A huge thank you to Pixie for her precious help.
This story is rated M for a reason. Vocabulary and eplicit sex scenes will be the order of the day in this story, which has three chapters.
Stuck with you
1902
He can't help it. He has to push her to the limit, all the time. She makes him so angry, every day, every second. And he hates her for what she is, for what he's become since she arrived at Downton Abbey.
He wishes Mrs. Blunt, the former housekeeper, had consulted him before introducing her to Her Ladyship and hiring her. Then he would have seen the danger she posed to him. He hates her and he hates himself even more for the way she makes him feel. For his loins that flare up when she is in his line of sight, for his sex that stands up painfully at the sound of her voice, for his visceral need for her that drives him to isolate himself once or twice a day to take control and relieve himself of his desire for her.
He provokes her, all the time, he knows he shouldn't. He knows that when he sees her eyes darken with anger, he just wants to take her. Without any ceremony, to take her, to slam her against a wall, to feel her thighs surround his hips and sink into her savagely, until he is free of this desire that is eating him up.
He doesn't recognise himself anymore since meeting her, he's forty-six and he behaves like a young idiot of seventeen who only thinks about rolling up petticoats. Her petticoats in this case.
For ten years he has been fighting against himself, against his desire for her. For ten years he has been provoking her, sometimes insulting her, hurting her so that she will leave him alone. And it's unbearable for him to see the pain he inflicts on her, to see her eyes sometimes misting up. And by all the gods, he wants everything from her, except to make her cry, or only with pleasure. So he silently shouts words of apology, words of mad desire, of raw love.
Sometimes he is inappropriate, he can't help it. Pretending to be late, he waits for her to pass him on the stairs to watch her hips sway, and he lets the heat of the sight overwhelm him. He grips the banister so tightly it hurts to keep from moaning, to keep from grabbing her buttocks. He imagines her hips, of which even the Venus of the paintings would die of jealousy, he imagines them on top of him, moving, riding him, making him cum. And he has to bite his cheek to keep from grabbing her, telling her he wants her, cornering her in a deserted hallway, getting down on his knees, burying his face under her skirt and making her scream while he has his tongue on her. And he watches her hips sway, until she goes one way and he goes the other, his trousers stretched, so he forces himself to think of something vile to stop the blood flow, and when he has time, he goes up to his room and strokes himself roughly to the point of pain, hating her because only she makes him react like that. He doesn't recognize himself anymore, he hates her, he loves her, he wants her.
He doesn't know anymore.
She is indispensable to him, he can't imagine his life without her and she drives him crazy. He distances himself as best he can, to avoid doing something stupid. He doesn't go to fairs or other such amusements any more, claiming that the staff will be freer if he doesn't go, but that's not true. He doesn't go, because seeing her laugh, smiling at those who are not him, seeing her dancing in arms that are not his, consumes him painfully, so he stays at home, waiting for her to return home safely.
If he was brave, he would go with her, ask her to dance, hold her closer than he should and confess all his desires for her in the hollow of her ear, he imagines that she would blush, slap him and leave the house, making him die of madness and sorrow. Or he imagines that she blushes, that she clutches him even closer, and answers that she wants him too.
He is crazy, he is stupid.
He keeps pushing her, provoking her, enraging her, only to see her eyes darken with anger as he imagines that he sees something else.
Stupid and crazy...
He provokes her, to see her answer him. He loves to hear her Scottish accent, much more pronounced when she's angry, her "R's" rolling and becoming rougher on her tongue. He loves it when she lifts her head and puffs out her chest in pride, staring into his eyes, daring him to go further. He loves to see her turn her back on him, her posture proud, her buttocks moving in a terribly erotic way. Making him lose himself in fantasies where she is on the floor, leaning on her knees and hands, where he is behind her, taking her passionately, madly.
He is crazy about her, mad as hell.
She hasn't spoken to him for three days, avoiding him because he's gone too far. Because he made her shed tears for good this time, unable to hold back from slapping her with his words, because she dared to laugh at a clever remark from the gardener. He told her that she would certainly thrive better in a brothel in London, where she would be free to tease every gardener in the country. She had looked at him, recoiled, as if those words had literally hit her, and she had said nothing, just cried, silently, before turning her back and going upstairs.
