A/N: November was filled with one-shots for NaNoWriMo and I am editing all the Carson/Hughes fics and putting them up here. Reviews and commentary are very much appreciated, so don't hesitate!
Warning: sexual content!
Sometimes she wonders if she would have been as tired, as worn out, as weary of everything if she had been Housekeepr in a smaller house, if she had had fewer responsibilities. If she had been with a family who didn't throw garden parties and shooting parties and birthday parties. Big dinners and small dinners and Christmas and Easter. The only time she had some peace and quiet was when the family left for the Season.
But she found that she missed him terribly then, making it nigh impossible for her to sleep, to think straight, to focus on anything.
He occupied her every waking thought and her nightly dreams.
His letters were warm and affectionate, filled with inside jokes and references only she would get and make her blush.
She didn't just miss that of course. She missed his steady presence too, his rumbling voice echoing through the halls. His warmth next to her. His soft, plush lips pressed against her own... She shook her head, trying to rid herself of images of herself wrapped tightly in his embrace, of herself under him, her hands on his back, her legs wrapped around him...
Elsie closed her eyes and leaned back in her swivel chair.
It was late, her maids had gone up. During the Season they made the most of their leisure: going to bed early, getting up a little later. She indulged them, she knew, but it got her a lot of goodwill. It meant she would have to close up, having sent the boys up as well.
Being all alone in the Servants' Quarters had it's...
Rewards...
The thought of Charles touching her, his palms running over her sides, his lips tracing her ear, it all had her short of breath and there was wetness pooling between her legs. She pressed her thighs together, delighting in the friction. She reached over her desk, closing the ledger she had been working on - Charles' ledger, his bold handwriting in stark contrast with her curls and sweeping loops - putting away her pen and ink, shuffling the loose papers so they are neatly stacked.
Having no-one there meant she could procrastinate. Meant she could do something for herself. To herself. She bit her lip, finding it a bit silly, embarrassing even, but the need for a touch - any touch - grew as each moment passed, as the clock ticked away the second she felt a heat that only had one way to be vanquished.
Slowly she pulls the pins from her hair, shaking her head to make the tight bun fall down. She runs her fingers down through the soft locks. She pretends they are dark and brown and lush. Tomorrow it will be soon enough for the truth of the grey that is overtaking the dark.
She gets up, bends over to untie her boots, takes them off, reaches under her skirt to peel off her garters and stockings. Her warm fingers run over the skin of her thighs, making her shiver and swallow hard. She sits back down, the swivel chair tilts slightly back as she puts her bottom as far front as she dares and leans back. She puts her feet on the desk for balance. She lets out a shuddering breath, she is nervous though she doesn't know why: she is alone, there is nobody downstairs, there is no chance of anyone coming in.
As she closes her eyes, she lets her hand run under her skirt, caress her knee, the inside of her thigh, lets her fingers wander over the wet cotton of her underwear, her breath now hitching as she presses a bit harder.
She misses him so much, his gentle touch, the way he can make her moan and pant with the simple touch of the pad of his forefinger on her, right below her curls, not quite at her entrance. He makes her squirm, but without him here, she will have to try herself. It's not the same, the long night without him, she touches herself in her cold, lonely bed, tries to replicate the feelings, tries to awaken her senses the way he does, but she fails. She comes hard and fast, more relief than delight.
Tonight she will take her time, won't have to stifle her cries.
She pushes aside her knickers, lets her fingers touch her curls, the slick, slippery folds, dips her finger in, Her other hand lands on the bodice of her dress, feels the contours of her breast through the layers of fabric. Her dress, her corset, her chemise, she understands why he complains about it. Her body is imprisoned and she needs to set it free. She releases her hand from her folds and trembles as she starts unhooking.
Just as she arrives at the third hook, she hears a pounding on the door.
"Hello! Hello! James! Henry!"
She jerks her head around.
It's Charles.
She forgoes her stockings and shoes, forgets about about her hair being down, her dress being partially undone and runs down the hall, turning on the light as she passes the switch.
"Charles?"
"Elsie?"
She takes the bolt off the door, pulls it open and falls into his arms.
His clothes are cold with the late night air, but his cheeks are warm as she kisses him repeatedly. He takes her hand and leads her back into the house. The hall, now dimly lit, seems to be smaller than ever, the slates are cold on her feet and she shivers, partially from that and in part from the fact that he is here. Here, with her.
She doesn't question it. In time he will tell her. Right now, she is so glad to have him here, to have him close, home, with her, to share her burdens and her love.
She puts her hand on his cheek and he turns to kiss it, puts his hand over
"What's this?" He runs his finger over hers, still slightly sticky with her residue.
She blushes fiercely, having been caught out. She looks down to her feet, her bare toes peeping from under her skirt. His eyes follow hers in their path and a small smirk appears on his lips.
He is suddenly very close to her. "Now... tell me what you were doing, so late, all alone in your room, with your shoes and stockings not on your legs and your hair down..." He emphasizes his words by softly stroking the long, waving locks.
"Nothing..." She answers, blushing again.
"Nothing... Oh, I don't quite believe that..." He answers, leading them through to door to her parlour and closing the door behind her. With a swift move, he places her in her chair, rocking her from side to side, then kneeling before her, letting the back of his fingers run up her calves. Her hands find their way into his hair, the no longer dark locks are still thick between her fingers and she lets him discover her.
He hikes up her skirt, bit by bit, kisses her, nips, pushes her thighs outwards, her underwear is in plain sight. She doesn't care, she is being swept up but his touch, the way his skin feels against hers, making her feel wonderfully uncaring. He hooks his fingers under the hem of her knickers, lets the tips brush against her, making her cry out softly.
But she doesn't let him go further, she comes up from her seat slowly, careful not to bump her knee against his forehead.
"Come..." she says, not caring about an unbolt backdoor, about her shoes and stockings on the floor of her parlour. His suitcase still in the hall. All she cares is about feeling his skin against hers, her arms wrapped around him, his lips kissing the skin of her neck, nipping at her ear.
He takes her hand, pulls her close and together they go up the stairs, make their way to the attics. She unlocks the door between the corridors, follows him to his room. She undoes the few last hooks and lets her dress pool to the floor, watches him as he undresses.
His familiar physical appearance still makes her heart beat a bit faster after all these years and she walks over, puts her hand on the soft, curling chest hair, not longer dark, not even salt and pepper, but silver in the light of his bedside table. She leans against him, puts her arms around him.
"I missed you so much..." She whispers against his chest, lets a warm tear escape.
"I missed you too..." He kisses the top of her head.
They stand together, their nude bodies moulding together, every bit of flesh and bone so familiar after twenty-five winters, they don't necessarily need to rush things.
But she feels how he is getting hard from the way he is starting to poke her hip and she can feel how her curls are moist. Now he is here - she doesn't care why - she wants him so badly, she moans as his little finger traces a pattern over the swell of her bottom. She knows all the secret ways of making him want her so much he cannot keep still and he knows all the ways he can send her over the edge with the flick of his tongue or a stroke of his nimble fingers.
He kisses her slowly, deliberately, savouring her taste and feel and she lets herself be half-carried to his bed, perfectly made, the corners as tight as the ones she teaches her maids to pull. The bed creaks softly as she falls backwards, lets herself lean back. She lays on the bed, her arms wide, welcoming him.
She sighs from his weight on top of her, the ease with which he thrusts, enters her.
"Welcome home..." She whispers before she lets herself be carried off into their lovemaking.