Many thanks to Cls2011, miscreant rose, thefoodofloveismusic and KE for all of their support and valued feedback on a chapter that rather ran away with me. :) You are all beacons of light in my life, and I hold you close to my heart.
I don't say it enough, but I also thank my fabulous husband who is my biggest supporter and cheerleader in both writing and in life.
Many thanks to the passionate readers of this story for your support and feedback! And to the marvelous Julian Fellowes for creating Downton Abbey of which I own no part.
I do hope you enjoy!
"If you drop me, I'll serve your ass up to my mother."
He's holding her so close to his chest that his chuckle actually tickles her side. God, if he pulls her in any tighter, she might pop right through his rib cage.
"I think you just did that at dinner," Charles corrects her, drawing a begrudging grin across her lips. "She feasted on it and then had the nerve to ask for seconds."
"Mama's insatiable," Mary agrees, tracing her finger along the edge of his ear, gratified to feel the small shudder that travels down his torso with the speed of a frightened hare.
"Look who's talking," he shoots back, stopping midway up the flight. "And if you don't want me to drop you on your cheeky ass, I suggest you keep your hands to yourself." She bites her lower lip in amusement, thoroughly enjoying seeing just how much of a rise she can get out of him. "At least until we get inside your flat,"" he amended with a shrug. "Then you can put your hands anywhere you want on me."
"Can I get that in writing?" she questions as they reach the top of the steps. "I experience a certain thrill at the thought of wrapping my hands firmly around your neck."
"I knew you were panting to neck in my arms," he tosses back. daring to trace an unidentifiable shape on her derriere. Her buttocks pucker as her grip tightens, and he laughs at her body's response.
"I don't pant," she argues, and she narrows her eyes until she feels their tightened focus. She is more determined than ever to win this game of one-upmanship tonight.
"You do when I kiss that spot," he grins, looking rather like Andromeda after indulging in a bowl of fresh cream. Her thighs begin to tingle, and she leans in close until her nose brushes just against his.
"What spot?" she questions, shivering as his mouth locates it with practiced ease.
"You know damned well what spot," he hums. Her body clenches, waiting for him to kiss skin practically begging for his lips and tongue, but he edges back, his eyes flashing a small gleam of triumph she refuses to let him enjoy too long.
"You can put me down now, Charles," she instructs, leaning in as close as she can. She feels the bob of his Adam's apple as her lips hover just over his, parted and heavy and oh so close. His skin warms hers through his shirt, and she presses her advantage, breathing heavily on to his mouth. "I am a big girl, you know."
"And I'm a big boy," he returns, and she can see his face twitching in an effort to ignore the beads of sweat dotting across his forehead. "Besides, I wouldn't miss carrying you over the threshold," he teases, whisking her door open and gliding them inside in one fluid motion. "Perish the thought."
She eyes him without blinking, glaring at the amused twinkle in his eye that manages to target her nipples directly. Damn.
"You're an ass, you know," she admonishes as he sets her down on the sofa. "Practically convincing Mama that we're expecting within seconds of meeting her."
He laughs at this, a rich melodious sound that reminds her of fine brandy. She removes her blazer and tosses it onto the nearest chair, watching him appreciatively as he slips off his jacket.
"Oh, come now, Mary," he muses, working off his neck tie. "You have to admit that we would have beautiful children."
She launches a pillow at his head, missing him by a rather large margin but unseating an unamused Andromeda who flounces out of the room with the air of an offended powder puff.
"I don't have to admit anything," she bites back, recalling all too clearly the sharp image of a raven-headed infant that took root during her conversation with Lucy. It was the result of discussing Lucy's inability to have children, she tries to convince herself, even if the holes in that explanation are large enough for a baby elephant to traipse through with ease.
"Stubborn," he admonishes. "But you know that I'm right."
God—he is right. They would have beautiful children. But she doesn't want children, doesn't have time for them, has no room for them in the life she has planned. Does she?
Shit. Questions she buried what now seems a lifetime ago crawl stubbornly back to the surface.
"Besides," she adds, doing her best to sound flippant. "I'm not exactly maternal. I'd probably be a terrible mother and doom any children I had to years of therapy and a hopeless addiction to self-help books."
His gaze is disconcerting, and it crawls into expanding chinks in her armor, making her squirm in her seat.