Three days he barely sees her and three days he holds back from breaking everything, three days he locks himself in the cellar under the pretext of an extremely important and very fussy inventory. He misses her, painfully, unreasonably, terribly, and he doesn't know how long he'll be able to endure it. He thinks that maybe he should give her flowers, or simply ask her forgiveness. But he won't know how to say it without betraying himself, without showing the strength of his feelings, of revealing the passion she brings out in him, of his desire, and he will die of shame when she rejects him. No, it is better that he stays locked up in his cellar, alone, counting his wine bottles for hours. Mrs. Patmore has prepared a basket full of food, he doesn't even have to be present for the servants' lunch. He thinks of his stupidity, of the passion he feels for her. Sometimes he wants to beg her, to ask her to love him, even a little. To tell her that he is offering himself to her, that she has owned him for ten years, that she must take his body now before he does something even stupider, like resign.
He leans his forehead against a case of wine bottles trying to rest his mind, just for a few seconds.
But then she calls him, from the top of the cellar steps. He hears her call, hears her footsteps approaching.
He is mortified.
Go away, stay, I hate you, I love you, God help me...
Stupid, crazy and in love.
He straightens up to look down on her, he likes to look down on her because she has to look up to talk to him and he sees them better that way.
She takes it as pretentiousness, as a need to establish his power over his subordinates. If she only knew... If she only knew that she's been holding him all along and that he's standing so straight to force himself not to fall to his knees and scream at her that he wants her, that he loves her so much, that he loves her to death.
She talks to him, as if nothing had happened, as if he had never said anything hurtful to her, and he feels even more miserable.
She tells him that Lord and Lady Grantham will be going to the dowager's for dinner, that the girls will be with Nanny, and he wants her to leave because he feels the pain, the desire, the love, the passion inside him, overflowing from his body. He wants to hold her back, to tell her everything, everything that comes into his head, to love her with his words because he can't do it with his body.
Please go. Don't go away...
He doesn't know anymore. He's mad.
"Forgive me, Mrs. Hughes."
He says it, finally. He doesn't know how he managed to control his voice so well, but he is satisfied. He's asked her for forgiveness and he just has to hope she'll accept it.
She will, she always forgives him. Even if this time she's more inclined to let him stew in his shame, but she forgives him. She always forgives him. She's an idiot, and a fool, she knows it.
"I forgive you, Mr. Carson."
He can finally breathe a little better, it's not quite that, since it would take her mouth, her body, her sex for him to find his oxygen but her forgiveness will do.
"Why, Mr. Carson?" She knows her question will go unanswered. But she has to ask it, she needs his voice. It's been three days since she last heard from him, three days she has felt like she was in agony over the lack of him. She knows that she sometimes pushes him a little to provoke his anger or a sharp remark from him. She likes to hear his voice growl, she likes to see his eyes darken, to see his fists clench and his chest heave when he is angry with her.
Sometimes she waits for him, in the doorway, to brush against her, accidentally, so that she can get drunk on that hand brushing her hip and the scent of him. And when she's in bed at night, she thinks of that moment as she rocks against her hand, imagining she's full of him, and she comes with his name on her lips.
She makes sure that she always talks to him at the table, because the sound of his voice gives her sensations that only he can bring out in her. When he speaks, his voice slightly lower, she feels herself vibrating, literally with desire, and she has to squeeze her thighs together to bring some friction and relief as best she can. She wants it, she wants him so much inside her, that it hurts. She knows that the season starts in a fortnight, that soon he will be gone for several months. And that she will be in pain. That she won't know where to look, he will be everywhere anyway. He already has her without touching her. She is crazy, she loves him.
She waits for him to answer, and he doesn't move. He turns his back on her again because looking at her provokes inappropriate reactions. They are alone in the cellar, out of sight, and even her moans would be muffled by the thick walls.
"Go away, Mrs. Hughes. Go to bed."
But she does not go.
"Please, Mr. Carson, look at me when you talk to me."
He closes his eyes, wishes he could weld them shut so they would never reopen on her and her beauty, on her body that calls to him. He punches the box against which he had been leaning moments before.
