Her torso swayed with his tugs. It was taking longer than it should. He swore lightly under his breath. She could feel his frustration mounting in the way he fumbled with the laces. She didn't offer any suggestions, she wanted to see how he would react. She was gauging his arousal, deciding how far she could push his boundaries.

It made her smile despite herself, all of the hurt of the last years vanished with the sweep of his palms around her waist. Need roughened his voice when he spoke low in her ear, "Breathe out." For a moment she couldn't breathe at all. When she did, he quickly and with a determined grip, unhooked the bottom of her busk. "Again," he whispered in her ear, raking her earlobe between his teeth.

She gasped and when she was able, forced all the air from her lungs. And then the last hooks of her busk were undone and the fabric was sliding away from her. Immediately places where seams and bones had made imprints on her skin begged to be scratched. She heard fabric rustle when he draped the corset over the back of the chair. Then he seemed to go shy. She could feel his warmth at her back, his breath humid in her hair, but he was holding himself apart from her.

She let herself be distracted by how good it felt to be out of her confines. For her body to be her own again. She rubbed at the sides of her breasts where fabric and metal had cut especially deep into her skin and let out a quiet, low groan. He took a cue from her and scratched tentatively at her back, hips, and ribs. Touches grew bolder and he scratched her more vigorously as she relaxed under his hands.

"There," she sighed happily when he hit a particularly satisfying spot, sagged and smiled to herself. "Just there. Thank you." She tried hard to pretend she couldn't hear how ragged his breath had gone. Or her own.

And then broad arms engulfed her, held her snugly to him She leaned into him; rippled and swayed when his lips grazed her throat. The roughness of his chin pricked the skin behind her ear, when he settled two open mouthed kisses there. He had always seemed to like that particular spot, never failed to draw out a shiver of pleasure when he toyed about with it.

This was her home. In the sanctity his arms. Had been for quite some time, she just hadn't realized it. He was balanced on his good knee, his bad leg thrust awkwardly out to the side. It wouldn't do for him to stay in this position for long, but it felt so right to be held so intimately. Eventually he pulled away from her, and again, she felt the loss of him acutely, though it was only for a few seconds. She trembled at the brush of the chemise against her body and felt the warmth of his hands even though only his fingertips trailed up her thinly clad back.

"May I?" He touched her upswept hair in question. His fingers trembled against her scalp. She hummed her assent. Tried to keep the smile from her lips. It wasn't easy - the care with which he felt around for and teased out the pins tugged at her heart so. She only wished she could see the look of concentration on his face. He had been wanting to do this for a long time, she supposed, judging from the tenderness of his touches and the little hitch in his breath when he pulled the pin securing it up and it tumbled free. His fingers combed through its honey colored length, sussing out the remaining two pins and suddenly she was very aware of her near nudity and his presence behind her. Of how dearly she wanted him. They had been apart far to long. She frightened herself at how desperate her need for him was. She bit her lip to steady herself before finding the wherewithal to look over her shoulder. "You're overdressed Mr. Bates," the hunger in her voice pinked her cheeks, but she was determined to take full advantage of these hours with him. Would be damned if she was going to let a bit of embarrassment get in the way. She lifted herself up off of her haunches and swiveled on her knees to face him. "Might I help you?"

He stared at her, seemed a bit dumbfounded. She continued to rub her itching skin. Swallowing reflexively, he watched her. His eyes flitted over her body, like the little rescued bird; bewildered and almost fearful. She was well aware of how little her chemise hid the flesh it covered, as aware as she was of the internal war he was having with himself.

