Arduous
There are many paths they've walked together.
Happy birthday, kouw!
They make their way back to the big house.
It doesn't look like trudging, but it sure as hell feels like it.
"Poor Mr Bates," she says, and wonders why on earth she didn't say poor Anna. It makes no sense. None of it makes any sense.
It seems like they'll never get back.
She cries and he gives her cold comfort. It's the most he can do here in public... or anywhere at all; he can't give her more than that because he doesn't know, he doesn't know how to say it. Any of it. How to tell her that it breaks his heart to hear her voice wobble and crack like that. And as for the whole mess with Mrs Bates, he doesn't know what to say to himself about that, let alone what to say to her.
They walk and walk, and finally they part ways. She is vaguely glad to reach the back door before a footman can get to it. The physical act of opening the door feels good – feels like not nothing. She goes to her sitting room. Here is her cold cup of tea. There's the ledger she was working on before they all left for the ceremony. A sigh, and she sits down to try to work.
He stands magnificent at the front door. Lady Edith's gaze flicks up to meet his as she enters, and she immediately looks away again. Her sorrow at the idea of Tom leaving for America cannot temper her joy at the warm weight of her daughter in her arms, but her broad smile feels obscene when confronted with the sadness deep in the butler's eyes. She wonders how long it has been there.
When he's settled them all upstairs, he comes down and finds her. Her door stands partially open and he sees her there at her desk. Her head rests in her hands, the back of her neck curved, exposed. And he finds himself wondering what that tender skin feels like, how she smells up close. He shakes his head at himself and knocks softly on her door.
She startles, ramrod posture returning as she wipes at her tears.
"Oh, Mr Carson," she manages brightly before a choking sob threatens to break free. She suppresses it, sparing a moment's thought for the risk of hiccups. Ridiculous, she thinks, and is grateful for the distraction because it stops her making a fool of herself by rushing into his arms. Not that she would actually have rushed into his arms. But she wanted to, and the struggle not to would have flustered her. Embarrassing.
"Mrs Hughes, I – I'll get us a cup of tea, hmm?"
In the corridor he closes her door behind him and lets out the breath he was holding. He wanted to embrace her, wrap his arms around her and he couldn't be sure she would want that.
He shouldn't let himself think like that.
They drink their tea together and speak no more of it.
She was astonished to see how well Anna looked.
Seeing her arrive looking so well (but so haunted – it was understandable, really), she wanted to take the young woman in her arms and rock her to sleep.
Now she imagines her alone in their cottage, worries for her safety as she walks home alone at night. She makes a mental note to ask someone to walk with her. Andy, maybe? James wouldn't have been quite right for it; she doesn't miss that lad and his shenanigans. Thomas Barrow, maybe. He's been tolerable lately. Maybe Mr Branson could drive her, even.
The poor thing. After all she's been through, now this.
And then there's him. And Becky. And the whole awful business about the cottage.
Tears stream down and before they can fall into her ears, she turns onto her side, wrapping blankets tighter around herself and giving in to the sobs that might have felt cleansing if there were any solution to this.
The wall between her room and his is thin. He stares at the ceiling.
The paperwork goes quickly, even in the absence of the second buyer. He signs where they tell him to, many times, and suddenly he has the keys in hand.
It's a long way back to the house. Cold. His breath puffs out of him and he is rushing, as if getting back one minute sooner would allow him to tell her now. As if her sitting room on the 21st of December were any place to have that conversation.
No, it will have to wait. Christmas Eve, maybe. Everyone will be assembled and maybe they can slip away.
Christmas Eve it is, then. Jolly good.
And sod it if he has to miss the Crawley sisters singing. He's got one chance and he's not about to muck it up with her this time.
Three bloody days, then, to rush and trudge and work and... and wait.
Then he can tell her. And hope for the best.
Shaking her head at herself, smiling through tears, and with her hand pressed to her bosom, she has accepted him. Her tears give him no pain this time, but still he cannot speak.
Her hand rests on his arm and he is too moved to be distracted when her tongue touches her upper teeth before she smiles again.
They tear themselves away from one another to make their way upstairs. Their parallel paths through this great house never used to cross, but when their hands brush together, they both pause. Hands find each other, fingers fall into place alongside one another. They walk.
And there they are at the green baize door. A nervous smile, and he looks into her eyes as he kisses her hand, once. Her eyes slide closed, briefly, then she opens them with a start as a burst of applause reaches them through the door.
