A/N: Dedicated to Onmyside, who talked me into writing a drabble/oneshot for the February Chelsie Challenge. NSFW. Let me know what you think!
(this has not been beta'd, so if you see a typo or weirdness, please let me know!)
Downton Radio Universe! The song played is Marieke, by Jacques Brel
His hand covering her hip, her are legs around his waist. Slow rocking motions, her arms around his neck. Kisses in between shallow and deep thrusts, unhurried. The early morning sun tickles their skin; the window is wide open to welcome the dawn. His lips on her cheek, her jawline. Her back arches as she catches his plunges; she lets go of his neck, puts her hands back against the headboard. He palms her breast, runs his thumb over her nipple. She lets out moans louder and louder as he changes the angle of entrance.
He is breathing heavily, almost in time to Jacques Brel singing of Marieke on the radio. She bites her lip, trying to hold back louder, keening sounds. He pulls up her knee and she pushes back, calls out to heaven, to him.
"I love you," he breathes into her neck and she holds on tight.
"Don't stop…" Her nails run down his back, her other hand grabs the sheet tightly.
He cups her cheek then, kisses her and she whimpers, bucks her hips to get the friction back that she needs. She is so close, so close, so ready to fall over the threshold. He slows his movements.
She slaps his shoulder. "No!"
"I need a moment…" he manages after several attempts. Stills completely. Slips from her.
She frowns before taking a good look at him.
He is pale, is breathing fast and shallowly. She sits up then, quickly, pushes him back in the pillows, tries to locate his underwear, helps him into them. She pulls her nightgown over her head, almost trips when she steps into her knickers.
"What are you doing?" he asks, irritated.
"I am calling an ambulance," she bites back, her blood still rushing, her pussy still throbbing.
"Why are you calling an ambulance, don't be daft."
"You are having a heart attack," she answers, but her lip wobbles dangerously.
"No, I'm not," he is smiling.
"This is no laughing matter, you know! You need medical attention. Remember that time you spilled your drink on Edith Crawley's dress and you went down like a prizefighter? Well, I am not having that again. I am calling Doctor Clarkson."
"Elsie. Put down the phone. I am fine, I just needed a moment."
She holds the phone in her hand, lowering it, but doesn't hang up.
"Really. Don't make a fuss, Els'."
She is crying now. Tears running down her cheeks.
"Oh, come here, you daft girl." He opens his arms and she drops the horn back and falls onto the bed, weeping into his shoulder.
"What's all this?"
"Just… I just… You can't…"
He holds her close, kisses her hair.
"We've not had enough time…"
"Mrs Hughes…" He puts his finger under her chin and kisses her softly. Then again.
"Oh, Charles…" It's taking her long to get her tears back under control. But he kisses her again, wipes her cheeks with the corner of the duvet. He lies down carefully, pulling her against him. She closes her eyes, listens to his even breathing, caresses the smooth skin of the inside of his wrist.
"I'm fine, Elsie. I'm alright."
She nods.
The radio plays on in the background.