Okay, y'all. You convinced me. But just to be clear, I warned you! This is VERY NSFW material and a lot of it. If it isn't your thing, for heaven's sake stop! I wasn't able to find a clear cut, but use your judgment, stop where you want and I swear you won't feel out of place the next chapter.
Also, this is my first time writing something like this, let alone sharing it, so kindness and feedback are MOST appreciated. Please let me know what you think or I will die of embarrassment and have to banish myself back into fandom anonymity lol
Okay, hold onto your hats—here we go!
Elsie sighs as she hears the knock on her front door, has just shed her hat and handbag when she's pulled back into the sitting room again.
Before she can get there, there is another knock. Elsie rolls her eyes.
"All right, all right, Glenna, I'm coming, keep your knickers on. What is it that you've forgotten?" Elsie says, only to be struck speechless by the sight of Charles Carson's hulking frame filling up her doorway.
"Not Glenna, I'm afraid," he says, and he is holding his hat, his expression as contrite as she's ever seen it.
"No, I suppose you aren't," she says carefully, still only holding the door halfway open, still flabbergasted by his really being there.
"All the same, do you think I might come in? I shan't trouble you for long, I assure you. Only there's something I'd rather like to say if you'll hear it."
"I- of course. Come in."
She moves out of his way and widens the door so that he can enter, closes it behind him and turns to see him standing tall in her sitting room. Something in her flips and turns, beats its wings once again against her ribs, whispers that he looks very handsome, strikes a rather dashing image in her home like this.
She wills it to shut up.
"Please, Mr. Carson, make yourself comfortable, can I get you anything? Tea or perhaps a spot of wine?"
She thinks bitterly about how she can't offer him (or herself) anything stronger because she's already gone and guzzled it all up. She has a feeling something stronger might be helpful.
"I wouldn't say no to a glass of water. It's very warm tonight."
"Yes, yes, of course! Here, please. Let me take your hat and jacket, then I'll show you to the kitchen."
She doesn't know why she sounds so manic, attempts to calm her nerves as she takes his hat, tries not to watch as he slips his jacket over his shoulders, rolls the cuffs of this shirt sleeves just a bit so she can see where his strong hands meet wrist and turn into muscled forearm. She tells herself that it doesn't matter that he's tan, sun-kissed like get gets in the summer months when he's been practicing his cricket game or helping tend to some of the trickier plants at the abbey.
She only realizes she's staring when he pauses his work, asks if she minds him doing it.
"No, no, of course not. Don't be silly. We aren't young, wilting creatures, after all, Mr. Carson."
He coughs.
"No, I suppose not. Thank you," he says as she returns from the hall closet and he follows her into the kitchen.
"Not at all," Elsie says, with forced cheer, still a bit manic, still trying not to dwell on how easily they've fallen into sync, into old routines, how simply domestic it all seems. How they are pointedly tiptoeing around that fact she'd been clawing at the buttons of the very same shirt a few hours ago.
How bizarre it all seems. She wills herself to settle down, takes a few deep breaths and moves with practiced efficiency.
She draws him a glass of water, offers him a seat at the table, at the head, where Joe used to sit, but always seemed to her to be his spot as it had been for the last twenty years of her life. He takes it and she sits to his right, just like old times.
He finishes off the water in a few big gulps and she knows better than to push him now, waits patiently even as her heart still pounds against her chest. She can't imagine whatever he has to say will be positive. Is ready to take the dressing down because she deserves it for behaving so reprehensibly. She won't make excuses; won't tell him of her foolhardy heart or her pitiful aspirations for his affections. No, she can only beg his forgiveness now.
"I owe you an apology, Mrs. Hughes."
"Mr. Carson, I—what?"
She wrinkles her brow, confused. That certainly wasn't right. She should be the one apologizing, explaining to him.
He holds up a hand for her to wait.
"I behaved like an utter cad toward you tonight. I took advantage of you in a weakened state, and I don't know what came over me, perhaps the heat, but I – I can't tell you how terrible I feel, how disgusted I am with myself for taking such liberties with you. You are a woman of honor and decency and deserving of only the utmost respect from all who know you. Especially me. I know what I have done is completely unforgivable, but I do hope, with time, you will consider it. I can only pray my lapse in judgment will not ruin everything we have shared. However, I understand you will likely feel differently, and will, therefore, leave you at once."
He moves to stand, but she grasps his arm. Her head is spinning, but thankfully she can think clearly enough to say what she needs to.
