Her own fingers on her flesh felt cold, and their touch empty. Images of Charles swam in her head; that mischievous smirk of his, those eyes narrowing as if he had something to hide, something he wanted to tell her, but for propriety's sake kept to himself. The knowing look that he gave her in every single conversation. Her hand didn't feel so cold anymore, everything was engulfed in warmth when he looked at her that way. How she longed to feel the warmth of his breath instead of the cold night air. Her skin felt as though it were reaching out for his skin, for his broad chest to cover hers, for his sturdy thighs to part her legs. She could almost feel his strong, precise hand at the side of her neck, almost feel his thumb stroking her cheek, very nearly hear his voice telling her how he felt.
She had had the dream again, the dream she had most nights, the dream in which Charles confessed his love for her. He would say it a little differently every time, but his message was always the same; he loved her, he was in love with her, he desired her. Then he would kiss her, not just a kiss, but a small, gentle thing, which, every time, would grow into something passionate and needy. Tonight the dream had inspired such a longing in her that it stirred her awake only to find herself alone in the dark again. Pathetic. This was so pathetic. This feeling of constant yearning made her hate herself. She knew that she was better than this, but all the same she could not make it stop. That was perhaps the worst part.
She felt like a silly schoolgirl with a crush. She supposed it was the same thing in the end. She felt like they all must feel; she'd give her life for him, she'd give her life to him if he wanted it. He did not want it; she had never met a man so disinterested in love as Charles Carson. It was not like her to want the unattainable, it was not like her to be so very stupid, it was not like her to give in to her own trite lust and let her hand slip under her nightdress. But here she was, chest heaving, breath shaking, hand clutching at the bed sheet while images of him, both real and imagined flowed in her mind. Most shameful of all was the fact that the image that sent her over the edge was a memory of her eyes sweeping over him from his thighs to his midsection and his chest as he took his seat across from her in his office that very night.
Once the pleasure subsided her tears began to flow. Her face hot and eyes flooded she lay there sobbing into the dark until sleep overtook her once again. She found peace in sleep, she began to dream again, she began to dream of the mundane, being in her office when suddenly there is a knock on the door. Mr. Carson would close it behind him and with an earnest look tell her "Mrs. Hughes… Elsie… there is something, which I feel I must confess…"