first time, allows herself to moan fully, without remorse, and pushes up toward him.
The heaviness of his hand still on her hip keeps her from getting very far, but somehow that only heightens her pleasure, the sweet ache that's building.
One-handed, distracted, she feels him set the invitation aside, pulls away for the barest second to doff his glasses and they land with an undignified clatter in the nightstand that makes her giggle.
"What?" he asks, already nipping at the skin of her throat.
"Nothing," she breathes, her fingers tracing the muscles of the arm he is using to brace himself over her.
And it's true, it is nothing. She is just grateful, so grateful for what they have, for what he's revealed in that swift, absent movement.
He believes what he's said. They are allowed to want.
And god - his lips at her throat, his big hand on her hip, his teeth nipping a little trail as low as her dressing gown will allow - she wants.
The heat between her thighs is an urgent ache and she dares to be bold now, to take his hand from her hip and slide it to the tie on her robe, watching his eyes as he pulls away slightly to complete the task.
Slowly, the knot loosens, comes undone between his deft fingers, and his skill, along with the knowledge of what she wears beneath her gown, causes her lip to dip between her teeth.
She can tell he has noticed something amiss in the way he pauses, peels back the edges of her robe and gazes down at her with that intense gaze of his, the way he breathes deeply through his nose and she can feel his hot breath against her skin when he exhales.
"Oh, Elsie. God, what— what are you doing to me?"
She worries for a moment, just a moment when she's bared to him in her new set, and she wonders if perhaps she has crossed the line, if this is too far.
But then his fingers are tracing the edge of her neckline and he is speaking, saying such lovely, delicious things.
"Do you wear this always?"
She has to resist scoffing, does not want him to think she is poking fun.
"Not always," she breathes, chooses not to tell him that this is the very first time she's worn it. Let him think she's sometimes dressed this way, gone to bed like this a room away, just out of reach. There's something about it that thrills her knowing that might've bothered him, that he might've been as tortured as she was by the distance between them. Both in this way and others.
"How often?" he asks, his eyes trained on the little bow at her chest and she shrugs just to watch him lick his lips as the shift pulls tight around her.
She can already feel herself dampening her knickers, feel the rush of warmth when he looks at her, runs his hand from the side of her breast to her hip and thumbs the bone there through the satin.
He is brushing against her so slowly, his warm hands somehow both sure and gentle and it's all she can do not to writhe, to push him down and throw her thigh over his waist and—
And it is only when she remembers that even if she did her knickers would prevent access, prevent him from touching her there fully that she gasps, does buck up this time, just a bit.
She can hear his breath increase, feels his fingers dig into the flesh of her upper thigh and bites her lip, cries out a short punctuated noise that makes him stop, stare down into her eyes.
He squeezes her hip again and she whimpers.
"Elsie," he drawls, and she can feel herself pushing against nothing, losing control. She can barely bring herself to respond.
"Hm?"
And it's desperate, high, just shy of a whimper, but she is ready, god, so ready she is slick and hot and can feel his fingers gripping her flesh, see his eyes dark and flashing, and that voice, her name in that voice that's commanded such respect, enforced such order and now makes her tremble, come apart beneath his fingers, which she now wishes he would use for something other than digging into the muscles of her thigh, something other than brushing her just where her hip meets her mound.
"Did you wear things like this then? Then at the abbey? Did you?"
She bites her lip.
"And what if I did?"
She can feel him surge up, his hand at her breast, squeezing, grasping, his fingers finding the stiff points of her nipples beneath her shift and tracing with gentle fingers before tweaking in a way that makes her cry out and her hips press up, seeking what's not there.
"I don't think I could stand it, Elsie. Knowing this was a room away from me and I was there, just on the other side, loving you, wanting you, I —"
Her heart skips, and she brings her hand to his shoulder, smooths her palm over his arm and tucks between the tense muscle of his bicep and his ribs, skims along his body until she reaches the edge of the sheet and, after a moment's hesitation, dives beneath it, thrills when she realizes he's completely bare beneath the covers, that he has waited for her.
In a flash of boldness and with a surge of want for this beautiful man, she squeezes, digs her nails into the curve of his ass and loves the way he growls in her ear.
"I want you," he says, and she presses her hips against his, smiles against his cheek. He wants. It thrills her and emboldens her and though her voice feels strained, she manages to say what she feels, what she's always felt.
"You can have me."
The groan he releases tells her all she needs to know, everything she's doubted.