"Mr. Carson, do I not even get a say in whether or not I might forgive you?"
She is trying to bite back a silly smile; cannot believe they have ended up here. As always, she is defenseless against this man, this secret sweetheart, hiding beneath stiff pride, which he's just swallowed for her.
It is enough.
"Well, yes, of course. I'm sorry," he says, sits back down and looks at his hands, waits for whatever punishment she will rain down.
"Mr. Carson," she is bold enough to keep her hand where it rests on his arm. "It is I who owes you an apology. I shouldn't have behaved in that way I—I don't know what I was thinking either, but if you are willing to chalk it up to the heat, then I certainly am as well."
She smiles at him warmly and he meets her eyes, returns her smile with one of his own. The one she loves.
She ignores the pang in her chest.
"Friends?" she asks.
His hand covers hers.
"Friends always, Mrs. Hughes."
It is enough.
They have talked for another hour at least, and it is getting a bit late now, but neither seems to notice. He is sharing tales of the house, she is filling him in on snippets of her old life, growing up, silly times with Glenna and the way they'd been raised, the gentle parts, the parts okay enough to share without dampening the delicate mood.
She finally feels a sense of ease, as if she is finally on level ground. She has Mr. Carson back. They are friends, and she is so relieved of it, can content herself with that.
She can.
It's just that she's a little curious.
Never could hold her tongue around him.
Defenseless.
"What I don't understand, Mr. Carson, is why you were so vexed I hadn't told you about Joe. I hadn't gotten the impression you thought much of him."
She senses the way his mood shifts, how he has become uncomfortable, it is evident to her in the way that he presses his lips into a firm line, draws his brows down so they almost seem to cover his eyes as he looks at where their hands rest closely on the table.
She pulls hers back toward herself, unsure.
"It wasn't that I didn't think much of him, Mrs. Hughes. Not like that. He seemed a good enough fellow, and I am truly sorry you lost him so quickly."
"Thank you," she says automatically, more out of habit than anything else. "but you never did sing his praises, once asked me if he was hideous when he first came to call on me at Downton if I recall correctly."
He is silent.
"Do I recall correctly, Mr. Carson?"
"You do."
"Then you understand why I didn't write to you about my life here, about his passing?"
"I do."
"Then why were you so upset tonight in the first place?" she asks again.
"It's nothing, Mrs. Hughes."
"Oh, we aren't back to this again, are we? I thought we only just established we were friends again, Mr. Carson. Friends don't keep secrets."
She doesn't know why she's pushing him now, only it eats at her, just a bit, just there in the darkness of her heart.
She can't resist.
"That's rich coming from you," he says roughly, and she gasps a bit, draws her lip between her teeth, dips her head, because of course, he's right, there are countless things she's kept from him over the years, namely the exact thing that's driven him once again to push her away. Why can she not learn?
Stupid.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Carson. That was rude of me. I don't know why I said it."
He says nothing.
She worries her lip.
"It's getting late. I am sure you'll want to be getting on. I've been talking your ear clean off."
"No! I — that is – you didn't offend me it's only... It's only I fear if I tell you, it will shock and anger you. I couldn't bear to lose your friendship, Mrs. Hughes. Not again. Not for anything."
She can feel her eyebrow rising.
"I doubt anything you could say would shock me, Mr. Carson. I may not be a woman of the world, but I don't live in a sack. Tell me, won't you? Please?"
He looks at her for a moment, their eyes locked as they had been across the tent earlier in the evening before he looks down at his folded hands again.
"I was angry because I was selfish," he says, finally.
She wrinkles her brow.
"Selfish?"
He takes a deep breath. Closes his eyes.
"Yes, selfish, Mrs. Hughes."
"Mr. Carson, I have known you to be many things, but selfish is not one of them."
"No, but you have also not known me to be in love with you," he says, and it's so simple, so clear and plain and wonderful and shocking and her world is stopped on a dime.
She feels like she can't breathe.
"What? What did you say, Mr. Carson?"
Her voice sounds foreign to her, high pitched and breathy and with a brogue as thick as when she was just a wee lass of the highlands.
"I was selfish, Mrs. Hughes, because I have been in love with you. That's the awful truth of it. I thought myself deserving of your loyalties, love, and affection simply because I loved you, but now I know I'm nothing more than a sad old fool"
She is silent and he feels he is breaking with it, is crumbling under her shocked gaze.