"We'd best be on our way, then." The smile in her voice covers her disappointment. Mostly.
From the church to the bus, then it's a bit of a hike. Hand in hand, ducking into doorways, tutting at themselves for forgetting an umbrella. They reach their house and rush inside, shaking out their clothes and stamping their feet, absurdly – it isn't snow, after all.
Her hat comes off; her hair is curling from the damp. He watches her as she removes her shoes.
"I think I'm going to need help with this dress." She sounds apologetic.
His eyes go wide– of course, of course she'll need help, and he was a fool to let her come all this way with just him to undress her – his mind catches on the word "undress" and he is still staring at her.
She hasn't looked up yet and his silence is making her nervous, so she turns away.
"Tea, perhaps?"
He clears his throat, flexes his fingers. "Er, yes, that would be lovely."
"I'll put the kettle on."
He stands behind her in their bedroom, undoing button after button of dove grey. It seems as if they'll never end, and he is glad – it means this doesn't have to stop soon, for one thing, and for the other, he doesn't have to think (oh but he does) of how she'll look when he's done with the buttons and the dress will fall open and she'll slip away from him, dismissing him and closing the door.
"Thank you for your help."
She has turned her head to say it and he sees her in profile, dimly lit by the white-grey sky outside.
He doesn't respond. He's barely heard her because he's at the small of her back and he thinks she could probably do the buttons herself at this point. He doesn't want her to, so he's stuck.
He keeps going.
There are only a few left and he thinks he must be slowing down but he doesn't mean to, because he has no right to touch her like this, and he's not even aware that he's been holding his breath off and on while his fingers have travelled this delicate way from the nape of her neck to the top of her – he can't even think the word. His mind flails at it. Bottom. That will do. Her bottom. Pulling the buttons away from her body to undo them makes it more difficult, but at least it means his knuckles aren't pressing directly against the layers of fabric draped over her body.
He's done, and he comes up from his knees and he's got a problem. And he's trying not to look at the fabric of her corset and her shift and the laces and he's already turning away to hide his desire, and –
"Thank you, Mr Carson."
"You're welcome. Now, er, if you'll excuse me..."
"Oh… yes, of course."
He's leaving the room and she sighs when he's gone. She sinks down onto the bed and pulls off her gloves. Dove grey, the wedding garb of a mature woman. Tears come to her eyes – he doesn't want her. He hated unbuttoning her dress. He must have. He left as soon as he could.
Unless he was just trying to be a gentleman, a little voice inside her whispered. He had been breathing oddly.
He stares at his reflection, white-knuckled as his hands grip the cold porcelain of the sink.
Breaking eye contact with himself, he turns on the cold water and splashes it over his face. He thanks God he's an old man and his problem didn't last long before fading away. How sad to consider that a blessing, he thinks.
The kettle whistles and he rushes out of the bathroom, almost colliding with her at the top of the stairs. She's in her dressing gown. He takes a step back.
"Oh, I'm so sorry, Mrs Hughes. Please, after you."
He speaks loudly over the scream of the kettle and it's ridiculous, letting her go ahead of him so that she can suffer more from the noise and she can do the work. Ungentlemanly, really, but he can't rush ahead of her on the stairs now; she's halfway down and he would knock her over.
He's stuck, and now he's caught, because she has taken the kettle off the hob and looked back up the stairs at him, kind eyes seeking his.
"Mr Carson, are you alright?"
"I'm not sure." What's come out of his mouth is not what he intended and now he's caught again.
"Would you still like a cup of tea?" She's already poured the water into the pot and is reaching for the cupboard, hesitating. One cup or two?
He nods. "Thank you."
She takes two cups and two saucers and sets them on the tray.
It's their kitchen table instead of the small one in her sitting room; different chairs, but the tea is the same perfection as always.
"Thank you, Mrs Hughes."
"For what?" Her voice is gentle and curious.
"For this. The tea. For – for marrying me."
Her eyebrows rise and inexplicably, he thinks he sees tears in her eyes like the night he proposed, when he wasn't sure if she was crying or not.
"Oh, Mr Ca–"
"Charlie."
Her breath catches in her throat and her eyes go wide.
He curses himself, and then silliness tumbles from his mouth. "I'm sorry, I interrupted you. Please, what were you going to say?"
Now she cannot help laughing because it's all so absurd; he's worried about interrupting her when he's just given her his name to use, she thinks, she can't be sure.
