Writing this kind of thing in the first person (really, writing anything in the first person) is such a departure for me. But at some point you just have to challenge yourself, right? Set during the Season 5 CS. Mild spoilers.
When Robert winces and grabs his side again, I can stand it no longer. If he thinks I am going to follow along dutifully as he plays at shooting while in terrible pain, he is sorely mistaken. I am generally quite content to let him do ask he likes, but not when he is being purposely obtuse.
His token objection, with no real intent behind it, is a testament to how poorly he feels. He pouts at my back all the way back up to the castle. Not because he must stop shooting, but because I told him to. In front of the children. He'll get over it - it is not in his nature to hold a grudge - but I still find his petulance both amusing and infuriating.
It has been more difficult for him, I think, this growing older. He doesn't like to admit the time that has passed. That he's not the young man he once was. I've told him over and over that he's so much more - especially to me - but that doesn't seem to be enough.
My throat closes on that thought - that sometimes I am not enough - and I shake my head to rid myself of such maudlin thoughts.
Once inside the castle I dismiss Barrow, who looks almost as put out as Robert.
"But how will I undress?" Robert asks as we ascend the stairs and I tell him that his tone is not particularly endearing. He is a grown man and perfectly capable of undressing himself, as he has done so on multiple occasions. His reply is a grunt that means he still doesn't understand my behavior, but then again he is oftentimes wonderfully unaware. When he makes to head for his room, I take his arm and steer him to mine.
"You are to relax." I murmur to him and push him towards one of the chairs. We shed our jackets and I'm pleased to see a fire already crackling in the fireplace.
He scrubs his hand over his face before falling into the chair with a sigh. He won't admit it, at least not yet, but he is tired and relieved to be in out of the chill.
"I'm going to miss a perfectly marvelous day of shooting." He sounds resigned. I sit myself at the dressing table and remove my gloves, hat and earrings and avoid answering him. This is not a discussion or a negotiation. I toy with the notion of taking down my hair, but Baxter will just have to dress it again for dinner and it doesn't seem worth it.
I catch Robert's eye in the dressing table mirror and quirk a brow at him before finally speaking. "I'll make it worth your while."
His stoic expression softens and he speaks to my reflection. "My darling, you always make it worth my while."
My heart clenches and I know he means it - truly means it. Over the course of thirty five years it can be easy to forget that simple truth but we always seem to find our way back. I have to believe we will always find our way back.
When I look up again he is reclining comfortably and staring at the ceiling. His adams apple bobs when he swallows and releases a long sigh. When he raises his head again I am standing over him and he gives a little jump.
"Relax, Robert." I say quietly and move behind him, dropping my hands to his shoulders. I knead the muscles there gently but firmly, until I feel him start to loosen. My thumbs at the base of his neck make him groan aloud and I smile in triumph. I allow my hands to wander up his neck and into his hair - grayer now but still minky against my palms. My nails scrape along his scalp; he purrs and leans into my touch.
I refuse to think about what life would be like without him. Refuse to allow him to treat himself carelessly. I will take care of him and, as he said, I am very good at it. I tug on his hair a little bit and he looks up at me. His eyes darken considerably and even upside down, I can see the hungry leer. With a smile I reach up and unbutton the top few buttons of my blouse. His lips turn up and I pause and raise my eyebrows. He quickly begins to unbutton his own shirt. Walking around to face him I push at his knees and kneel between them, brushing his hands out of the way to undo the buttons myself. His fingers tangle in the silk of my blouse and I try not to wince at the inevitability of a lost button or two. Baxter is better than O'Brien at mending my clothing without comment but even after all these years it still makes me uncomfortable that they should know exactly how my clothing is damaged. Robert tugs at my tucked blouse and I quickly remove the material myself before returning to my task. It is cool in the room in just my camisole and long skirt but Robert's hands cup my shoulders and move soothingly over my arms. Gooseflesh rises and I can't help but smile; his nearness always causes the same reflexive happiness to bubble in my chest.
"Relax," I whisper again and push at his shoulders until he's leaning back in the chair. I brush aside his shirt to reveal his undershirt and I lean forward to kiss his chest through the thin material. He rumbles beneath me and reaches to pull me close. I tsk gently. "Hands to yourself."
He makes a frustrated noise but complies and I continue to touch and taste him over his chest and stomach, balancing myself with hands on my knees. The morning's shooting has left him musky with the faint scent of gunpowder, a very male essence I have always found terribly alluring. Seen to by his valet after such activities has given me very few opportunities to indulge myself and I'm not about to let this one pass.
He looks down at me with heavy eyelids when I fumble at his waistband and I know my smile is dangerous when he groans and drops his head back. He allows me such freedom with his body that I find it intoxicating. He is vulnerable, neck exposed, breathing erratic and fingers clutching at the fabric of the chair.
He is the picture of anything but relaxation, tensely waiting for my next move. I rest my cheek against his thigh and simply look up at him. The rise and fall of his chest, proof of his life, and the fear I've been holding in check closes my throat momentarily. Robert looks down at me with mild alarm and I realize I'm gripping his calf tightly. I shake my head and sit up once more, this time with more determination. I tug at his pants and he lifts his hips and allows me to pull them to his ankles. His thighs are warm under my palms as I kneel between them before reaching forward and closing my fingers around him.
I grin when he nearly levitates out of the chair and he rasps out something about a heart attack. With slow, sure strokes I bring him to full firmness. It's not as easy as it once was, our bodies are a little slower to react these days, but he is still glorious.
"This. is. not. very. relaxing." He grits out and his toes are curled and I simply grin before lowering my mouth to him.
I recall the first time we did this - the innocent embarrassment and tittering laughter. I recall the way he cried out and cupped my cheek and looked at me with such a besotted expression - a little bewildered, too. I recall elation coupled with a little disappointed in myself, until Robert kissed away my apprehensions. I loved him and I told him so and he only hesitated for a second before he told me he loved me back. It was the first time I ever truly believed him.
When his fingers curl into my intricate updo I falter and blandly think I should have taken it down. He is pulling at the pins himself, needing to see me as undone as he. Our eyes meet and I swirl my tongue and his hips jerk. I press him down into the chair with my hands and continue my torture and he's panting over me, begging, and demanding between gasps. I feel heaviness between my thighs and clench them together, knowing it would be so easy to stand and allow him to slide into me. Instead I scrape my teeth along his length and fondle him until he cannot hold on any longer.
My name has eight syllables when he finally groans it out and he is patting my face and it's only then I realize it's streaked with tears. He hold his arms out and I crawl up to him and wrap my arms around his neck, assuring myself that he is still there.
"You'll see the doctor as soon as we get home?" I ask weepily against his throat and he is rocking me like a child. I feel silly and attempt to straighten up but he holds me steady. He always holds me steady.
"I swear it to you, my darling." He speaks so solemnly that I laugh a little through my tears.
"I'm being ridiculous." I wipe ineffectually at my face before laying my palms on his cheeks, brushing my thumbs across his lips. "I love you so much."
He doesn't pause at all anymore, not even for a moment. "I love you, too."
(1/1)