"I understand if you want to throw me out, Mrs. Hughes. I won't make a fuss. I can see myself off well enough."
He pushes his chair back, makes to stand again when she beats him to it, is standing over him. He thinks she might slap him and is prepared to take it willingly this time when she speaks, lowly and dangerously.
"Oh," She says, "you're a fool alright."
And before he knows what's happened, she is on him, surrounding him, holding his face between her palms and kissing him senseless.
"You"
kiss
"are"
kiss
"a"
kiss
"bloody fool!"
Kiss. Kiss. Kiss.
"Because of course! Gods, of course, it's you. It's always been you, Mr. Carson. I am ashamed to admit it, but even when it was him, Christ, it was you, Charles."
He feels his heart swell, tears springing to his eyes, and he is kissing her now, thoroughly and harsh, his hands on her hips, gripping her firmly, with no intention of letting her go this time.
"Thank God," he breathes against her mouth, barely pulling away, intoxicated by how her lips are already swollen with their attentions, glistening in the dim light of her kitchen, and he doesn't think he can deny this any longer, not if she wants it too.
And she does, judging by the urgency with which her fingers are pulling at his collar, tugging his tie. She only succeeds in tightening it awkwardly halfway down and he can't help but grin at her frustrated moan.
"Don't laugh at me, Charlie. Not at a time like this."
This stops him dead.
"What did you just say?"
"Don't laugh at me?"
"No, the other. What did you call me?"
"Oh" she blushes, prettily, and he is charmed, so delighted, didn't know she could be more flushed. "was that okay? It's only, that's sometimes how I thought of...imagined it...between us. Elsie and Charlie."
He has to close his eyes against her image then because if he looks at her, he knows, he knows it likely isn't what she meant, but that he won't be able to stop himself from picturing her, alone in her bed, nightdress rucked up and imagining.
Instead, he grips her hips and pulls her forward, down onto his lap and hisses when she lets out a little moan at the contact.
"Say it again." He says, opening his eyes to stare into hers.
When she is quiet, lost in the moment, beginning to rock just barely against him, kissing wherever she can reach, he shifts toward her, lifting his hips as much as he can from his chair and increasing the pressure, watches her face contort in pleasure before easing back again, kissing her lip as it pouts out, tracing it with the tip of his tongue.
"Ach, god!"
She rocks harder against him now, but he holds her still, captures her hips in his strong hands and keeps her from writhing the way she so clearly wants to. She is kissing what little remains of the little scrape on his forehead over and over again with feather-light touches of her lips on his skin.
"Say it." He says again, calmer than he feels.
She whines a pretty whine, shifts futilely against his restraining palms a few more fruitless times before she opens her eyes and looks at him.
"Gods, Charlie. I love you. Charlie, I love you, please- "
She can't finish her plea because he has already lifted her, has picked her up in a swift movement that he's sure his back will protest tomorrow, but at the moment he can't feel at all.
"Yes," he says, placing her on the edge of the table, sliding his hands beneath the hem of her skirts where they are mussed, bunched up. "Christ, Elsie, finally, I love you too. I love you. I've always loved you. I want—I need—can I-?"
"Yes, please. Charlie, please. Touch me."
Carson has to grit his teeth in order to keep himself from taking her then and there. As much as he would enjoy it, wants it, he needs to know this will be good for her. Even more, he wants to take his time, he has waited so long for this, since the pretty maid with the claret-colored hair had twitched her nose, quirked her brow, sassed him that first time when he was still just under butler, he has wanted this. So, he will do his level best to watch her come undone right here on the kitchen table.
His fingers have just begun to skim the edge of her stockings, her thighs squeezing rhythmically beneath his touch when a thought occurs to him and he stops cold, breathing hard.
He looks at her, leaned back, propped up on her hands, head thrown back, her eyes shut and she's panting toward the ceiling and he knows it's wrong, but an ugly little part of him wants, needs to know.
He's trying to formulate a way to ask her when she looks up, her breathing still harsh.
"What—what's wrong?" she asks, her hands on his biceps, nails digging in just slightly.
"It's silly."
"Well, for heaven's sake, out with it then so we can solve it and you can-we can keep— to continue..."
She's not making much sense, but his fingers have begun to play with the edges of her garters, lifting, dropping, mussing, tugging them just lightly and he doesn't even realize he's doing it, can't see he's making it impossible for her to see straight, let alone think.