Have her. He's going to have her. She's never wanted anything more in her life, doesn't understand how she can want him more every time they touch.
Which is why she can't help but fuss when he pulls away from her. She tries frantically to follow his body, rises over him and is about to straddle his lap as they've done before, just once, just once but it was so so good and she could do it again and again, but he catches her about her waist, stills her.
She is just far enough away that she can't press herself against him, can't sink down, can't do anything at all as he regards her with — well, there's no other way to say it — hungry eyes. And in a fit of absurdity, she thinks being devoured by him is exactly how she'd like to go.
However, she would very much like to be allowed to touch him again first.
She strains against his grasp, but he doesn't budge.
"Stop fussing, wife. I'm making up for lost time."
He says it with a smirk and she gives him a pathetic scowl in response.
"By delaying us further?" she gripes.
"Patience is a virtue, darling," he says and draws her closer with control so that he might press the briefest, most frustrating kiss she's ever received (not that she's received many) in her life before holding her away from him again and looking at the state of her, drinking her in with dark eyes, but doing nothing.
She isn't sure if she's flattered or annoyed.
His fingers are hot and hard through the slick material of her shift and she wishes now that she'd worn nothing at all, that she'd never left the bed in the first place. She can actually feel herself getting wetter and slicker between her thighs, the way she's pooling in her short knickers, and in desperation, she puts her hands over his, runs her nails over the backs of his hands lightly and tries a new tactic.
"Charlie, it's hard for me to…to make you feel...good...from all the way over here."
It's bumbling and stupid, but she's got it out. She'll have to practice, she decides, seducing him with her words. Her own secret project.
To her surprise, he merely hums, flicks his eyes up to hers momentarily before beginning to turn her gently in his palms, urging her to shift until she is between his legs, on her knees with her back to him and suddenly her heart is beating overtime.
She can see them in the mirror like this — herself mostly, but his large hands spanning her waist and the concentration on his brow as he looks her up and down.
She feels another rush of warmth between her legs and fidgets, fusses just a bit.
With one hand he lets go of her waist, and she jumps when she feels his fingers on the back of her thigh, tickling against the edge of her knickers where they stop very high, so scandalously high on her body.
He fingers the frilled edge and then shocks her by grasping her ass in his hand, squeezing and opening and even, god, Jesus, she may be imagining it, but, Lord help her she thinks he even patted her there, gave her a light smack and she's ashamed that the thought makes her cry aloud.
"Charles!" she says, and they lock eyes in the mirror where he regards her carefully for a moment before a wicked smile breaks over his features.
"Mrs. Hughes?" he asks, conversationally, as his hand grasps her again, squeezes and pushes and then definitely, she's sure this time, gives her a light smack and she can't help making a very unladylike sound in response.
She tries to bite her lip, to silence herself, but when he switches hands, does it again on her other side it's all she can do not to turn and take him, take him any way she can, her mouth, her hands, her —and she can't say it— can't believe it's coming to her in this moment, but she can't help but think the words — her throbbing cunt.
God, she wants him so badly it hurts.
He doesn't speak, instead uses both hands to grasp her and she can't stop herself, between his words and his hands and the way he'd looked at her earlier, she drops to her hands and knees, her breath shaking, her mind fixes on what he can do, what he will do to her next.
She's positively dripping, can feel it, and is sure there's a wet spot there where he can see, but she's far past caring, past thinking of anything but him touching her, filling her, bringing her over the edge she's poised on so precariously.
There will be no going back from this, she supposes, no going back from this brazenness, but she doesn't care.
She loves the way he groans, the way she can see in the mirror that he is staring at her, grasping her ass and her hips and intermittently giving her light taps until she's arching, pushing back against his hands.
"Elsie can I — can I, please?"
His fingers are on the elastic of her drawers and she is hardly capable of coherent thought.
"Yes," it comes out as a hiss which only lengthens as he tugs, pulls, slides the fabric over the curve of her bum and they both cry out when his fingers trail across her bare skin.
Her knickers are resting in the bend of her knees and she strains against them in an effort to open her legs, show her man exactly where she wants him.
She can do nothing but stare at him in the mirror, watch his expression as he brushes his fingers against her, licks his lips.
"My god, Elsie, you are magnificent."
And ordinarily, she would blush, would scrutinise and deny it, but she's too far gone for that. Just now, she wants to scream at him, wants to beg him to fuck her then, if she's so wonderful to him, if he wants her so badly, because he is driving her mad with desire, with lust, with her body brought to life, thrumming under his touch.