A sound stutters out of her; he's never seen her fumble like this, not even when he tried to flirt with her (Get away with you, and she'd been flustered, he would swear to it). She's blinking, and then there's a tiny shake of her head, and she opens her mouth and closes it again.
She bites her lip and takes a deep breath through her nose. Lets it out. Takes another, then opens her mouth.
"Charlie?" she finally manages, softly. Slowly. As if she were tasting the sound of his name on her tongue, and he tries not to think of her mouth so very much as she says his most private name.
He nods, swallows hard.
"May I…" he intones, slowly, voice shaking just a little. "May I call you…"
"Elsie," she supplies.
"Elsie," and she closes her eyes at the sound of it, his voice gone so soft and … and reverent, it seems. Cradling her name in his mouth, in his big hands.
"Yes."
"Hmm?"
"Yes, you may," she laughs a little, lightly, nervously if she's honest.
Tea is done and he fiddles with the boutonnière, surprised at himself that he hasn't taken it off yet.
"Let me help you with that," she says gently, but her movements are brisk as she comes to him, still in her dressing gown. In an attempt not to stare as her chest hovers before his eyes, he looks down instead at what her hands are doing.
The back of her hand brushes his cheek by accident and he cannot help himself; he leans into it and lets his eyes fall closed. Her movements stop completely and then start again, differently. Her other hand works overtime to allow them to maintain contact.
Finished with the flower and the pin, she sighs, twisting oddly to place them on the table without taking her hand away. His eyes are open when she comes back and he leans his head away from her touch, but she follows, the backs of her fingers on his cheek.
His hand comes up to cover hers and her other hand lands softly on his shoulder.
"Elsie, I…"
Her eyelids feel heavy at the sound of her name in his voice and she sways toward him. Suddenly worried she might faint – he vaguely knows that corsets cause such things sometimes, and he's never seen her move like that before – he stands up to catch her around the waist.
His arm is tight around her and he's holding her to him. Shocked, she gasps and gives a little moan which instantly embarrasses her, but he's just acted with such passion, such boldness.
Immediately he realizes his mistake and would have released her with profuse apologies, but he has made her feel bold herself, and she breathes a "yes" that overwhelms his mind. First it floods him with relief (she is not angry she is not offended) and then it fills him with joy (she wants this she loves me) and then fear (does she want this what is this does she want more).
He is still holding her.
"I thought you were going to faint," he manages, his face almost level with hers. They are in an awkward position, his knee between hers as he half-stands, his strained muscles crying out for relief but he's not about to let go of her now.
"No," she says, but makes no move to extract herself from his grip. "I wasn't about to faint. But thank you for catching me." And she smiles at him, biting her lip to keep from grinning too broadly.
One of her arms is wrapped around his shoulders for support, and her free hand drifts up his arm to touch his cheek, fingertips on his cheekbone, then trailing dangerously close to his lips.
"Charlie."
"Hmm?"
"This can't be comfortable for you."
"No," he half-grunts, "that's true."
It isn't comfortable for her either, and so without waiting for his response she shifts, standing fully again and waiting for him to rise to his feet. When his hand starts to slide away from around her waist, she stops him with her hand on his arm.
"Don't, Charlie. Don't let go." She's pleading with him not to go away, not to withdraw, and he thinks maybe she wants more and he hopes she does because he wants so badly to kiss her and she's looking at him now and she seems to expect something and maybe it's that.
God, he hopes so, because he's being incredibly bold now and if he gets a slap for his trouble, then so be it (he doubts it will happen; that doesn't seem likely after all of this, after all of these years of this). His free hand he brings to her face, gentle fingertips on her cheek and sliding into her hair. He groans and she can feel it move through her as she is pressed against him, but she stands steady and waits, her face tilted up toward his, inviting his kiss and when he does kiss her it's tiny and rather disappointing.
Thrilling, but disappointing, just a little peck. It's a very respectful little kiss.
She pulls him back down to her with a smile and then kisses him, tentative and passionate with lips slowly opening and tongues tasting each other, feeling each other for the first time. When they break apart to catch their breath, he's worried at her pulling away but then she shocks him by undoing the belt on her dressing gown and putting his hands on her body. One on her waist, and the other on her breast.
His hands are completely still. He's touching her through her corset and she can barely feel it, but it's exciting to know the effect she has on him.