"It's only...did you ever...were you ever with Joe, here?"
"Wha-what?" She says, her voice higher now, closer to a whine, and he is still oblivious as his fingers move to trail against her inner thigh, slip slightly beneath the top of her stocking and across her skin.
"I mean, I'm sure you were with him. I'm not naive."
She is biting her lip, trying very hard to concentrate on what he's saying, but he certainly isn't making it easy the way he's rubbing at her skin in little circles, polishing her, turning her over and over like a delicate piece of silver. She rocks toward his hand and bites back a moan as he continues.
"But were you ever with him just here?" he emphasizes, looking down at where he's between her thighs at the table and she has to stifle a hysteric laugh, puts her hand on his through her skirts to still him and leans up, slings the hand not holding his around his neck, makes him look her in the eye.
"No, Charlie. Joe and I - we never - it wasn't..."
She looks at him hard and he's so serious. So stern and done up and she thinks she should probably do something about that. Needs him to be as undone as her.
She continues on conversationally as she loosens his tie with less desperation, slowly undoes it enough so she can slip it over his collar and then his head, lays it on her lap, unbuttons the first three buttons of his shirt until she can just see his chest hair peeking out.
"He tried, some, but, no. We weren't. Not anywhere. Especially not here."
"Besides," She says, looking into his eyes. "It wouldn't have been this, because this is with you and I love you. I have loved you for so long - in a way I could never have loved Joe. A way I couldn't imagine ever being lucky enough for it to be returned. I want you, Charlie, as I've never wanted anyone. So much, it almost scares me.
And, as she finishes, she considers only a moment before she lifts his tie, half-loose and silly, and puts it around her own neck. She feels giddy. Smiles at him in a way meant to be reassuring and bolstering.
Her smile vanishes when she sees his eyes darken, when he grabs his tie and pulls her forward so that her lips can meet his in a fierce kiss.
"Good," he is saying as his lips move over hers, "good because I want you too, more than, god, Elsie, more than anything."
And his hand is moving again, shaking itself free from beneath hers and toying with her stockings again, the clips of her garters, and she presses her legs impossibly wider, silently begs him to do something, anything other than teasing her so.
"Please, Charlie."
"Please, what?" He says, distracted, watching where his hands are moving against her, and she doesn't think he means it to sound quite so risqué, but she can't keep her hips from bucking up anyway.
His tone is so deep, harsh, exactly like it is when he's presiding over a table or dressing down the staff and there's something about that, that sends a shameful little thrill through her. Something that makes her brow wrinkle, but she can't examine just now, not when he's winding her up so deliciously, when she's so ready and he hasn't even touched her yet.
The thought makes her groan aloud.
"Please, touch me. Please. Mr. Carson, gods."
She feels him bunching up her skirts even further, pushing them up until he can see the top of her knickers, his hand searching for and finding the ribbon that unties them.
And she's feeling so unraveled, so wanton and desperate and she helps as he undoes the clips of garters, trails the tips of his fingers down the length of her legs. Her knickers are next and he makes a slow show of removing those, his hands stroking at her thighs and hips through the loose, practical cotton until he sees fit to peel them down and over her boots and stockings, off her.
He looks straight at her, there, and the moan he lets out is enough to make her keen in response.
"You are so beautiful. I knew. I knew you would be."
She tries not to dwell on his admitting he's imagined her like this because it only brings her closer to begging again. Instead, she focuses on trying to even out the playing field.
She leans up and her fingers scramble over the fasting of his trousers, undoing them, pushing them down until they pool at his shoes and he frantically toes off his shoes, kicks the lot away. If she weren't so desperately aroused, she might find the action amusing.
Her thighs are shaking as he slides his fingers over them again, he trails the pads of them down to her knees where here stockings still cover her, and then back up the inside of them hovering on the soft skin where her thighs meet her hips until he moves between them, cupping her heat, making her choke back a cry.
He seems to wait forever, content to rest gently on the springy curls of her sex, and she is trying her hardest not to writhe, to keep her wits about her. She is already a little embarrassed by her need, her willingness to beg, so unlike her.
She only realizes he's teasing her when she looks up at him through her haze and sees his smug smile, his traitorous little wink.
Trembling, she begins to slip her fingers under the edge of his shorts, aiming to make quick work of them and drive him just as insane as he is making her.