He must have toed off his shoes and socks at some point because as he moved off of his knee and sat back on the narrow mattress, she noticed his feet were bare. The sight stopped her short. She pursed her lips and fought the urge to smile, it delighted her so. His feet and toes were as long and gracefully arched as his hands and fingers, with a similar amount of hair. She was fascinated by the feel of him. Fingers slid over twitching tendons. She fit her hand to his arch and squeezed deeply, just feeling him, exploring the sorts of touches he liked. He watched her, the look on his face unguarded, grown carnal, though she could almost taste his restraint. When she finally skimmed her palms up over his legs he made a strangled noise and fumbled out of his jacket, began unbuttoning his waistcoat. He raised his hips off of the mattress when she tugged down his trousers. He shocked her by holding her eyes. It made her heart thrum in her chest. She smirked at the length of his bared legs, as she shook out the trousers, and tossed them to join the rest of the clothes on the chair.

Crossed lines would not and could not be uncrossed. Obviously, he had decided to join her against what he would undoubtedly call his better judgement. She worried, not for the first time since the bus left Kirbymoorside without her, that he might hold this insistence against her. Guilt tickled at her for ignoring the boundaries he set. She truly couldn't imagine him resenting her, though. In the end, though he might be angry with her, he would only blame himself. That was the thought which troubled her. It didn't trouble her enough to stop. At this point she didn't think she could stop even if it was what she wanted.

She turned her attention back to exploring the path of his old wound with her fingers. She leant down and lipped the smooth scar tissue, feathering a line of light kisses up from where it began over his right knee. The scent of him teased at her nostrils and she slid a hand up his inner thigh. She was very aware of the quickening of her breath; harnessed her desire to sustain her bravado. She raised her head to flash him a saucy smile. The noise he made flushed her chest and cheeks, she felt the heat of it on her skin. She dipped her head again and kissed the smooth skin of the scar where it cut across his upper thigh, flicked her tongue to taste his skin. He groaned and the muscles of his hips and trunk clenched and twitched when she nipped at tender flesh. He dipped his fingers into a hank of her hair, trailed through it sensually. She smiled at how ragged his breathing was.

He pulled his hand away as she sat up on her haunches. She regarded him, naked from the waist down, engorged flesh peeking from beneath the tails of his shirt. The light was shifting as the afternoon drew on, intensifying the shadows of the room and casting a golden beam through the thin curtains. It painted him warmly. Her shadow touched his collar before her fingers did; she worked to loosen it and unbutton his shirt.

His mouth hung open slightly in a hungry, distracted way, drawing her eyes in slips and starts. He palmed her thigh, and held onto it while she unbuttoned him. When the warmth of his hand began burning paths of desire up and down her arms she shook with the pleasure of it. She took a deep, sharp breath and in a rush plucked the cuff links from his wrists, his collar from his neck and pushed unevenly off of the lumpy mattress.
She felt the flare of fear suddenly, as she padded to his wardrobe. Not of him, not of the blessed impropriety they were about to partake in. No, she was only afraid of herself, of the unpredictably deep responses she was having to the chastest of touches. If she shook life a leaf in a strong northern wind when he touched her forearms, how would she survive the increasingly intimate contact that would soon follow. The feel of him inside of her had been foreign, but held the promise of such an intensity when she grew accustomed to it. She felt intimate muscles clench when she thought of the few moments before he pulled away from her on the bed. It had been all encompassing.

Air moved in and out of her lungs; she let her attentions settle on that. She took deeper breaths, slowed them down. She found herself aware, in an entirely new way, of the subtle sensualness of the thin chemise on her bare skin and the weight of her long hair against her body. Of her feet flat on time worn wood.

She was grateful she had worn her best undergarments, though the chemise was utilitarian and plain. At least it wasn't sweat stained like some of her older ones. She had no intention of them being seen when she left the Abbey that morning. Nevertheless, she wore all her very best clothes because, well, because it was him. She clung to her ridiculous thoughts, grateful for the internal banter that paraded about her mind, distracting her from herself and the intensity of her emotions. She felt on the verge of losing herself entirely. Already she ran the risk of losing everything she knew. She chided herself. This was exactly what she wanted, longed for, what she thought of when she lay alone at night, when the candles had been blown out and Ethel had begun to snore, and she teased herself into solitary release. What she wanted even after he left her with the torn pieces of her heart in her hands. She squared her shoulders again and took a slow breath. If this was the closest she would ever be to being his legal wife, she was content. She needed him; needed to know him like this.