"What?' she demands, sitting up as tall as she can.
"Nothing," he sighs, turning to move away from her before obviously thinking the better of it. He then moves to face her head-on and makes his way to the seat beside her. The cushions give under his weight, the tug of his movement nudging her directly into his shoulder as she fails to brace herself for impact. He catches her, holding her arms firmly, not allowing her to look away from him. She's not sure she could look away, actually, nor does she really want to.
"It's just that I can't believe you actually think that about yourself," he insists, and she sees what almost resembles hurt in the creases of his eyes. It makes her feel unsteady yet again, and she wonders if she will ever sprout sea legs in this relationship destined to sail on tumultuous seas. "You'll make an incredible mother, Mary. And any children who call you Mummy will be lucky, indeed."
He couldn't have struck her harder if he were using a jackhammer. A long-buried ache pushes upon nerves that remember, and she attempts to swallow down parts of her past just too damned sensitive to air out.
"You sound so certain," she tosses back, attempting to will her heart to slow against its own wishes. He's too close now. Shit—he's always too close these days, even if they're in two separate locations.
"I am certain," he assures her. "You'll be an amazing mother. If that's what you want, that is."
She actually smiles at this, a puff of air leaving her nostrils that does nothing for the constriction in her chest.
"Perhaps you're just around children so much with your family that you see what you want to see in me."
God, what possessed her to say such a thing? He doesn't move a muscle but seems closer, or perhaps the room narrowed magically, blotting out everything but them and their conversation.
"Perhaps you're not around them enough," he retorts with a shrug. "How often are you actually with children, Mary?"
Her mouth opens to answer, but nothing comes out. She closes it quickly, feeling rather like a young Michael Banks being reprimanded by Mary Poppins.
"I'm waiting for an answer," he goads gently.
"Hardly ever," she confesses, dropping her eyes before he can read incriminating evidence. "And that's probably good, you know. I'd most likely succeed in only making them cry and frightening them all away."
"You'd most likely enchant them all and make them fall in love with you," he whispers, the soft texture of his voice matching that of his eyes, a dark, rich mocha that begs for her indulgence. "Just li…"
Just like….?
Oh, God.
He stops abruptly, leaving her hanging over an abyss for which there seems to be no bottom. Her heart is pounding right out of her chest, flying haphazardly around her in circles until her whole world is spinning.
"Just like you're so capable of doing."
Her chest deflates immediately.
"I'm capable of making men want me," she admits, staring down at hands just itching to touch him. "And of pushing them away. But of making someone fall in love with me? Really in love with me?" Her tongue thickens, and she breathes past it, sorting through images of Matthew, Kemal and a few others left in her wake. God, she feels so young and idiotic, not to mention completely exposed.
"I'm not certain that will ever happen. They find a reason to leave, you know. They always do."
He is closer, she thinks, or she is, or somehow they both are. She's hot all over except for her nose and feet, both frozen to an almost comical temperature given the partially aroused state of her body. Dammit, she can't think anymore, but she feels more than she can ever tell him, more than she can admit to anyone save herself.
"Then they're not worth your time."
His hand is on her cheek, and she cannot move, can barely breathe, actually. She can only look at him, see the way one brow crooks slightly higher than the other, note the exact point where his dimples begin, wonder just how it would feel to hear him say that he loved her. Her limbs go slack at the mere thought.
"So am I worth your time Charles?"
Her inquiry hangs between them as eyes bore into each other in mutual need and hesitation. His breath tickles her cheek, the pad of his thumb soothes her cheekbone, and her gaze fixes on him in a plea she cannot voice.
"Every damned second of it."
Oh, God.
He's going to kiss her, she knows it, and her eyes widen as he leans in closer, ever closer, so close she can see nothing but him. Her pores open, her skin tingles as gooseflesh prickles sensitized nerves from head to toe. She is so ready for him, ready to taste and explore, desperate to indulge in everything that will most assuredly bite her in the end. But she can't bring herself to care at the moment, not when he is just here, looking at her as if she's the most precious thing in the world to him, making believe in the nonsensical once more.
Then noses brush, eyes close, and pure instinct takes over as a current surges everywhere at once.