"Oh, you basta-"
She starts but doesn't get the chance to finish as his fingers suddenly move smoothly between her folds, spread her open, and begin stroking her lightly where she aches most. The volume of her own moans startles her, and she brings her hand over her mouth, only for him to pull it away, place it back on the band of his shorts, give her a stern look.
"No." he says simply, before returning his concentration to where his fingers are mapping every bit of her flesh.
She knows she should probably be ashamed of the moisture he finds there, the way she's spilling over his fingers, but she can't find it in her to worry about propriety when he's circling her so gently right over that little nub that drives her absolutely mad.
Her hands falter on his shorts as he shifts, strokes her just on either side of it.
"God, Charlie, F-"
She's making the most obscene noises now, little cries she can't stifle.
He's caught on to the way his light touch just there is driving her further, pushing her steadily toward the brink.
She's pushing at his shorts, needs them off.
"Off, Mr. Carson. Take them off, now, please!"
She draws out the last word, has noticed herself how that particular sound from her mouth makes him buck toward her just a bit, increase the maddening speed of his fingers against her.
He complies but pushes her hand away again when she moves to touch him, and it makes her whimper because it's all she wants: to feel him, touch him.
He pushes her onto her back, his lips pressed lightly to hers, his tongue seeking and twisting with the tip of hers. He whispers against her hotly, barely drawing his mouth away so she can actually feel him speaking.
"If you do that it'll all be over in a minute, and I've been waiting too bloody long to tolerate that. I have plans."
She whimpers.
His fingers continue their gentle exploration, up and down, circling her nub and tracing her entrance, gathering her moisture and spreading it around. He leans down closer to her and she can't believe when he breathes in deeply, before blowing a narrow stream of air out onto her, the coolness of it a shock on her overheated body.
His fingers dip down again, circle her entrance over and over before he dips one in, pulsing it back and forth until he has his thick finger buried in her to the knuckle and is moving in and out of her slowly.
She moves against him, moaning because it's not enough, there's not enough friction, and then she feels him withdraw, can't hide her disappointment, her little whimper of despair, until he returns with two, pressing inside her and then scissoring them open and closed just slightly, stretching her. Then he is curling them against her on a spot that makes her understand why women are willing to risk it all for this touch.
She bites hard on her lower lip.
He's panting now too as he watches his fingers disappear in her over and over, licking his lips in a way that makes her feel like he might devour her, and she feels near tears at the thought, is so close, but he is holding her back. He won't, he isn't pushing her over, won't take her where she needs to go.
She is aware she's chanting something, "oh, please," perhaps, over and over.
"Look at me, Elsie," he says, and it's a gargantuan task, takes everything she has.
"I love you." He says, even as his fingers stop, pull away from her, as she strains and bucks against nothing. She thinks she might weep.
"Why? God, why have you stopped? Why would you stop? Won't you continue, please?"
She has never begged so in her life, has never wanted something so desperately as she wants Mr. Carson to make her lose herself on the edge of her kitchen table.
She nearly tells him so, shock and vulgarity be damned, but she is cut short when he sinks to his knees, pushes her thighs apart roughly, slinging one over each shoulder and exposing her so clearly with her skirts bunched up around her waist.
"I'm going to kiss you now, Elsie."
And she wants to stop him, wants to tell him she can't take it, can't take any more of this, but his lips are already on the sensitive skin joining her thigh to her mound, placing open-mouthed kisses, love bites, so close to where she needs it that she's robbed of all ability to think clearly, to make a coherent sound.
"I love you." She hears him say again as he grows closer to her center, to exactly where she wants him and she repeats it back to him over and over, peppered with pleas and accompanied by her hands in his hair, pulling, tugging, trying to guide him where she needs him, because if he doesn't get there soon, she swears she will take herself in her own hands.
She must move that way because in a moment he has her hands trapped in his on either side of her hips, holding them immobile. His grip is not tight, not inescapable, but his words hold her in place.
"Oh, no, love. I want to do this for you. Don't move. Let me do this for you."
He feathers kisses so lightly against her that she's sure she will go insane. She will be nothing but a babbling mess, a simpering fool, of no use to anyone ever again. She thinks she might die here suspended; wound so tightly she thinks she'll snap.
And then his tongue sneaks out between his lips and lightly, lightly parts her curls, laps gently at her little nub and she is crying out, almost screaming as she bucks rhythmically against him trying to force him into a pattern, something strong and steady, like him, that will bring her off, but he resists, maintaining no consistence, steering clear of doing anything for too long that will tip her over the edge.