Opening his wardrobe door, she located the likely spot alongside others in a small tray printed with an advertisement for Coca-cola, she idly wondered where he had come by it - he had never been to America - and enjoyed the satisfying sound the silver cuff links made landing on the tin. They were the pair she had given him three Christmases ago, the nicest she could afford, simple, but solid silver. They gleamed; he must have kept them well polished, there wasn't even a hint of tarnish. She set the collar alongside the tray and before she shut the wardrobe door she took a deep breath. Closing her eyes, she smelled rosemary, soap, and shoe polish mixed with the wood. Smiled at the private collection of articles and toiletries. She wanted to touch everything in the wardrobe.

Mrs. Hughes might believe her story, she mused, distracting her reaching hands from capturing up any of his things. Or, she thought as she closed the door, if Mrs. Hughes saw through her deception, which she probably would, with as well as the two women knew each other, she might feign belief so as to maintain order within the household. Lady Mary knew where she was and who she was going to see and could not be lied to. She had forgotten about that. She found upon reflection, that she didn't much care. If this meant she was cast out of Downton Abbey, she would welcome her lot. She knew where to find him. He was hers, and if it came to down to it he would never turn her away. Downton had been home to her for more than half her life, but it stopped being her home the moment he left.

Lord only knew, Lady Mary had made her own inappropriate choices, which Anna had stoically helped drag across the great house. Most likely both women would look the other way unless a pregnancy forced the issue. They were safe. She counted the days again in her head. This time. And he was right. It would happen again. The currents they rode along were far too strong.

They would need be very careful.

The whisper of fabric over fabric drew her to turn back to him, he was tossing his shirt onto the now decidedly laden chair. He watched her, his eyes narrowed. He was worried again. She could tell. She walked by the chair and in a moment of audacious impropriety, threw a leg over him and settled her weight on his thighs just below his swollen sex. In one motion she pulled the thin chemise up over her head. He made a mewling noise, body quivering and clenching beneath her, his hands reached but stopped short, just shy of touching her bare skin.

He was always stopping himself. Stopping her. This time she wouldn't let him stop. She leaned forward, fingers splayed wide and dipped her hands beneath his undershirt. When he moaned low and needful, the vibration of it nearly drove her to madness. She ground against him and bit her lip to keep silent.

To her amusement and delight he was doing his level best to avoid staring at her exposed body, and failing miserably. He would catch himself and his eyes would dart away to the table or the fire. Then moments later they would find their way back to her and linger and his expression would smolder. She felt his gaze in places she shouldn't, felt blistered and flushed from the pleasure of it. Smiling, she contented herself with getting reacquainted with the texture of the hair that forested his belly and chest, not quite brave enough yet to dip her hands down to where it thickened over his groin, though as it was it brushed and tickled against her most intimately where their bodies met. She sat back finally and motioned with her finger for him to follow her. When he did she tugged off his undershirt and then pushed him back down.

The sheer size of him never failed to give her pause. She was forever stirred by the thickness of his thighs and arms, the broadness of his chest and shoulders. Looming over him, (and it made her almost laugh aloud to think herself capable of looming, slight as she was,) the width of his thighs beneath her own, seeing the lust-filled darkening of his eyes made her feel powerful and wickedly sensuous. The sensation thrummed through her. She leaned into him to rest against his chest, and gasped at the first press of their naked bodies, his arousal caught between them and hers pressing against the hair of his chest in two hard points. It shocked her into stillness, the depth of need she felt, the braiding current of devotion and desire that swirled between them. It was stronger and more all consuming than anything she had ever known. He was hers and she was his. Just as the sun rose in the morning and the moon shone at night. It was. She shuddered against him.