She's panting hard, watching in the mirror as he spreads her gently, strokes her with a maddeningly light touch that makes her back bow and arch, and then the way he pulls his fingers away, tastes first one and then the other, sucks them into his mouth and she strains against her knickers again, tries to open her thighs wider, but she can't, can only close her eyes, whimper softly.
The motion of the bed makes her eyes open again and she watches as he shifts, moves onto his knees, and then he's looking back at her, locking their gaze in the mirror.
Quietly, keeping his eyes on her, he pulls her up so she is on her knees again, pressed to his chest, then slides his hands up until he can cup her breasts through her shift. He watches her carefully, flickering across her nipples with the tips of his fingers. And every pass of them, every gentle brush against her there through the silky fabric shoots straight to her nub, makes her hips rock and undulate, desperate for friction.
She looks at him desperately, taking in the sight of them together in the mirror.
"Please," she gasps, answering his groaned response with a press of herself against him.
To her surprise, his hand snakes down, disappears under her shift, and with barely a warning, he is entering her with one thick finger.
The suddenness of it combined with the feeling of finally, finally being touched causes her to release a cry, her face contorting and her hips jumping toward his palm.
They can't stay like this long, she knows. They are not young and their knees can only withstand so much abuse, but at this moment it is everything. The feeling of his finger filling her, his palm on her breast, fingers manipulating the tip of her through the satin, his breath on her neck.
Everything.
He is thrusting his finger leisurely, shallowly, and it is not enough. She wants — needs— more.
"Charles, please," she entreats, digs her nails into his forearms.
He nibbles her ear, presses against her, then pulls away entirely.
She feels mad with it, desperate, is about to beg him to please, please show her how alright it is for them to want, when his fingers return, gliding over her flesh, circling her entrance lightly before barely entering her with two fingers and stilling.
It is almost, almost everything she wants.
She writhes against him, tries to thrust down over his fingers, but the angle makes it impossible.
"Charlie," she moans, and as she says it, he enters her fully, thrusts his fingers in and out with purpose, grinds his palm against her until she is quaking, contracting around those thick fingers and making little "oh, oh, oh," noises at their reflections in the mirror.
He continues stroking, grinding, playing against her until she can't take it. He withdraws slowly, and she moans long and low, feels she can only fall forward on her hands and meet his eyes in the mirror with a fierce gaze.
She definitely wants. She wants it all and she wants it now.
It's not right, she knows it isn't, it's not proper at all. It is animalistic and barbaric, and if he doesn't take her like this right now she feels she might weep.
His hesitation is as apparent as his arousal in the dark concern of his eyes, but she can only breathe hard, look at him with the hot desperation she feels.
There is no more room for their guilt, their shame, if they are to conquer this it must be together and it must be in trusting one another.
She trusts him implicitly.
"We can, can't we? We can — like this?"
His hand on her bum again, his hardness pulsing between them.
"You're sure?"
"Yes, god, yes, I want everything, Charlie. I want it all."
She doesn't know what possesses her to tell him her thoughts, but she's glad it has because his hands only glide over her a few more times, brush against her and make her shiver before the tip of his cock is pushing against her entrance, stretching her and filling her inch by inch until she thrusts back and he is fully sheathed within her, causing them both to stifle a cry.
The heat of them together is unbearable and when he starts thrusting so shallowly and slowly again she moans in frustration, addresses his reflection.
"Let go, Charlie, please, I trust you."
"Elsie." is all he says in return before he thrusts against her harder, deeper, his pace still slow and steady.
"Ah—" she can't suppress her strangled moan as she feels him push against her, his thighs meeting hers, his hands on her hips pulling her over him again and again.
In the mirror, she can see his eyes are trained on where they are joined, where he is disappearing within her over and over and she feels herself clench against him, sees the way his eyes close for a moment before opening again.
He is panting, sweating, one hand coming under her to fondle her breasts, pinch her nipples in time with his thrusts.
She moans again and he gives a deep growl, his thrusts speeding up and becoming slightly irregular.
"Yes, yes, my man, mo ghràidh," she says between the little noises she can't control, watching them, the way they are coming together, the way this primal indulgence feels so right, so wonderful, and natural, and delightfully erotic.
"Yes, Elsie, god, my wife, you are so — so—"
He doesn't finish his thought. The hand not holding her hip sneaks down, traces her, edges perilously close to her nub and she's suddenly never wanted anything more.