He is fast and slow and hard then soft, and when he pulls her into his mouth, sucks just lightly on her lips before blowing softly against her nub, she thinks if she lives through this, she will kill him.
She is so open, pushed wide by the bulk of his body and unable to touch, to do anything as his hands still her, keep her from tugging at him, bringing herself over, she is forced to wait as he sips so carefully from her, takes her to the edge over and over, brings all this pleasure to her.
He moves again, runs his tongue along her length before moving it up, flicking it urgently over her, the very tip of it touching her and making her cry.
"I've dreamed of this." He says, or at least that's what she thinks he says. It is hard to tell when he is pressed between her thighs and she can barely breathe. "Dreamed of you like this, beneath me, my mouth on you. Your taste, your smell. It's intoxicating, Elise. Better than I could have imagined. I don't ever want to stop."
She can't believe she's hearing these words from him, they are shocking and exhilarating in his rumbling voice, from between his proper lips, so concerned with rules and propriety and here he is with her pressed against the kitchen table, his tongue against her sex, telling her how he's dreamed of them just like this. It is enough to make her dizzy with want.
"God then don't, please! God, no, please don't stop," she says as she feels his tongue soften again, calming her just a bit.
He kisses her again there, once. She can feel the tears sliding down her temples, into her hair.
"No, no, no, please." She says again desperately.
She can feel his chuckle more than see it. Strains against where he holds her hands, tucks her chin up to try to see him properly.
"Are you laughing at me, Charlie," she asks, breathless, still trying to squeeze her thighs around his ears and bring him closer. "because, if you are, so help me god—"
He pushes up, looks at her, smiles a roguish smile and blows against her in a way that makes her eyes roll back, quite unable to finish her thought, let alone string it together into words.
"Not ever, love. I'm savoring you. Relishing how beautiful you are. Your sounds, the taste of you, everything."
She's smiling, too, but it's a bit feral, slightly wild.
"I look forward to returning the favor." She says, surprised she still has it in her to be so wicked.
She loves the way his eyes darken, his smile drops.
"Oh, so do I, Mrs. Hughes. So do I."
She groans loudly when he rubs his chin against her, smearing himself and her with her wetness, her head drops back against the table with a thud. Her eyes close.
"Are you ready?" He asks, his lips brushing her with every syllable.
"Charlie, if you don't fuck me soon, I swear I'll turn you out of this house."
She says it with her eyes still closed, couldn't give a fig about vulgarity when he's just admitted to imagining her sex against his mouth. She is still rocking forward in little motions, still clawing the table beneath his grip, so close and ever hopeful.
He growls at her words and releases her hands to tug her closer, presses his fingers into her thighs so tightly she's sure they will bruise.
"Yes, ma'am," he says darkly, before burying his face against her again, kissing, sucking against her in earnest now and she's on the edge again in an instant.
Begging again without shame.
"Oh, do it, Charlie, please, please do it. God, take me, fuck me, have me."
She begins to run her hands along her torso, over his tie that still hangs about her neck, down to the juncture of her thighs when he grasps her wrist again, cuts her short.
"Naughty." he drawls. "What did I say? I told you I have been selfish and now is my chance to make it up to you. Hands by your sides, please, Mrs. Hughes."
She moans loudly at the use of her title in this context but does as she's told.
"Now keep them there or I shall have to do it for you."
He says it conversationally as if he's asked her to pass the salt and not to hold still while he fucks her with his mouth and tongue.
With two fingers he carefully parts her again. Moans lowly at the sight of her and then leans forward, kisses all around her sex. His tongue parts her inner lips and dips into her wet channel, causing her to make a high-pitched humming sound in her throat. Her hands move of their own accord again and he doesn't even pause, merely grips them firmly in his, pushes them down to her sides and covers them with his own, his strong hands and fingers pinning her in place.
He is still gazing at her, pausing, licking his lips.
"Perfect," he says softly, and she feels very close to throwing some sort of fit, demanding he finish her before she finishes him in a far less pleasurable way.
Before she gets the chance, his tongue dips into her a few more times, and she can do nothing but mewl his name, press herself against his face in desperation.
Then he moves up, circling that little nub again, and he is groaning loudly now himself and the vibrations of it are shooting right through her center, increasing the throbbing there. She is in a frenzy, so close, so close to the edge. She gasps when he takes her nub in his mouth, flickers his tongue over it at lightning speed then sucks so lightly, so gently, and that's it, she's cracking, screaming, crying, tumbling over the edge as he moans against her, keeps his tongue moving gently to draw out her pleasure as she tenses over and over against his lips.