"Anna?!" His hands found her face and tipped it towards his. There was real fear in his expression. Tears had begun to fall from her eyes before she realized she was going to shed them. She wasn't entirely sure why they poured from her so readily. At least it was not a wailing or hiccoughing bout of weeping. Aside from a few sniffs, she was entirely silent.

"Anna. Talk to me," his was a lilted rasp. What could she say? Instead, she hushed his desperation the only way she could manage. She rained kisses over his chest and shoulders and throat, punctuating her soft touches with the fall of her tears. Moving up his body, she sealed her mouth to his with a fierceness that would have embarrassed her five hours earlier. She poured all of herself into that kiss; anchored herself to his shoulder and held on tightly. It was such a simple sweetness. To slide skin over skin and bask in the not so subtle undertow that tugged her beneath the surface of him. She had missed him so very much. He met and matched the sensual patterns of touches that she trailed over his body. He sweetly and passionately followed her lead, but didn't take things any further.

Finally they broke apart, chests heaving in counter rhythm for want of air. He held her face in his hands and searched her eyes for a long time. His question went unasked as he brushed tears from her face, but it hung between them, clear as print on paper. She tried to explain, but what could she say?

He'd had his hands under her blouse before. Had cupped her breasts through the cloth of her bodice. There had been more than one occasion in the dark of the grounds that she had sat astride his lap and pressed herself into his clothed erection, his waist coat unbuttoned, shirt pulled from his trousers, her fingers curling in the soft hair she found over his heart, and rocked against him, his groan raw in her ear. It wasn't that she wasn't familiar with his body or the feel of his arousal. It wasn't really the little parts of reasons that poured from her lips in a grasping sort of way.

From the start she had worried that he would look at her as too naive and foolish. Now was no different. She heard the pleading tone in her voice, as she reached for something substantial to tell him, as she asked him to hold her tighter, and cringed. How could she tell him that the brush of his skin made her feel as though she were flying apart? She had felt his skin before. But not like this.

"I love you...so much,"she finally stuttered, pulling a hand from her face and running her thumb over the hills and troughs of his knuckles. "Please. I'm fine, it's.. I..."
She laughed then, a quiet chuckle at her own ridiculousness, "There aren't words to describe what you make me feel, John Bates. That's all. I'm just a bit overwhelmed."
He let out his own quiet, decidedly relieved ghost of a laugh. It wasn't much more than a smoky rumble. His hands began to meander over her arms and back again, leaving her muscles to quake and tremble in their wake. "I know the feeling," he murmured, his eyes tender and expressive. They moved over her face, rested longingly on her lips. He cupped her cheek again, ran his thumb over her trembling smile. She could feel his sorrow and struggle before he even opened his mouth to speak, "My life has been so empty since I left Dow..." He looked at the away from her and blinked several times. When he continued his voice was hoarse, "Since I left you."

He had missed her as much as she had missed him. That much she knew without having to ask. Even when she was owning her anger and the grief he had put her through, even before she knew the real reason, she knew that he had left for her, and that he loved her, loved her enough to put her well being in front of his happiness. She knew he missed her.
Knowing it and seeing it in his eyes were two different things, for more than her own pain, she wanted to sooth his. And he was obviously, had obviously been hurting. "The thought of making you my wife, of proving myself worthy of you," he kissed her forehead. "It was the only thing that kept me putting one foot in front of the other, kept me sane. I'm ... I'm so sorry Anna. I'm so sorry."

The pleading way he searched her eyes nearly broke her heart.

"Hush," she settled herself tighter to him, pressed her cheek to his chest, strained to listen to the beat of his heart. "It's done. We're here now; only this matters. You and I."
He smiled broadly at her then, even as he sniffed back his tears, she could feel it when he kissed her hair. She kissed the bare skin over his heart. Teased her hands up and down his sides, searching and grasping as she went, as though it were the contact itself that defined them. They were silent as mice. Holding their breath and speaking in a language of touch and pressure that roared loudly in her ears, though they barely moved. Slowly, his hands roamed her back and her arms, cupped her bottom. He seared her wherever his fingers fell.