She's undoing his waistcoat when his hands come up to cup her face and draw her to him and he kisses her again, slow and insistent – she's done with the waistcoat and pulls at his shirt, and he is starting to look rather undone as she opens his shirt and pushes her hands under his vest to feel the hot skin underneath.
He's never done this before but he decides to be a little adventurous. He couldn't have known that kissing the side of her neck would be pleasurable not only to him but to her. Very pleasurable indeed, it seems, as she gasps and coos and then manages to speak, barely.
"Charlie, let's go upstairs."
She's shown him how the corset opens. She thinks briefly of doing it up again and making him try, just for practice, but his mouth on her collarbone takes her far away from such pedagogical deliberations.
She tugs at his vest and he bends toward her with his arms up to let her take it off. It's silly, really, like a child, and they laugh softly together as she pulls it over his head. He's hesitant as her hands reach for his trousers, the braces already hanging down.
"Elsie, are you sure? Is this alright?"
"Mmm-hmm," she answers him dreamily as she begins to undo his trousers. He catches her wrist gently in his hand and then cannot resist bringing it to his mouth to kiss it, kissing her hand as he asks her with his eyes, and then his words –
"Do you really want to…?"
She is suddenly afraid of rejection. Irrationally, she knows, after all of these years and now with the bulge in his trousers telling her it's unlikely.
"Yes. Don't you?" Her voice shakes a little.
"Yes," he says, desperate. "I just wanted to make sure you – you wanted to. I've never –"
"Neither have I. We'll, er, we'll learn together."
She blushes at the boldness of her statement.
"Good God, Elsie, I love you, do you know that?"
She gives a short, helpless little laugh. "I love you too, Charlie." And she brings him down to her for a kiss, encouraging him with her little moans – she doesn't seem to know she is making those sounds, but he thinks they might be the most wonderful thing he's ever heard – encouraging him to go back to kissing her neck. He suckles lightly on her skin and she gasps in pleasure. Afraid to touch her (much) through her very thin shift, he lets his hands rest on her hips and continues with light kisses and nips on the the softest skin he's ever felt.
She undoes his trousers and lets them fall to the ground, and there he is in shorts ... and socks.
He feels slightly ridiculous. He desperately wants to be naked with her, but doesn't know what to do next. These socks have got to go, he thinks, but how to get there?
She pulls him with her as she walks the few steps backward to the bed and sits on the edge. She is so aroused that the mere contact with the bed makes her shiver and she squeezes her thighs together without realizing what she's doing. She looks up at him, embarrassed, but seeing no sign of disapproval, she dismisses the thought.
"You might help a lady with her stockings," she says, her voice low, and he immediately kneels in front of her, relieved for the chance to slip off his socks as he goes.
She pulls up her shift and shows him the clips, how they work. He fumbles at first, almost tearing her stockings, but by the second clip he's doing it slowly, pulling down the stocking and smoothing his palm over her newly-exposed skin. She watches him do it, sees him bend down to kiss her inner thigh (so bold, her man, so reverent).
She's feeling something between her legs that started when he asked her to marry him. It started much earlier, if she's honest; it started when he held her hand in the water, or maybe when he sang for her, or sometimes when he would just look at her in a certain way and say her name in that voice and she thought he was flirting but couldn't be sure. It was a feeling that sometimes confused her. Like having to go to the bathroom, but going didn't help it go away. Only time could make those feelings dissipate when they came to her. Sometimes they wouldn't go away for a long time and she wanted to touch, but she'd never got past the admonitions against self-pollution. And the feelings always went away eventually.
But now the feeling isn't going away. It's getting stronger and she can tell she's wet down there. Somehow she knows it's not about going to the bathroom; it's got to do with him, and her, and them together. Here and now, it seems right somehow. They are married. Married. The thought sends another thrill down her body to land between her legs. She gasps and shakes at the sensations he brings her with his mouth on her inner thigh and down her leg, rolling her stocking down and peeling it from her foot.
Her other leg awaits his attentions and he does the same.
The truth is that he's never smelled a woman's sex before. He is drugged by her scent and he rests his head on her bare inner thigh, breathing her in, his movements slow as he takes off her other stocking, both hands occupied but his mouth no longer on her skin. There's something he desperately wants to do and he doesn't know if it's allowed but he has to ask.
First he has to see if she'll let him take her knickers off. He lifts his head from her thigh and looks up at her. She takes his breath away. She has her eyes closed. Her head is tilted forward and to one side, mouth slightly open, one hand tightly holding a fistful of duvet next to her and the other pressed against her bosom, over both breasts, allowing him to see the vague outlines of her nipples through the cotton of her shift.