It is painfully soft, the brush of his lips upon her own bearing no more weight than that of a feather, tickling her want as they carelessly build up hopes already stacked too high. His mouth closes gently over her upper lip, sampling, checking, making certain she isn't going to push him away.
She doesn't.
Lips stray haltingly downward, tugging her lower lip gently through his teeth, and her fingers dig into his arm as she moans into all that he is.
"Just like that," she breathes, unwilling to put a stop to the madness sucking them under. "God, don't stop."
"Your wish is my command," he hums, worrying her lips yet again, pulling them into his mouth, laving them with tongue and teeth until her breasts begin to beg for attention. He sucks her lip just before moving his ministrations to her jaw line, peppering a line of fire from just east of her chin to her ear lobe. He dances over her pulse point, planting a gentle kiss there reverently before his teeth and tongue go to work.
She unravels all at once.
He'll leave a mark if he keeps this up, but she finds she doesn't care. Fingers grip him hard, one hand moving directly to his head, pulling him into her neck, giving him no option other than to stoke this fire already burning between her legs. He obliges eagerly as his fingers plunge into her hair, and he lowers her gently into stacked pillows, so careful with her it makes her ache everywhere. He raises himself up on his knees, careful not to disturb her bad one dangling over the sofa's edge.
"Alright?" he questions, and she isn't sure if he means this impromptu make-out session or the state of her knee.
"Alright," she assures him, realizing in a flash she really doesn't care which one he meant. Everything is alright at the moment, eons more than alright, actually, her body now a delicious cascade of reds and yellows punctuated by flashes of hot silver too bright to take in.
He gives her a smile that makes him look terribly young, and she wonders about his first love as her hands reach out to muss his hair. How could someone walk away from him, she wonders, noting that the marks of old wounds are somehow absent as he looks back at her with what she can only describe as reverence. He clasps her arm and brings it to his mouth, finding her wrist and licking it as her head falls back into the pillows.
"Good?" he asks, his voice strumming her senses with the precision of a maestro.
"Shut up and keep at it," she fires back, and she feels his chuckle reverberate all the way down her arm, pausing to ripple at the inner cusp of her elbow before traipsing giddily to her nipples. He is in no hurry, it would seem, tasting her skin as one would an ice cream cone, savoring each lick, sampling the texture, maintaining a constant tempo until she melts under his heat.
"You're a demanding woman, Mary Crawley," he murmurs, leaning over her as his lips trace the round border of her shoulder.
"You knew that when you started this mess," she manages, her last word dissolving into little more than a hiss as his teeth nip fresh skin. Then he is devouring her shoulder and her mind goes blank as one hand traces the fabric of her neckline, and she wishes it plunged lower to grant him better access. But he creates his own portal, and she gasps as his nail tugs fabric down just so, his finger skimming perilously close to her breast as it encircles what shelters her heart.
"Still alright?" he questions with a quick glance at her knee.
"I'll shove you off if I have an issue," she bites back, feeling a noise that borders on inhuman crawl up her throat as his finger traces the lower swell. He is transfixed on her face, and she shuts her eyes, unable to adequately process the thought of him watching her come apart under his touch, unsure of just why she finds it so erotic.
"I don't shove off easily. I prefer to stick around for the long haul."
The statement is whispered into her neck, his assurance sliding over skin and muscle as she grasps him to her mouth with all that she has. Their kiss is sheer passion and need, an expression of raw hunger and inner smoke that knocks them off their feet and into a realm she cannot define. She can hear him breathing, a harsh, needy sound that scrapes across the fiery paths of want breaking out across her body. Wait—is that his breathing or her own, she wonders, forgetting the question immediately as the pad of his thumb brushes the fabric over her nipple. Her pelvis pushes up into his instinctively, the pressure unsettling her knee.
"Shit."
The word flies out unbidden, and she bites her lower lip and winces, wanting to cry and curse at the same time.
"You're hurting."
There is no question in his tone, only concern laced with the faintest trace of disappointment.
"Not badly," she returns. "It was just when you…when I…"
His finger touches her lips, lingering where he had just kissed.
"I know."
He sits back, pulling away from her slightly but not letting go of her hand. Each caress of his thumb across her palm pulses in her core, and she curses her blasted knee for its horrible timing.
