"I can't take much more of this" he whispers, his lips grazing her ear.
She smiles, a little grin of satisfaction and shoos him away from where he's pressed behind her.
"Hush, I know, but we can't." She scolds.
He lets out a frustrated groan, and she can't help smiling again.
"You find this amusing then, do you?"
She shrugs just a little, just enough for her dress to strain and for him to close his eyes against her image.
"A little." She says. "Why are you so eager anyway? It's only been..." she trails off, pretending to think, but of course she knows, could tell him exactly how long it's been since they've engaged in their little arrangement.
"It's been bloody months."
She bites her lip. Not quite that long, but she feels it too, of course she does, that edge of impatience when they speak, the hint of urgency behind every accidental brush against each other in the hall.
"Come now," she indulges him, turns, takes a step toward him so they are very close. Too close. She fiddles with his lapel; adjusts his tie.
He closes his eyes again.
"Whatever is the matter, Mr. Carson? You're so tense, strained even. I hope very much the increased work of the last few days hasn't exhausted you."
She continues her petting, her fiddling, teasing all the way through her little speech. Has lowered her voice, is practically purring. She presses herself just lightly against him, just enough to make her meaning clear.
He doesn't open his eyes, clenches his fists tightly at his sides.
"You are a wicked woman, Mrs. Hughes." He grinds out, and she chuckles, takes a step back, smooths her skirts.
"I don't know what you mean, I'm sure." She widens her eyes, bats her lashes, licks her lower lip lightly, just because.
He shudders just slightly, steps closer to her again, puts their bodies back in sinful alignment.
"Wicked, wanton, bloody temptress." He mutters.
"Perhaps." She concedes.
His brows are a hard line of frustration, restraint.
"Poor dear." she soothes, not sorry at all, not really.
She runs her hands down his chest, toys just a bit with the line of his waistband, feels the fine fabric with the tips of her fingers.
"God damn it, Elsie." He growls - a warning - and the curse combined with her Christian name gives her a little shiver.
She would do well to stop now, knows she's playing with fire, starting something they can't finish, thinks brazenly she hopes to pay for it all later, then blushes a little at her own boldness.
She plucks the button of his pants with her nail, once, for good measure.
"I'll tell you what Mr. Carson, I hate to see you so stressed. And of course, I know the rules as well as you. And it's clear I've vexed you. As soon as the guest have gone," she trails off, then leans forward, hisses in his ear "and not a minute later," leans away from him again, just enough to see his eyes "you can come and find me for my payment. If you want it." She hums at him in question.
He grips her upper arms with such force she thinks they may bruise, can't bring herself to care. She's feeling quite flustered now herself.
"Be ready, Mrs. Hughes, because when I find you, I will be expecting payment. In full."
He holds her near to him just a moment longer, then thrusts her away, turns and exits her sitting room.
A moment later, she hears his pantry door slam.
The others would think they'd had a row. She takes some smug pleasure in knowing he had secluded himself because wasn't in a presentable state.
This had been going on for years now, he and she, meeting, teasing, more. It was an arrangement they'd come to after one too many heated arguments, after frantic kisses, after tongues and teeth, after skirts and shirts rucked up, against her sitting room door, his sturdy desk, the servant's table.
The rules were simple, if one of them angered the other, if they quarreled, it always ended in a rather intimate form of payment. This unique sort of making up is what had allowed them to run the house so smoothly. It was an ingenious system of bargaining, in her humble opinion, as no one ever truly lost.
There were no feelings of course, no strings, no promises — only release. Physical, primal sin.
It had been a little difficult, in the beginning, to deal with their combined conscience, but as they'd resigned themselves to the risk of enteral flames, their passion had only grown.
Perhaps the payments had grown more regular over the years. Perhaps things weren't as clearly defined as they used to be, but Mrs. Hughes didn't concern herself with that.
What would come, would come, whether she worried or not. So, she didn't. Instead, she enjoyed what they had, indulged in a bit of teasing, starting arguments just for fun.
This may be all sport for Mr. Carson, all fun and games, but Mrs. Hughes thought she could deal with that just fine. Because she knows for certain she'd rather be in this twisted, sinful game with Charles and lose, than never play at all.