Any and everything he'll do to her, with her, she's never wanted more.
Rocking back, thrusting against him fast and hard, she grinds herself both onto his cock and into his hand which rests lightly over her.
Over and over she dips and twists and thrusts, squeezes her internal muscles against him and bucks into his hand and finally, finally, a fingertip extends to tease against her nub and then she is shattering around him, screaming, squeezing, bucking and writhing and within a few moments he is coming too, groaning loud and long and she can feel his seed being released within her.
She squeezes her inner muscles, drops to her forearms and gives a sated little whimper-sigh to the covers.
Slowly, his hand slides up, over her damp lower back and under her shift and pulls it over her head before drawing her close, curling around her and pulling her with him back to the head of the bed, nestling her close and arranging the crumpled covers over them.
When they regain their senses, he looks at her with a sleepy smile that she returns and they chuckle, laugh. They are okay. It was wonderful and they are okay and they are free to lie there together, tangled and sated, free press against one another with not a barrier between them.
And they do for some time. He plays with her hair, she strokes his chest.
She begins to shift, looks up at him and gives him a little kiss, wonders how she might convey what they haven't said.
They cant sleep like this — a damp tangled mess.
"We should—"
She is cut off by his lips on hers, soft and warm. She smiles into the kiss, her heart swells and clenches.
"Yes," he says, kissing her again. "We should."
Their continued kissing, their cuddling, and petting reveals that neither is eager to leave the other, and it stirs up a warmth in both their bellies to think it. To know their affection is returned and returned.
His fingers tickle the curve of her bum, her lips touch the hollow of his throat.
"We have to clean up, Charlie," she says, finally.
"I know," he says, trailing his fingers up her spine, playing in her hair for a moment more before he begins to turn and shift and she is jolted into action too.
They untangle themselves with great effort and lead each other to the washroom.
She watches as he fills the sink with hot water, leans around him, against his back and adds a drop of her rose concoction.
He loves it, loves the way it fills the room, his senses.
He takes one of his flannels —worn and not worthy of her, but what he has available — and he dips it in the water.
When he turns to her, he cups his hand beneath the dripping cloth and regards her seriously. He hesitates only a moment before beginning his work. He runs it over her body, over the freckles on her shoulders and down between her perfect breasts, brushing against the rosy tips.
She tries to remain still as he dips the cloth again, rewets it and slides it across her hips, the dip of her navel, then down between her legs where cleans her with the gentlest and lightest of motions while pressing gentle kisses to her temple, her shoulders, the impossibly soft skin of her neck.
He loves the way her nails scrape along his chest as he works, the way she's kissing him back, nuzzling into his breastbone and breathing him in.
When he is playing more than he is working, she takes the cloth, unwinds it from his fingers and soaks it in the hot water. Soaks it and wrings it and soaks it again before running it along his chest, through the silver hair there and lightly over his nipples, fascinated by the way the cool air on his damp skin makes them tighten.
They take their time, invest themselves fully in this simple service, this luxury they've never been allowed: to touch, to feel, to explore fully what has been denied to them for so long.
It is bliss.
She runs the thin flannel along his sex, views it this way, smiles at the way it seems less...angry to her in this state, but how it still makes his breath catch for her to touch him there.
She pays careful attention to his powerful thighs, kneels and bends to kiss his knees where she knows they ache.
He thinks he's never been cared for so thoroughly as she stands with the aid of his hand, resoaks the cloth and stretches up again, runs it from his shoulders to his fingers where she caresses each one, runs the cloth along and between each digit.
He has never considered himself clumsy really, not with the job he's had and the service he's provided, but with her, he feels it. She is so delicate and beautiful and elegant he trembles, breaks with every touch. He can't believe his luck.
His wife. She is his wife.
Her feelings are similar as she watches the stroke of the white cloth over his dexterous fingers, over these massive, strong hands she's seen serve dukes and dowagers and now — she blushes — now her.
She abandons the cloth entirely to run her fingertips along his hand, to thread their fingers together and squeeze against him, palm to palm. A touch in some ways more intimate than all they've shared —before tonight.
Before — before things went another way, before when their love, their want, was swept away, hidden, tramped down between them and only surfaced on those rare occasions when they would brush in the hall, when he'd look too long or she'd push too far and they'd be forced to see, to look long and hard at what bubbled there between them and then let it go anyway. To feel the heat of the fire before snuffing it out. To see their love there ready to bloom and force it away, cut it off, tamp it down because it was not allowed.