"I'm not willing to hurt you again, Mary," he whispers, noticing her awkward position and reaching out to help her readjust. "No matter—"
Now it's his turn to break off, and she holds her breath until her lungs begin to protest.
"No matter how much I want you."
Want. Not love. But it is something, she tells herself, looking into this man claiming her heart bit by bit.
"You want me?"
The inquiry escapes her before her better judgment can step in, and she tastes her lower lip, noting its warm, slightly swollen state.
"You know I do, Mary," he hums, tracing a line down her bare arm that makes her shiver. "You've seen and felt the evidence on more than one occasion."
His face is liquid, his expression achingly transparent. The truth is that she wants every part of this man—emotionally and physically, finding herself squarely in the middle of a maze she never intended to navigate.
"Perhaps if we move…" she begins. God, if they relocate to her bedroom things could progress rather rapidly. Her cheeks heat without her permission.
He studies her, and she wishes she could read his thoughts. If only she could decipher how deep his want of her transcends. Is it merely physical? A rebounding urge borne from the break-down of his marriage? The result of deep loneliness and uncertainty that flourishes in the wake of being left?
"To your bed?"
His question hovers over her skin, making her spine tingle and her core burn.
"If you like."
Silence hits them hard, want and questions sucking them into a whirlpool of uncertain dimensions. The scent of arousal is overpowering now, and her tongue tingles in anticipation of tasting him.
"We are supposed to be lovers, after all."
Her words hit their target.
"That we are," he breathes, one hand cupping her cheek, the other moving downward to trace the sides of her rib cage. "But I'm not certain your knee is up for full-blown sex, Mary."
Just the words full-blown sex coming out of his mouth nearly send her into a tailspin. But he's right, and she knows it. Damn it.
"I mean, no matter what position…"
He breaks off, the red flush on his neck just too endearing.
"No matter how we try to angle things, I'm just afraid it would hurt you." His lips graze her forehead, clenching her heart at the same time they mark her skin. "And I won't do that. Especially not when we're making love."
Making love. The words rattle her nerves so soundly she's amazed he can't hear them.
"There are other ways," she dares, the throbbing between her legs reaching a near fevered pitch. "And if we're supposed to know these things about each other…"
His mouth halts her sentence, sealing her lips, occupying her tongue, delving into her very soul as one arm slides under her legs and the other around her back.
"We should learn," he finishes as she hums into his mouth. Then she is in his arms, against his chest, mouths again locked and seeking, his natural muskiness making her somewhat light-headed. She is barely aware of their movement from one room to the other, but she hears the door shut behind them.
"Andromeda," he breathes when she draws back in inquiry. "I don't want that cat to see what I'm about to do to you. She might attack me."
A small noise of approval emanates from her throat.
"Should I be frightened?"
He looks back at her directly, all signs of teasing gone from his face.
"Perhaps we both should be."
Why can't she swallow?
The mattress gives under her weight as he deposits her with utmost gentleness into a sitting position before joining her. She is trembling, and his hand reaches to envelopes hers, his breath audible and rough.
"You're sure about this?" he asks with concern. "I don't want you to feel any pressure just because I admitted how badly I want you."
Christ. He is moving into even deeper territory, pushing into corners and crevices she's not certain he should see.
"I don't want any regrets between us, Mary. Never regrets."
Her head is shaking before her lips can function, and she clears her throat decisively.
"You're not the only one in want, Charles. Believe me."
He half-grins at her choice of terms even as his breath comes in short gasps.
"I'm glad to hear it."
His body heat is now palpable, and she wants to stroke his chest, his back, to appreciate the texture of bare skin and coarse hair, to know him in ways she has yet to discover.
"This will change things, you know," he adds as his forehead touches down on hers. One hand moves back to his face, and she strokes the plain of his dimple, the fragile roots of new love pushing further into surprisingly fertile ground. "Even if we don't actually have sex."
She inhales at his frankness.
"Is that a bad thing, do you think?"
Her question halts his mouth's movement towards her neck.
"No," he answers softly. "But if you think it is, we'll stop now."
"No."
She doesn't even think about it, doesn't hesitate for a second, tastes the word as it rolls of her tongue straight towards him. And that word seals everything.
"Thank God."
He bends to kiss her with the intentionality of a man in love, his tongue coaxing hers into a slow dance she welcomes with everything she has. Her fingers move back into his hair as his rub her back before they dip to the front of his shirt, seeking a way inside it.
