This was a prompt from earlier in the week, which got a bit lost in the midst of nightclub!AU. The first time Baxley touch (and a bit more, because I can't help myself).
The first time they touch each other he knows for certain that something about Miss Baxter, something about Miss Baxter and him, together, is different. By accident, their hands brush as he passes her the paper, trying to make sure the pages do not fall apart before she takes it. It is no accident at all, he is sure, the way their hands linger together, for a second longer, again he is convinced, than it took her to make sure the pages were in order. She was to the touch exactly as she looked; soft, friendly, gentle. Vaguely sensuous in a way he found hard to pin down. He say a flush grace the precise line of her cheekbone as she half turned back into her chair, pulling the pages into her lap.
The effect of the briefest of her touches on him is all the proof he needed. He had already suspected himself of it; part of him already knew, very well, what he was beginning to feel for Phyllis Baxter. To touch her only made to confirm it, even before she rose from her chair to attend to her Ladyship and as he saw her shadow passing, he found himself aching for her touch again.
But it was not long in the waiting.
When she accepts his hand- no, asks for, without words- to help her into the back of Mr Mason's cart he decides that there really is a god. Even through her gloves. And he looks up to see her face, feels her fingers gently squeeze against his palm. Lets out a low shudder of breath.
The powerful feeling of need he has to help her, to care for her, to-…. touch her makes his throat constrict whenever he thinks about it.
For someone who has spent his life in service, and he knows this himself, he takes surprisingly badly to the idea of servitude, in almost all cases, except in hers. He was mended the road, and balked against it; he has resented the demotion from valet to footman for all it was worth. Something about her, the way she is with him, makes these considerations fade into utter irrelevance. He doesn't care; she can use him as much as he likes, because he knows she wouldn't, and he knows he loves her, above all else.
He had never before understood the idea of being willing to do anything for somebody. It never appealed. But it is her he considers first, her whose opinion he seeks, whose needs and wishes he tries to gage. It just so happens, the realisation strikes him in a moment as he holds her hand, clasped between their bodies, looking into her eyes, that her needs and wishes are going to lead them both into bliss.
It's surprisingly uncomplicated to slip into her room at night. It's a bit of a risk of course, and it's not worth thinking about what would happen if Mr Carson were to catch them, but he is devoted to his cause now, and this is the cause that makes her happy.
He has never felt less perturbed by complete and utter servitude than when he is lying between her thighs, his mouth exploring her sensitive flesh, and she shakes in pleasure at the way he touches her. He's never done this before; never felt the intensity of the pleasure that can be got from giving pleasure to another, whom you love-…
He worries that they'll give themselves away. She understands his concern, and understands that he feels the need to appear perhaps a touch more restrained around one another than they were before. But his desire does not abate for this; he still finds he wants to be able be able to care for her, tenderly, whenever they are together.
They have to wait until the servants hall is empty before he raises his hand carefully to the line of her cheek, so as not to startle her, and he can tuck the loose strand of hair carefully back behind her ear before she goes to see to her Ladyship. He sees her smiling as she goes.
End.
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