They were so cruel then — to themselves and one another — in the name of control, propriety, impeccable service.
Of course — she kisses his knuckles where they sit between hers, his tan skin against her freckles — they have not been so successful with maintaining their control as of late and as for their service — well, they are perfecting new forms of that at every opportunity, it seems.
She feels a twinge of guilt but pushes it away. It no longer matters. They are allowed now. They've got there in the end.
She smiles up at him and he does not hesitate in telling her she is beautiful.
She rests her head against his chest, listens to his beating heart and returns the sentiment.
In bed they press together, his front to her back, and remain like that for just a while, talking.
Elsie tells him that Glenna has said her Maggie would like to buy Joe's farm, Elsie's farm now, and run it with her husband, their little one on the way. If she was amenable to the idea.
She waits for him to speak.
He looks down at her pale skin, the goose flesh she's getting in the cool air and pulls the covers tighter as he strokes her arm.
When he does speak, it is simple. He leaves it up to her, says he will follow her lead, and that makes her smile because it's such a change.
Not that Mr. Carson should follow her lead, of course, but that Charles should admit to it.
She tells him she'd still like to spend some time in Scotland, near Glenna and Becky, suggests summers and he easily agrees, kissing the crown of her head.
Charles smiles against her hair, tells her he's found that he quite enjoys summers in Scotland.
They can buy a property there, he says, if she wants. If it would make her happy. He's some money set aside and he tells her now what he's known for years: that he wants to spend it on her, on them, on the rest of their lives together.
When she is silent, overcome, he speaks again.
"We don't have to stay here, either, Elsie, if you don't fancy it."
He tells her this and is surprised by his own sincerity, the honesty of the idea. How much it does not bother him at all to think of leaving this place, as long as he is leaving it with her.
He kisses her hair again, breathes in her scent and watches the delicate blooms of his roses as they press against the bedroom window — their bedroom window.
He feels he has all he needs in the circle of his arms, in the delicate hand that traces the muscles of his forearm, in the calf that winds back between his knees and the dainty ankle that curls around his calf as best it can.
She stays silent, strokes his skin and rubs her leg between his, relishing the rough coarseness of his hair against her skin.
She considers Downton, what it means, what it doesn't.
She hadn't anticipated wanting to stay put, but Beryl is here. Beryl and Anna and Daisy and it's true that it's odd to be here now, with she and Charles both retired. Downton has always been a place of work and toil and crises. It is difficult to think of it as much else.
Then again, it is a pretty place, milder than Scotland in the winter, and she thinks perhaps it would be nice to enjoy it now, to surround themselves with a familiarity that is also entirely new.
She tells him she doesn't mind it here, but that they can speak of it more, if he wants. They can discuss it when her eyes aren't so heavy, his body so warm and solid against her, lulling her to sleep.
"We have all the time in the world, Charlie. The rest of our lives," she breathes, turns in his arms, untangles herself before winding back into him, her head on his chest, her thigh slotted carefully between his.
He shifts to accommodate her and loves the way they fit together in every way, the way her body perfectly molds to his, as much as she cherishes the way their skin can now press and glide and touch with ease, the way his grip is strong and sure.
Neither thinks they would like to move ever again.
"I love you," she whispers into his chest, lifts her head and he delights in knowing that she is asking him for a kiss, in knowing it is something he can eagerly give, and with ease.
She snuggles against him further, adorably, presses as close as she possibly can, and through the window the silvery starlight illuminates them both, the slopes and angles of them pressed, fitted together finally and perfectly — glints off the ring on her finger as it lays across his chest.
She feels warm against him and when she squeezes him sleepily and he squeezes back, she knows what it means now to feel this way. To feel warm and fluttery and a little less scared. It means love. It means them together, enjoying one another. It means talking in the morning, stumbling through breakfast together, kissing and cuddling and talking and fighting.
Just as they've always done.
It means as much for him. It means hands held close and sparkling eyes, gentle smirks and biting remarks, providing for her in every way he can. Learning from each other and forging ahead. If the future is coming, in all its unpredictability and uncertainty, he is glad it is her with whom he faces it, hand in hand.
Just as they've always done.
It means love beneath the bright stars, white-hot, burning, just like them, for as long as god and luck allow.
"I love you," he whispers back, and bathed in the silver-blue light of the stars, they fall asleep entwined.
fin.