"Too many buttons, Lord Ogre," she murmurs as her fingers undo one with practiced ease.
His chuckle resonates deep, making her shiver yet again.
"Patience, my queen," he grins, assisting her in her quest to undress him. "All good things come to those who wait."
She is humming into his chest as another button gives way, feeling braver by the second.
"I think I prefer why should we wait for a really good come?"
A genuine laugh ignites her senses, and he leans in for a lingering kiss that wiggles her toes.
"I couldn't have said it better myself."
"No," she agrees, her voice deep and throaty. "You couldn't have."
His shirt hangs open briefly before it is tossed to the floor, and she rubs his bare arms, feeling heat pool behind her cheekbones.
"A t-shirt?" she teases, rubbing her thumbs underneath the sleeves. "You cheated."
"I'd say I leveled the playing field," he debates with a smirk. "After all, you do have something on under that top, I daresay."
She stares back at him from under heavy lashes.
"May I?" he questions, indicating her black shell. Her pulse throbs in her temple and she nods wordlessly, feeling unbelievably aroused by the tug of light fabric over her skin. She finds him staring at her bra—all red and reckless, his pupils dilating until his eyes look fully black.
"That's a definite improvement over my t-shirt," he manages, and she smiles wickedly.
"I'm glad you approve."
His mouth overtakes her shoulder as he toys with her strap, and she groans out a sound she doesn't recognize.
"Red suits you," he hums into her freckles as hands succumb to wanderlust. "In so many ways."
She is losing all thought, her insides becoming a gelatinous mound of putty as his fingers trace the edges of her bra.
"T-shirt first," she instructs as he discovers the clasp, and he pauses only briefly to whip it off his head, returning to intended destination without missing a beat. His skin is smooth and taut, the texture of it melding with her own as hands map unchartered territory. She hears the click of her clasp, feels binding loosen around her chest as she allows her bra to fall gently forward and down her arms.
He is speechless. Totally and unquestionably speechless.
"Come now," she breathes, fighting back an internal quaking. "I know you've seen breasts before."
She jumps slightly as his palm cups her lightly, arching forward into his touch as his thumb sneaks in to brush her nipple.
"Not yours," he utters, his mouth taking possession of her lips once again, making her unsteady on her own bed. He then pulls back, leaving her momentarily disoriented as he stands and unfastens his trousers, letting them hit the floor with a soft plop before returning to her side.
"In a hurry?" she inquires breathlessly, biting her lip at the twitch of his brow.
"I just don't want you to change your mind," he returns as his thumb draws an arc across her forehead. She smiles at him, mesmerized by the way he looks at her. "God—you're incredible, Mary. I hope you know that."
She doesn't really, but she feels it in his arms, and they hold each other chest to chest, enveloped by this mad game they created now spinning haphazardly out of control. She is warm here, sheltered and content. If it weren't for the fire blazing in her belly, she'd almost be ready to purr and stretch. What is it about simply being skin to skin that forges ties beyond description? Is it the sharing of something so commonplace yet so intimate, the bare facts of a person displayed with no disguise?
"You're beautiful," he breathes, treating her back to legato strokes and long phrases.
"Careful," she warns, drawing him up short in concern. "Don't go too low. I'm ticklish there."
"What?" he questions. "On your back?"
"Just at the base of it," she expounds. "And don't get any ideas."
"I have plenty of ideas already," he hums, tucking one finger under her chin and drawing her mouth close. "But they'll have to wait until your knee is stable. Until then…."
They kiss again, already addicted to this heady home-brewed elixir imbibed from one mouth to the other. His mouth is as hot as the rest of him, she notes, his tongue curious and tender and driving her totally insane.
"Help me," she instructs, moving one of his hands to her pants that now feel oddly tight. His breathing intensifies, and she feels his sweat as he fiddles with her clasp, the movement of his knuckles near her naval more intense than it should be. Then one arm slides around her, pulling her upright just far enough to allow them to fall part-way down her legs. She sits without grace as he gently eases the pants down from where they were hung on her knees, bypassing her injury with the dexterity of a compassionate nurse.
"The brace, too."
Her request is met with blatant uncertainty.
