Another weird one. It was partially written to sort out my conflicting feelings about these two. It was also partially written because I've never written anything remotely smutty before. Basically, note the rating.
Fire
Play.
You can't hear yourself think because everything is being drowned out by your heartbeat drumming in your ears. All your senses are on fire, but the only thing you can focus on is him. His body pinning you against his desk. His hands running up and down your back. His teeth nipping at your neck.
You're not quite sure what you're doing with your hands. They're grabbing and tearing at his shirt (anything, really, that gets in the way). All you know is that you need to get closer. One hand slips under his shirt and runs along his waistband. He groans at your touch, and you – impossibly – melt a little bit more.
"Oh Mister Carson..."
You don't recognize the sound that escapes you. It's not a gasp. Not a moan. Something in between? You also could have sworn that your r's don't normally roll that much.
Ah well. It doesn't matter now because your tongue is dancing with his and your arms are wrapped around his neck. His hands rest on your waist, and he hoists you up so you are now sitting on the desk. Your skirt shifts slightly as he pushes you up and your legs wrap around him, desperate to keep him close.
Too many clothes. You're wearing too many clothes. He must be thinking the same thing (the two of you are always on the same page) because in one fluid motion, your skirts, and petticoats and all those ungodly layers are bunched around your waist.
It's the jingling of your keys that bring you back to earth.
Pause.
It's too much. Too much. Too fast. You need to slow down. Come to a screeching halt. Because this is wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. You are on his desk. With your legs wide open and a man between them.
You were going to let him fuck you.
Play.
Whatever spell that had been cast is now broken. He takes a step back and you feel both relieved a tiny bit cold at the loss of touch. You don't move, save for your hands. One clenches the edge of your desk, knuckles turning white, while the other pushes the loose locks of hair from your face. You struggle to catch your breath and whatever shred of dignity that might remain.
"I'm sorry," he says. He is always so cavalier. Had you been in the right mind, you would have snorted. But you were embarrassed and aroused and most definitely not in the right mind.
"Don't be." You glance up at him; he refuses to meet your gaze. He has collapsed on a chair a few feet away.
You really did a number on his shirt. Remember to fix it later.
"I don't know what came over me."
"Probably the same thing that came over me." You cringe as soon as the words are out. Now is not the time to make jokes. You know this; you can't help it.
He glares at you, unimpressed with your avoidance tactics that you have perfected (and he has learned) over the years. So you backpedal and offer him some honesty as a peace offering. "You do know that I love you, right?" For a brief moment you're terrified.
He tilts his head to the side, as if mulling it over. "Yes, I suppose I do."
Pause.
Why are you telling him this? You've never been one for romance. Your life is the result of every choice against romance that you have ever made. Romance is fine in books and in theory. Not so much in real life; it is the very opposite of practical.
You tried courting once, a lifetime ago. It didn't work.
Rewind.
At one time, you had thought that maybe that was what you wanted. (It's what every young girl dreams of). You were young then, and you were fanciful. When a boy asked for a dance, you curtseyed, and gave him your hand because that is what one did in that situation. In the weeks that followed, he came round and your mother smiled knowingly, and your sister teased you endlessly. You had no clever retort because (oh dear lord how did this happen?) you really did have a suitor.
It was a horribly awkward process. It was slow. It was formal. It was always so decent. There was always a space between filled with flowers and nice dresses and tea dates. He bestowed compliments on you at every occasion, and you hid your face, not wanting to show how uncomfortable it made you feel.
One afternoon, during a picnic (chaperoned of course) you led him round the back of the barn, away from prying eyes, and you stole your first kiss from him. He stood stunned at your audacity, and you laughed. "Close your moth Joe. You are not a fish."
Everything else was unnecessary. You didn't need the frills and bows. It was really all too much. All you needed was him in front of you looking like you had just given him the Queen's jewels.
It didn't last long. Those moments never did.
Pause.
You were young then. You are old now.
You've lived a good life. You are a good person. You are honourable and kind and you are ever so patient.
You don't have time for courtships. You don't have time nor the energy to fool around with trivialities. You should only do things your way. All you need is him.
(There really should be an age limit on these kinds of sins.)
Fast forward.
You hop down from your position and smooth your skirts. Your eyes never leave your hands.
"You do know that I love you too, right?" his deep voice rumbles from across the room.
She takes a step towards him and tilts her head, mocking him. "I suspected as much, though I'd never thought I would hear you say it."
"Well I do, Mrs Hughes. I love you very much." He stands and takes a few steps towards you. You think that maybe he's found some sort of lost confidence.
You take a few careful steps toward him, and once you meet him, you stand on your toes, and kiss him gently on the lips. You think you might have found your confidence too.
Pause.
You love him. You are irrevocably in love with him. It's something that you have known for so long but have never acted upon.
It is so liberating.
Fast Forward.
It starts off slow. One kiss becomes two. And then three. You think it's enough to quench your thirst, but it's not. It only makes it worse. You are soon back to where you started.
Pause.
It is not exactly the same as before. There is some variation. You are bent over the desk, instead of lying across it. And you now know he loves you. Charles Carson loves you.
Helovesyouhelovesyou.
Play.
He holds you by the hips and he's inside of you. You are gasping and moaning, and you try desperately to get what you want, but he keeps you in place bent over the desk. One hand is clutching your annoying skirts (why so many?), the other is clutching the edge of the desk for dear life. You want to say something, anything that will make him understand what he is doing to you, but it all comes out as gibberish. He thrusts again. Everything is washing over you and – oh dear god – you feel like you're ready to burst. All you want if for him to –
"Oh god..." you groan, shifting your weight. "More."
And that is his undoing. He lets go of all the restraint that he has been holding on to. He is unleashed. He pounds into you from behind, over and over, again and again and again. One arm snakes in front and furiously rubs your clit. Your head lolls back, and you have to bite down on your lip to keep from crying out.
Pause.
It's too much. Everything is too much. You are going so fast. You want to go faster. Harder. Come to a screeching halt. Because this feels right. Right. Right. Right. So incredibly right.
You are on his desk. With your legs wide open and your man between them.
Play.