She's vaguely aware of him releasing her hands, of his soothing kisses to her hips, one to her center that makes her hips jump, of the way he's telling her she's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen, always, but especially like this.
His gentle kisses have moved to her thighs, and she strokes absently at his hair, tugs at his curls to make them unruly.
Neither of them finds that they can speak.
His teeth are nipping at the insides of her thighs, leaving little red marks, and his hands are working up, pushing his tie to the side, sliding up over the bodice of her dress to squeeze at her breasts, brush against her nipples the best he can through the fabric of her dress and corset, and the denial of her body feeling it through the cotton and boning is a different sort of pleasure, the suggestion of his touch against her there enough to bring heat to her, and it isn't long before she's starting to feel ready again, even after she's fallen apart so thoroughly and bone-shatteringly against his extremely talented lips.
She tugs at his hair in earnest then and notes the way it makes him groan with pleasure for her to do so.
"Up," she says.
When he complies, moves up to stand between her thighs, she sees him fully, hot and hard and throbbing for her, his cock jumping as she sits up, draws them closer together and kisses him, tastes herself on his lips.
The cloth of her skirts has fallen over them lightly, obscuring her sex and brushing along his length as she nibbles his ear, sucks lightly at the side of his neck.
"Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Carson?" She whispers and she can feel him swallow, the way he's twitching against the top of her knee, against the silk of her stocking. "Something you'd like?"
And she can't believe she's like this, is saying these horrid, delicious, terrible things in his ear, so shameless, but he has taught her well already, her man, and she will give as good as she gets. She does not live in a sack, after all.
"I—" he says, presses his head to her shoulder as she continues her earlier work of unbuttoning his shirt, opening it enough that she can circle his nipple with the pads of her fingers, draw her nails over its tip, just so.
"I should keep you just like this, you know." She says against his ear, a wicked smile playing about her lips, as her hand slides up and out of his shirt and then down over his side, running her nails along the fabric.
"As punishment."
His moan is low as her hand continues down, rests gently over him through the fabric of her dress.
"Elsie, please."
"Oh, please now is it? Not quite so bossy as before."
He rocks against her.
"God, yes, please."
He's fingering the edges of her skirt, grasping and releasing.
"Elsie, please, can I?"
She smiles a bit, finds she rather understands his penchant for hearing her beg, finds it equally intoxicating.
She considers.
She's ready, more than, but she can't help but tease him just a bit in retaliation, knows he'll never move against her without her express permission.
"I've imagined you like this, too, you know." She whispers, revels in the way his eyes close, the way he sucks in a breath. "Hot and hard against me. So ready. Ready to claim me. Make me yours."
Her fingers flutter over him as lightly as she can manage, and she's beginning to wish her skirts were up too, wants to see him, watch his reaction to her.
Then she remembers she can, and she does, carefully drags her skirts back again, drawing them over him lightly, gasps when she sees him in full.
He's substantial, as she imagined, and he's pulsing in a way that makes her thighs clench against his sides.
Her fingers lower, hovering over the tip of him.
"Elsie." He drawls and it's a warning.
"Just a little. I just want to feel you... can I please?"
He huffs out a long breath.
"Alright, but you must stop. You must as soon as I tell you."
She's nodding before he's even finished speaking, her fingers running lightly against the softest skin she's ever felt, making little circles where moisture has gathered at his tip. She feels the deep desire to have him in her mouth, as he has had her, is about to ask him if she can when he grabs her wrist, pulls it to his mouth for a rough kiss.
"Stop, please. I can't. Please."
"Are you very ready, my man?" She asks, letting the hand that's not held in his wander up his chest to rake through his chest hair, give it a light tug before moving up his jaw and around the back of his neck to thread through his mussed curls.
"Yes, yes, Elsie, please."
She kisses his brow, once, twice.
"Alright then, Mr. Carson." She says, thickening her accent. "Have me then."
With a roar, he tugs her closer to the edge of the table, licks his hand quickly in a way that makes her eyes widen, her nub twitch, and then he strokes himself, twice, before he buries himself in her.
"I love you." He whispers, biting her neck.
Elsie is surprised it doesn't hurt, not in the way she thought it might. Instead, she feels deliciously full, stretched, complete with the feel of him, with her man inside her as it always should have been, as she's wanted for so long.