She can tell he's stopped, his hands on her hips. His fingertips are already curling over the waistband of her knickers as she opens up her eyes to look down at him and he asks her:
"May I?"
She nods and moves, lifting off the bed to let him take them off. Her shift covers her thighs again by the time they're done and he's still kneeling between her legs. He begins kissing her skin, up one thigh and down the other, never too close.
"Elsie, can I…" His breath catches in his throat. Her scent is stronger now and he is desperate to touch her, to find out if women really do have pleasure too.
"Hmm…"
His voice is deep and fragmented.
"May I … may I kiss you? Taste you?"
"Oh! Erm, yes? Yes. I've never –" she shakes her head at herself, laughing just a little. "Yes."
She finds it's a strange request, but she's so ready for him to touch her there. The feeling between her legs is almost painful and she wants to know what it will feel like to indulge it for once instead of waiting for it to go away. So if he wants to touch her there, she will happily accept. Properly, she supposes, it should only be with his manhood, but she is happy to let him do this –
And it is pleasure, ecstasy like she's never known. Her thighs are open wide to accommodate him and she is right on the edge of the bed and his thumbs have parted her and for a moment he just kneels before her, looking, spreading her open and seeing her, breathing her in. The movement of his thumbs over her already gives her such pleasure, such relief to the ache, and then he lets his tongue come to taste her and she melts into him. Any doubts she had about the oddness of the request fall away as his tongue moves against her, softly exploring, lingering on the places that seem to drive her higher.
She falls backward onto the bed. Her back arches in time with his movements, her hips pressing up wantonly against him. She might be ashamed later but right now all she knows is her pleasure. Her shift is bunched up around her waist, her thighs wide as her legs drape over the side of the bed. He's still going, and then she didn't know it was possible but she's shaking even more, approaching something she's never felt before and there's something like an explosion. Everything clenches and releases, again and again, and she actually cries out –
"Charlie Mr Carson oh Charlie yes –" The last word is drawn out, repeated, chanted, and she comes down from her high, crying with the release of it, confused and a little ashamed at her vocalizations.
She steels herself and rises up on her elbows to look at him. He looks… he looks proud. She had expected disgust, but he's got the most radiant smile she's ever seen on anyone, let alone him. She blinks and pushes herself off the bed to sit up, then she curls into herself, shaking with sobs.
Alarmed, he pulls at her waist, up on his knees, and holds her. She holds his head tight against her chest, her arms wrapped awkwardly around it, one hand clutching his shoulder. She weeps and he doesn't understand why. He lets it wash over him and holds her, their hands finding one another. Her grip on his hand is so tight it hurts.
She calms and leans back to look at him. He meets her eyes, concern and love in his.
"Charlie, I'm sorry. I –"
"What? Why? Did I hurt you? I thought –"
"No, I… I don't think so. It felt so good, and then it was like… like I lost myself. I was so loud, I –" And then she's choking on her sobs again. She is still trying to speak and he thinks he can make out something like "vulgar," "wanton," and the like.
"Oh, Elsie, no."
"You must think me such a – a – Oh, I can't even say it!"
He shakes his head vigorously and rises to sit next to her on the bed, wrapping his arms around her. She leans into him and cries. He thinks he's beginning to understand, but he needs to make sure of one thing. His voice is so gentle, so tentative as he asks her.
"I don't think anything bad of you, Elsie. But did I… did I hurt you?"
"No! No. You didn't, Charlie." Very quietly, she continues, "Quite the contrary."
"Well, then…" he begins, but isn't sure how to proceed.
She looks at him, desperation in her eyes. "What… what do you mean?"
"I think… I think that if that felt good, then, er… maybe we should… not worry about it?" He looks at her tenderly, eyebrows raised, a careful smile playing at his lips.
She watches him carefully, beginning to believe him, and lets out a little nervous giggle. She has come down from her climax and from her panic and feels strangely peaceful, though the sight of his growing smile does something to her insides, sending new thrills down between her legs. She squeezes her thighs together.
It's so strange, but she feels empty, hollowed out in a way she's never felt before. She's never actively wanted anything inside her but now she wants … she wants him as she never has before. Oh, she has known for years that she wanted him, but this feeling – it's so visceral, so real, and she's not sure how to tell him but maybe she can show him instead.
She turns to him, breathing his name.
