The mattress shifted beneath her. Mr Carson had climbed out of the bed.
Unable to resist, she turned her head to watch him. He was standing in front of the nightstand. He'd taken the time to pull on a pair of pyjama bottoms, but no shirt. She studied his back. It surprised her that there were no red marks where her fingers had bitten into his skin.
She wondered at how he could move around so easily? Were his legs not still trembling?
Although Mr Carson had been infinitely gentle, she still felt bruised and sore as well as shaky. Her thighs especially ached. Yet it wasn't an unpleasant sensation.
Thinking of the welcome pain reminded her that she should straighten her legs. Quickly, she pulled her weak lower limbs together into a more lady-like pose. Just in time. Mr Carson turned, clutching something.
"Forgive me, the water isn't as warm as I'd like but I'm not keen on visiting the lower floor to heat it."
She just stared at him. There was a toilet and a small sink with cold water only on this floor of the hotel, she knew. However, she couldn't comprehend much more of what he was saying. How could he speak so normally anyway?
She swallowed, trying not to think of why her mouth was so dry. She should be ashamed, with how her cries and gasps of wonder had filled the room only a few minutes ago, yet oddly she was proud.
He returned to the side of the bed and gently nudged her legs apart. She blushed at the intimacy, though their bodies had joined only a short time ago.
Happily, they hadn't been fumbling around in the dark by any means, but the sheets and their positioning under and upon them had afforded her some sense of modesty.
But why was he manipulating her into such a pose now, considering they had finished making love? Hadn't they? Isn't that what happened? Afterwards, the woman tidied herself up and the man fell asleep?
"Sorry," he murmured, his apology obviously made in advance, because he then placed the wet cloth onto her lower stomach. It was indeed cold.
"Oh," she said, shivering. She hoped the murmured expression conveyed the pure trust she held for him, even when she thought it was tinged with vulnerability.
"You will soon warm up."
She flushed. Was Mr Carson deliberately making a double entendre? Surely not…
He lowered the flannel, skimming it along her upper thighs first. Next he swirled it through the greying hairs between her legs, so softly that she found herself relaxing completely and just enjoying the attention. Not the first time she'd done so tonight, she'd admit.
Instead of giving in and closing her eyes, however, she kept her focus on his bent head as he fussed with her cleanliness.
His cheeky kiss curl fell across his forehead, far too temptingly. She caught it between her finger and thumb. With her other hand, she massaged his scalp. His low rumble confirmation he was happy enough with her efforts.
Soon, however, she could no longer concentrate on anything but the pleasure spreading along with the goosepimples across her body.
He held her wide open with one hand. The flannel rubbed against the delicate flesh he'd revealed. She lifted her hips as he began to kiss her, urgent quick kisses following the cloth's path.
He stretched out to hang the flannel off the bedhead and began to instead use his fingers and mouth together. Shockingly, she rocked against him, encouraging him.
His tongue was tugging on a soft nub of flesh hidden from her knowledge until he'd brought it to her attention earlier tonight. She cried out again, not his name, but some incoherent jabber.
Maybe worrying that he'd hurt her, he eased off, licking and whispering compliments against where his fingers were still dancing.
Suddenly she let out one shuddering sigh, her nails biting into the pale skin of his shoulders yet again, her body quaking beneath him.
"Elsie," he breathed, his tone one of wonder, she thought hazily.
She puffed heavily, although she had barely moved, keeping her eyes closed and savouring the way he said her given name. It was only the second time he'd now said it aloud.
The first was as their bodies had come together, so sweetly that she felt no pain, only the full knowledge that she was loved. "You make that sound like an endearment," she'd said then, her breathing uneven and quivering as much as her outer layer of skin.
"It's meant to be," he'd sincerely replied.
She opened her eyes, dared tidy his eyebrows, thumb his chin's cleft. Tears threatened as he adjusted them in the bed, twisting her until she was safely tucked against his chest. She softly scratched his back, he absentmindedly caressed her breasts.
Later still, he pulled the blanket across them, kissed her forehead, adjusted their places in the bed again until he was pressed against her back, his arm hooked around her middle, her buttocks pressing against him firmly.
"Go to sleep, Mrs Hughes," he ordered as she wriggled around. She'd always slept alone and though his heat was reassuring and welcome, it was also new.
"I love you, Mr Carson." Her tears finally flowing freely after she blurted out the long-suppressed sentiment. "I love you, Charlie," she almost sung, her accent acute even to her own ears. She'd said his abbreviated name out loud before, but only to other people, never to him, never as an endearment.
And, as if he was putting an end to their earlier question of names, he kissed her shoulder and returned the sentiment in his own unique way: "I've always loved Mrs Hughes, but I think I might now be especially sweet on Elsie."
The End