"Christ, yes."
She's not sure who says it, her or him, maybe both.
It strikes her after a moment that he's very still and she wonders if he's teasing her again. She tugs at his hair, pulls him away from her neck so she can see him, and when she sees that his eyes are clenched shut, that he's breathing harshly through his teeth, she knows it's for her. He's holding back to let her adjust, waiting for permission.
"Oh, yes, my man, yes please, don't hold back. Let me...give me...do it, take me, please." She whispers against his lips, squeezing him with her inner muscles, swallowing his deep groan.
"Yes, let me have it all."
It is her turn to keen again as he rocks forward just a bit at first, not even pulling back, just grinding against her in a way that presses her nub deliciously against his pelvis, makes her pant.
It's not enough.
"More, please, my man, more."
They both moan loudly as he pulls back a bit, pushes in again.
"Yes." She says. "Like that. Just like that."
"God, you're everything. You're all I've ever...god, I love you, Mrs. Hughes, I love you."
"Ah, I love you too, Mr. Carson." She says, and she's feeling that mania again, that insane edge, like walking along a razor wire, and he's still pulling out, pushing in so slowly.
"Harder." She moans.
"I don't want to hurt you." He says, his hands running over her, touching her everywhere he can reach, grasping her bum to pull her toward him, match his rhythm.
The sensation of them slamming together, putting delicious friction on her just there is enough to make her close her eyes, bite her lip.
"You won't, I will tell you if it's too much, I promise, just please, my man, do it, give it here."
She squeezes him again and she feels him twitch inside her, and she wonders, reaches down and cups the heaviness of him, runs her thumb over his skin.
"God! Elsie!"
And it has the desired effect. He picks up speed, thrusting into her, pushing her down on the table, hauling her knees up so only her heels still touch the edge. She remembers for the first time that her boots are still on, her stockings up, that she's still mostly clothed, that he is too.
Somehow that makes it better. Reminds her of all the times she'd wished for this in her darkest most desperate moments while they were sharing a glass of wine or a glance at the dinner table.
He's pounding into her now and it's everything she wants. She loves watching him lose control, hearing his deep groans, feeling him bear down against her.
The pressure is building, and it's wonderful, is almost ecstasy. She wonders if he'd hate very much if she were to touch herself, wonders if he'd stop her if she tried to mix her own fingers between them and stroke just where she knows will do the trick.
"Are you...is this?" He says, sweat dripping from his brow onto her dress.
She nods
"I'm close, it's just, I need..."
She trails off, unsure what to say, how to ask. She bites her lip.
But she needn't have worried, should have known he'd be able to read her, to know exactly.
With one smooth motion, he brings a hand between them, supports himself over her with his other, while his long, strong fingers brush along her stomach, over the smooth plane of her corset, where her muscles are already twitching beneath, and then through her curls, carefully pressing a finger against her where his tongue had worked her into nearly unbearable pleasure minutes before.
The thought makes her jerk against him.
"Yes." He says, "yes, that's it, Elsie."
"Mmm." She moans, bringing her hand to her lips and tracing them, biting her fingers to keep from screaming as his little motions turn into tight circles, smaller, lighter, teasing along the tip of her bud as he slams into her with increasing speed.
She is rocking shamelessly again, meeting his hips and hand stroke for stroke and nearly screaming, pulling at her own hair, grasping her breast as best she can through her corset.
She is half-aware of him moaning at the sight of her, his thrusts becoming irregular, jerking against her, his hand still toying where they are joined.
"Yes, do it, love, come for me. Do it. I want to see you come around me."
"Oh, oh, oh!"
And she does. She falls over the edge, shatters all around him, clenching and releasing. Elsie sees stars before her eyes as she shudders violently, cries out, her breath coming in little cries as she feels him thrust against her a few more times before he's coming apart on top of her, inside her, releasing his seed into her and collapsing down over her, kissing her neck and ear the side of her mouth - anywhere he can reach.
"Yes, my man, ah, gods, yes, mo ghaol."
"I love you," they breathe against one another between shallow pants, slowing hearts.
There is still so much to say, but at this moment, it's enough.
She clings to him, wraps her arms and legs around him, kisses his temple, his hair.
She can't imagine ever feeling more complete.
So…there's that. How are you? Shall I banish myself? Is it warm in here? I'm a little warm. Perhaps a glass of water…