So intent was she on feeling his skin beneath her, on the tremors he drew from her that the sound of her name on his lips made her jump, "Anna?"

"Hmmm?"

"Straighten your left leg."

She complied quickly; began to ask if she was hurting him when in a blink and with a decidedly unladylike squawk she was flipped onto her back and he swung over her, swiveling and holding his weight on his good leg. He was always so gentle with he; it was easy to lose sight of his power. He had a touch of padding, and the high collars made him look heavier than he was, but underneath it all, he was still solid muscle. Still decidedly the soldier. She looked up at him, took in the hunger in his eyes. Decided she was pleased with herself for being the cause and let that override the sense of guilt she felt at pressuring him into their liaison.

"Do you know, Mr. Bates," she breathed against his mouth. "When I thought of you, I could feel it between my legs like you were touching me."

The sound he made came from the back of his throat. She felt herself undulate beneath him in response, ran her hands over his chest and let her thumbs catch at his nipples. He claimed her mouth fiercely, hooking her behind her knees, wrapped her legs around him, pulled her snug to his body.

"Now when I think of you," she felt dizzy when they pulled apart for air, her eyes heavy lidded with desire, her ears burning. "I'll feel you as a wife feels her husband."

She had thought she would need to take him in hand, guide him between her thighs, that he would be hesitant. But his brow furrowed as he lost whatever internal struggle he was fighting. She gasped and snaked herself more tightly to him when suddenly he was inside of her again. She could feel his animalistic grunt and the low moan that followed more than hear them. Base instinct won out as they responded and reacted to one another and their motions grew more frantic. He rocked roughly against her, filled her body, her field of vision, her world for those few sacred moments. She was completely at his mercy. Open and mewling, she did her best to hold her breath and stay silent. He shuddered against her and their pace quickened. It became the only thing in her existence that mattered, to meet his body with hers.

She clung to him, as their bodies moved together, her arms tight around his neck and back. Nerves hummed and sparked and sang. Her pleasure swelled and curled. He groaned her name, tried to speak, and then he was surging into her almost painfully and spending himself with a ragged growl. He collapsed on top of her. His full weight crushed her for a moment and she thought, as she struggled to draw a breath, that it was the most delicious sensation she had ever experienced. But then he came to his senses and pushed himself abruptly off of her.

"Christ. I'm so sorry, Anna." He could barely speak through his gasping breaths. He kissed the sharp jut of her jaw below her ear, eased himself down beside her, half off of the narrow mattress.

"Whatever for?" The confused and mildly horrified look he gave her nearly made her laugh aloud. She stroked his stomach, smiling as his body trembled with aftershocks. Her own body still swelled with the current of their desire and she didn't stop moving against him

"It was .. I shouldn't have been so... I just... And you didn't..."
She smiled and pushed up onto her elbow and silenced him by kissing him soundly, coaxing his tongue back into her mouth, tangling her fingers in pomaded hair.
"Never be sorry for taking your pleasure from me, love," she gasped into his ear moments later. "I'm not."

He shook his head and looked at her, his disbelief written in the furrow of his brow and slightly tilted corners of his mouth. "You are a singularly remarkable woman, Anna May..." He faltered. For a moment she had hoped he would finish with his surname. They both felt it. She could tell in the slight tensing of his muscles. Instead a shadow of sorrow slid over his face, "This isn't how this was supposed to be. I wanted for you to... I wanted it to be special for isn't right."

"It isn't. What it is, is perfect."

"No," he frowned. "That's not what I mean. You deserve fine things, satin sheets and jacquard pillows. At the very least a wedding ring and a proper bed." He kissed her temple and made her shiver.

"I couldn't wish for a finer pillow than you," She smiled and rested her chin on his chest. "Besides, if I waited around for what I deserved, I would miss half my life. This is just as it should be." She glanced around indicating the room.

"I wanted it to be special for you," he murmured again.

She looked at him, her desire slightly muted by exasperation.