"Charlie. I think … I think you're right."
"About not worrying about it?"
She nods, nuzzling his shoulder. "About not worrying about it."
He turns to her, dipping his head to kiss her, his hand gently cupping her cheek. She rises up to meet him, her hand trailing down to his shorts, urging him to take them off. He breaks their kiss and stands to do so, then turns to her. She is turning down the covers for them. Rapidly. Her movements seem hurried and he hopes he knows why because he's aching for her. He's never done this before; he's only ever sought release with his own hand – with guilt after, of course, but this – this is right and true and good God, he hopes she wants him again; after she came apart against his mouth he's not sure, but she seems to be in a rush and he hopes.
Lord, how he hopes.
She's pulling her shift off, arching her back, and her body is naked to him. She's exposed and she's a little unsure but when she sees the way he looks at her, that doubt is gone.
She looks at his erection and feels another rush of wetness between her legs, another thrill. She thinks she could maybe get used to this painful, urgent, pleasurable feeling.
She climbs up on the bed and beckons to him and he comes to her; they're on their knees and they kiss, holding each other, her arm slung over his shoulder and his around her waist and their other hands on faces, in hair, then daring to move down.
He touches her breast for the first time and she jerks, curling her body and pressing into his touch. Both his hands are on her breasts now, kneading, pressing; he can barely believe his luck, really.
She maneuvers them so that she can slide down onto the bed. He goes along with her and they lie side by side. And still they kiss, desperately, until his mouth travels down, down her neck and her chest and he kisses his way down to her nipple and takes it into his mouth, suckling on it. She moans and holds his head to her, reveling in this unexpected pleasure. She didn't know he would be so attentive, but she never really doubted it; she'd never allowed herself to think of him in quite this way, so how could she have doubted it?
"Yes, Charlie, yes, please –"
He hums in response, his eyes closed, his hand on one breast, his mouth on the other. She's rocking her hips beneath him and her skin just comes in contact with his erection and he jerks, opening his eyes enough to see her start to open her legs for him and he takes a deep breath and moves, hovering between her thighs. She brings her knees together to touch his hips, lets her feet hook around the back of his legs to bring him closer.
"Please –" she whispers, barely a sound.
"Yes?"
"Yes, please, now, I want you –" and it's so wanton and so undignified but she doesn't care and it's become clear that neither does he.
He guides himself with one hand and touches her there, the tip of him sliding against her soaking wet heat and she moans, wanting, and he pushes into her. Slowly, slowly, he enters her and she pushes up to take him. He slides inside her easily and it's hot and tight and wet and it's like nothing he's ever felt before.
It's like nothing she's ever felt before. They lie pressed together, an instant of stillness, her legs spread wide on the bed, then wrapped around him. He is hot and hard and he fills the aching emptiness she felt just a moment ago. She shakes in ecstasy, tightening and releasing around him. His breathing is as rapid as hers is, and when he pulls out to press into her again, they both tremble and moan. He does it again and she puts her feet back down so that she can meet his thrusts. Over and over they move together and she can feel the sweetness building again, like before but deeper. Slowly, powerfully, he pulls out and drives back into her.
She is so close to something, like that first time but not quite the same. He's almost overcome by all of this, by her heat, her body (he is inside her body, he is inside her, he cannot fathom it and it is all he can do not to thrust madly against her but he doesn't want to hurt her), and he wants her to come apart again like that first time. He wonders if he can help her. Supporting himself on one elbow, he reaches down between them to the place he thinks he found earlier.
She gasps and it is half-moan, half scream as his gentle fingers combine with the movements of their bodies to push her higher and higher (he is inside her, filling her over and over, hitting all the places inside that never knew this could be, and the pleasure, the pleasure is taking over) and she trembles, tightens, releases around him. He speeds up, not knowing it's going to drive her absolutely mad with pleasure and make her writhe beneath him. It does, and she shakes and comes harder than before and he's thrusting erratically and then with a roar he comes, spilling inside her and falling – almost on top of her, but they manage to turn and he falls beside her, somehow still inside, as her spasms (milking him; he's out of his mind with pleasure) slow down and they both catch their breath.
Spent and blissful, they kiss, a bit. He slips out of her and pulls blankets over them and she'll be sticky and sore later but she can't be bothered to care. With her hair still pinned (barely) and their hands vaguely touching on his chest, they fall asleep together.
Later they will wake and laugh and love and eat and drink together, but for now, they sleep.