"That brace supports your knee, Mary."
"I'm well aware of that, Charles."
Eyes lock yet again, holding the other pair in challenge until hers back away.
"I just don't want to look like this when…"
He dips his head to her chest, encircling her nipple with his mouth, tugging it with a slow rhythm that nearly knocks her backwards. A jolt rocks her body, but she holds on for dear life as electric pulses shoot straight to her inner thighs.
"Are you trying to distract me?"
Her sentence is fragmented punctuated by a moan into his hair, pressing fingers into his scalp while his mouth works her over.
"Without question," he states, his lips hover just over her areola before skimming intentionally to her other breast. "And I don't give a damn about that brace. Trust me. It won't get in my way."
Heavy fog settles over her brain, clouding all senses save those burning under his tongue and teeth. The ache between her legs intensifies into a low roar, and she wishes she could straddle him and ride his leg.
His lips slide down her abdomen, and he kneels on the floor in front of her, kissing the muscle just above her injury as he holds her leg still.
"Anything that protects you is beautiful," he states. "Leave the brace."
"And if I refuse?"
His brow rises to meet hers.
"I'm not giving you that option."
She doesn't argue.
Limbs unravel as he slowly removes her stockings, caressing her calves until her skin breaks out in gooseflesh. He then yanks off his socks and tosses them over his head before staring back at her, barefooted and glorious. The dark hair covering his legs stimulates her for some reason, as does the smooth texture of his chest.
"So," she whispers, her body feeling temporarily paralyzed.
"So," he echoes with a half-smile before sitting beside her again. "Are you still alright?"
"If you ask me again I'm breaking your ice pick," she grins, earning herself an ambush kiss that skyrockets off course within seconds. Mouths tug at each other, seeking what they crave, pulling lips, licking tongues, teeth nipping at her chin as she marks his temple with moist heat.
"That will never do," he hums as he comes up for air, reclaiming her mouth instantly. "I value my pick."
She reaches for him through his boxers, clasping what is already throbbing for her. His moan ricochets over both of them, pulling them tightly together as she works him with her hand. A hiss hits her shoulder as hot fingers begin searching bare expanse, exploring her, mapping her, learning her with an exquisite deliberation.
"You are a big boy," she observes huskily, his ragged pant on her ear prodding her forward. He eases her back into the pillows, helping her shift her knee on to the mattress without breaking contact.
"Getting bigger by the second," he muses with a devilish grin. Her body flushes as he eyes her meaningfully, and she reaches out for him again, pouting as he pulls away long enough to grab a spare pillow. "It will be safer if your knee is propped."
"Safe sex," she muses, soft laughter merging just before mouths follow suit. He tastes like bourbon and aroused man, the combination nearly making her come out of her own skin. His mouth wonders back to her neck, and she revels in the feel of his skin under her nails, brushing against the tips of her fingers as she indulges in telegraphing the expanse of his back. Then his fingers move to one nipple, tugging, squeezing, making her cry out, the weight of him just enough to keep her from dislodging her knee.
"I've got you," he insists, stroking her hip. "But tell me if anything hurts."
Her breath remains two steps ahead of her.
"Shall I show you where it aches?" she whispers, sliding his palm down her stomach, watching his pupils grow larger by the second.
"Draw me a map," he returns, replacing his fingers with his mouth. "An interactive one." He peppers wet kisses at the base of her rib cage, then back up around her nipple, holding her leg steady as she writhes under his attentions. She claps his wrist, moving his hand down the planes of her torso intentionally. Fingers drag over sensitized flesh as eyes lock on to each other hard, her breath catching in her ribs. He pauses the progress just over her naval, tracing the edge of her panties, moving to nip at red lace with his teeth.
"May I?" he questions, looking as if he wants to treasure and devour her simultaneously. Her legs quake beneath him.
He eases down her panties at her mute nod of approval, cradling her injury with the care one would show a newborn. A shiver rocks them both as he raises himself to his knees, maneuvering scarlet lace down her limbs and tossing it to the floor before removing his boxers.
Speech deserts both of them, replaced by appreciate stares and pressing questions held silent. He settles back down on her, securing her leg before allowing his fingers to skim lightly over coarse curls.
"Am I getting close?"
His tone is rich and ragged as his touch halts just over where she needs him.