"Aren't you special enough? Because I can't seem to think of anything or anyone more special to me than you. This is just as it should be," she said, more firmly.

"Still, at the least I could have made sure to take care of you before I...," he trailed off uncomfortably.

Her cheeks and chest burned with her blush, but she made herself hold his gaze. She felt the arch of her back deepen, enjoyed the firm press of her swollen breasts against his side. It was strange and familiar, after holding back (and not holding back) for so very long, to feel him so fully. It was still the same bodies moored and swaying together. The topographies had not changed, but the feel of him, the intensity of it all most certainly had. And still he fretted. It left her smirking, "Is that what you're worried about? John Bates, you aren't expected to be anything more than you are, and that is human.
"Besides," she dropped her eyes, surprising herself with the wanton forwardness of the words that slipped from her throat, "I was under the assumption that we weren't done yet. There are other methods we've yet to explore."

He looked at her then, his eyebrows raised, an appraising half smile that lasted a split second lit his lips.

"Is that so, my darling?" It was an entirely new tone. One that made her cheeks burn even hotter, that made her breath catch, made her look away. "Ours has been an exceptionally long courtship, Mr. Bates," she intoned cheekily. Her eyes darting to his and away again. "There were times when I had to take matters into my own hands. You do know how to drive a woman to distraction."

He was silent for long enough that she sought out his eyes and there was a wildness there that sent a thrill through her body. Her chest pressed deeper into him with each breath.

"Well we can't have the head housemaid of Downton distracted," he finally burred, shifting his position, the pads of his fingers already tracing their way up her inner thigh, his body beginning to move and slide against her again. "Care to tell me how I can help?"

"Oh, I think you have a fair idea." Her whisper sounded shaky even to her. Her legs fell further apart and she whimpered under his touch.

"Tell me," he rasped again.

Her tongue stuck in her throat. For are soon as he brushed against her curls she lost all ability to form speech sounds. His arm slide around her, palm cradling the back of her head and he kissed her lips playfully, "Has the cat got your tongue, my darling?"

"Something like that," she managed to shudder before she clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her cry of pleasure when he parted and slid between her folds. She bucked against his hand. Then he lowered his head to her breast and her existence became the pulsing rush of blood through her veins, the wet warmth of his mouth pulling at her flesh and his hand inside of her. Her body became its own, control of it lost to her, movement and sound dictated by the pressure and passion exerted upon it. The intimate sucking sound of the flesh coming together was the loudest noise in the room, until she cried out her release into his mouth, in the shape of his given name, and convulsed against him.

He held her tightly, made nonsense sounds against her lips as she trembled, his kisses grown light and sweet. He peppered her lips, her cheeks, the line of her jaw and throat, the tears on her cheeks. When she found herself again, she caught up his face in her hands and kissed him over and over again, basking in the warmth of the fire and the gentled heat between them.

She giggled softly, "Shove over a bit, love, you're on the blanket."

His responding chuckle was barely audible, but his shoulders shook good naturedly. "Your wish is my command, Mrs. Bates."

She froze, didn't dare look at him.

The pads of his fingers traced along her jaw. "May I call you that? When we are like this?" The emotion in his voice drew tears to her eyes."You've always been more of a wife to me than she ever was."

She didn't trust herself to speak. Nodded instead. He searched her eyes for a long time before gracelessly pushing off of the mattress. She watched him shuffle to the wardrobe naked as the day he was born and smiled. He returned with a cable knit blanket that he spread over her before unceremoniously dropping back down beside her.

He took her hand and kissed her palm and each of her fingertips. She smiled, closed her eyes and relaxed against him. Then she felt something cold on her finger. She looked down, at the simple gold band he had slipped there.

"John?"

"It was my mother's," he smiled shyly. "She was very clear about what should be done with it after she died."

"The day the divorce goes through, John Bates," she managed to say.

"The very hour, Mrs. Bates." He swept her hair away from her face and kissed her chin wobbled and she tucked herself tightly against him. She would never let him go again.