"Mrs. Hughes, please go away." She has to go, she doesn't know the torture it is to know she's right there, he would only have to turn around, reach out slightly to touch her, to bring her against him.
"No. Not without seeing your face, Mr. Carson."
He breathes erratically. What's the point of fighting her anyway? She wins, always. Then he turns around, and she has to back away a little at the intensity of the look that hits her. His eyes beg her, and she doesn't know what he's asking. Does he want her to leave, to say something? She doesn't know and it drives her crazy and it hurts to see him like this.
"I don't want to be stuck with you."
He's lying to her, obviously he wants to be stuck with her, stuck inside her, all the time. She nods, he thinks he's hurt her again, but if he has she doesn't let him see it. She takes a step towards him, puts a hand on his arm and she sees his breathing catch.
"Charles..."
He closes his eyes.
"No... please, Mrs. Hughes."
But she doesn't let go and instead tightens her grip on his arm.
"Charles..."
He opens his eyes and swallows. She has understood, he feels shabby and ashamed.
"Charles, please don't chase me away," and she moves a little closer.
"You don't know what you're asking of me... I don't want to be stuck with you, Elsie."
Her name on his lips, the wave of desire surging through her takes her breath away, suddenly her corset chokes her, she wants to rip it off, she wants nothing more, she wants only him.
"I don't want to go, Charles. Don't drive me away, not again. "
And she brings his big hand to her mouth and kisses him.
"You can't... Elsie..."
He is mad, mad not to enjoy it, mad not to throw himself on her, while she is cherishing his hand.
"Elsie..."
The latter sounds like a plea. And even he doesn't know if he's begging her to stop what she's doing with her mouth or asking her not to stop at all.
He doesn't realise it, but he moves closer to her and she raises her beautiful blue eyes to him again and he knows he's lost. If she asks him to take her now, he'll do it, not caring about the risk they have of getting caught, of getting sent away, not caring that he'd ruin her for good.
She stands on tiptoe, still holding his hand in hers, no longer over her mouth, but against her heart, and he feels it beating, so hard he doesn't know if it's his own heartbeat or the woman's before him.
She places her lips on the edge of his, barely a touch, a small caress as gentle as the movement of a butterfly's wings. He hears himself moan and gives in. With Elsie's lips still on him, he turns his head and kisses her fiercely at last, hungrily.
No, he can't do it anymore, he can't control himself, he wants to make her his, to mark her in some way, to leave his mark on her. He drops his hands to grab her hips and he presses her against him, she puts her arms around his neck, buries her hands in his hair and moans against his mouth as she also tries to press herself against him more. She doesn't want to control herself anymore either, she wants him, she wants to melt into him, she wants him to bear her mark, to go to London with the memory of her around, and embedded in him. Let him go with her scent embedded in every inch of his skin and she wants the same from him.
They kiss passionately, she lets him lead this dance, too happy to be guided by his tongue, to be able to get drunk on the taste of his mouth. He now holds her tightly against his solid body, she could flinch but she wouldn't fall, he has her, solidly. Suddenly he stops the kiss and pulls away from her, short of breath, with a wild look in his eyes.
She too is breathless and feels empty as he pulls away.
"Elsie... I..." He runs a hand through his hair, messing up his hair completely before continuing,
"I can't, you don't know what..." He watches her approach him again.
"Charles, sometimes it hurts so much..."
He understands, because he feels this pain, he's felt it for ten years, but he still finds it hard to believe that she shares all this. She is very close to him again, her lips still red from their passionate kiss, and he feels his body tense even more at the memory of her tongue against his.
He places his hand on her cheek and with his thumb strokes her lip. She closes her eyes under the contact and kisses the finger that touches her. He struggles to be reasonable, he is the head of the house, he is the one with the responsibility. It is painful, but at least he knows she shares the pain, and the burden becomes lighter. He lowers his face and places a light kiss on her lips and leaves. He finally comes back up.
Elsie opens her eyes, still feeling the caress on her mouth. She knows she will go to him before he leaves for London. She will go to him to love him with all her might, to take him and he will take her the same way, he will love her just as hard too, at least for one night. She thinks it will make his departure more bearable. She hopes so.
oOo
TBC...
see you next week for chapter two