"Shut up," she manages, feeling his hum of approval as she guides his hand exactly where she wants it. Fingers brush her lightly, and she gasps into her pillow, glad now for the brace and the protection of his body. She squirms against him, and his touch moves in deeper, playing her like a violin on a continual crescendo.
"God, you feel amazing," he observes, his strokes picking up a rhythm that borders on tortuous. Then his mouth reclaims her nipple, and she moans, arching into him as she pulls his face even closer.
"Harder," she begs, and his teeth nip her just enough to shove her closer to an orgasm. He feels her response and slides a finger inside of her, her eyes flying open at the delicious intrusion. Then another moves in, and she is certain she's going to explode.
"Charles," she cries out when his thumb finds her clitoris, and he bites her nipple tenderly, making her body shake everywhere at once. God—she's close, so very close every nerve is straining towards what's just out of reach. Then his other hand clasps the breast unoccupied by his mouth and she seizes into a million shards of magic. Lights go off inside her brain, the intensity of her release pushing her into the mattress as he holds her steady, working her until she grabs his wrist.
"Stop," she instructs breathlessly, hearing him chuckle as he dots a kiss on her nose. "But don't, I mean…"
She places his palm on her sex, moving him in slow circles that spur soothing aftershocks as her breathing begins to decelerate.
"Don't stop all together," she finishes. He picks up her tempo, applying a bit more pressure with his hand, kissing her cheeks as he strokes her hair.
"That's good," she hums as her body gradually glides back to earth in a slow rocking motion. "Yes." Her arms feel like those of a rag doll, relaxed and heavy, and she smells the evidence of her satisfaction.
"I love watching you."
His eyes are nearly black, his smile too transparent. Nipples pucker yet again at his words, and she gazes back at him with lids at half-mast.
"What's good for the goose," she purrs as her palm seeks him out. He is hard and hot, his intake of breath indicating that it won't take much for him to climax either.
"This gander won't argue," he returns, stilling her hand. "But let me get a towel or something. I don't want to come all over you or the bed."
She nods wordlessly, still breathing at an elevated pace, gazing at his naked form as he makes his way to the bathroom.
"You can stop staring," he calls out from the other room, making her actually giggle into the pillow. "You've seen my ass on more than one occasion."
"You like it when I stare," she admonishes as he walks back into the room. "Admit it. And besides, it's not just your ass I'm admiring."
"Certainly you don't mean my ice pick?' he hums with a loaded grin. "The one you've threatened to mutilate so many times now I've lost count."
"I have other plans for it at the moment," she whispers, the site of his bare arousal makes her twitch internally. "Ones I think you'll enjoy."
He settles in back beside her, depositing the towel beside her reclining form just before he kisses her hard.
"I'm certain I will," he adds, grunting softly when she takes him again in her hand and drops her mouth to his neck.
"Hold on," she teases, squeezing and gripping, flush with power and tension spent. His sweat excites her further and she pumps him hard, watching in fascination as his face contracts.
"God," he utters when she finds a spot near his tip, one that makes him pull her hungrily to his mouth in a kiss born of passion and fire.
"Now I've found a spot," she breathes directly into his ear, the rippling of his muscles powerfully erotic.
"Christ," he mutters as his head drops to her shoulder, slick skin on slick skin. A sound that borders on primal vibrates into her sternum, and she feels him nearing the precipice at lightning speed.
"Here," he manages, somehow grabbing the towel and laying it across her stomach just before his body contracts and his hips begin to pump erratically. He is nearly there, and a sheen of fresh sweat slicking his skin as a deep moan rumbles in his chest. He then shudders all over, pushing her pace rapidly along with is release as he lets go across the towel and her hand. Warm life coats her fingers, and she revels in its texture before he nearly collapses on her chest.
"God," he breathes again, and she wipes her hands, folding and removing the towel before tossing it to the floor. She then holds him to her breast, losing fingers in thick hair, knowing he has given her far more than a hand job, understanding she has nearly given him everything.
He falls back on to the bed, spent and sated, quick to reach out for her and tuck her into his chest. She needs this physical connection after what just happened between them. Apparently, so does he.
"Alright?" he queries, his tone hushed and uncertain.
"Yes," she assures him, turning her face until she can see him fully. "You?"
"Yes." A pause, a hushed intake of breath. "More than alright."
She smiles and he reciprocates, his palm cupping her face, this move somehow the most intimate touch yet shared.
"Your knee?"
"Fine. It's fine."
She rests her cheek on his chest, the pulsing of his heartbeat steadfast and calming.
Everything has shifted now. The stakes have been upped. The emotionally tally quadrupled. She's never felt more terrified in her life.
"Do you need anything?"
You, she wants to tell him, all of you—your past, your present, your future—your promise that you won't leave me.
But he will, she fears. She is always left standing alone, regardless of what happens in bed.
"No," she answers instead. "You?"
His breath evens out so smoothly she begins to wonder if he is falling asleep.
"No," he finally breathes as his fingertips skim her arms. "I have all that I need right here."
She shivers, and he pulls her closer, tugging the blanket up over them as he kisses her temple. She could stay here forever, as warm and contented as Andromeda sunning herself.
"Did you mean it?"
The question is whispered, and he raises his head to look at her head-on.
"That I have all that I need?" he clarifies.
Her chest constricts, and she swallows hard.
"That you think I'd be a good mother?"
He looks at her in surprise before his face relaxes into sincerity. He gathers one hand into his, studying her fingers as her heart waits on tip-toe.
"I meant every word."
She sighs in confusion as the weight of his hand settles on her spine.
"Freda never wanted children," he begins, staring at their joined hands. "I didn't realize this until we had been married for two months, and I stupidly thought I could talk her into it."
Freda. He rarely talks about Freda.
"But you couldn't," she adds, knowing she is correct in her assumption before he shakes his head.
"No," he murmurs, his voice dropping nearly an octave. "I was such an idiot."
"Could you have continued to love her anyway?" she questions, her heart scurrying blindly. "If other factors in your marriage had played out differently?"
"I don't know," he replies. "I like to think that I could have. I know I could have respected her wishes if she had been willing to hear my thoughts about starting a family, as well. The question of whether or not to have children is a rather important one in a relationship."
"I know," she breathes, remembering discussions that sometimes went nowhere and always left her shaken. "Matthew wanted children right away."
"And you?"
The question hangs there between them before she looks at him directly.
"I wasn't sure," she answers. "About the timing. About how I would be with children. About how it would change our lives completely from that point on. There was just so much to consider."
"There is," he agrees, stroking her arm. "And you two were wise to talk about it. Freda and I were rather foolish." He pauses, obviously debating on whether to tell her something or not. "I discovered after she left that she had had an abortion without telling me."
Her skin chills instantly.
"God—my own child, Mary. I was physically ill when I found out."
Her pulse pounds for another reason entirely, and she reaches out to touch his cheek, her fingers restless and cold.
"I'm not certain I'll ever be able to forgive her for that," he admits, a dark shade in his tone she isn't used to hearing.
His palm cups her hand, and she melts at the contact, wanting to burn away all of their past hurts and insecurities.
"I'm sorry," he states, dropping his hand. "I shouldn't have unloaded all of that on you."
"You have to unload on someone," she argues, watching his face respond to her words. "And I am right here."
His expression pulls her emotional strings even tighter.
"Thank you," he whispers, making her slip even further on unsteady ground. "I'm so glad you are."
The sound of a siren blares past the window, the lights breaking through curtains casting odd shadows on the walls. He leans forward to kiss her forehead softly, making her ache at the contact.
"I miscarried once."
He raises up on an elbow, staring back at her in concern.
"Matthew?"
She nods in assent, hearing his exhale.
"I found out I was pregnant a few weeks after we broke up," she continues, wondering why her voice sounds so odd. "I wasn't sure what to do, exactly. I knew that I had to tell him, that he had a right to know, but things had been so ugly and difficult, I just couldn't…"
Her words hang in her throat as memories of lying alone and despondent in this very bed infiltrate her defenses. She'd been shocked that losing a child she hadn't planned would hurt as much as it had.
"By the time I was ready to talk about it, it was too late. I woke up one morning with terrible cramps. I knew it was over then."
She doesn't realized she is shivering until he draws her into his arms, pressing his head into the crook of her neck as his fingers cup her head.
"God. I'm so sorry, Mary."
She feels somewhat detached yet fully present, as if she has been split into for her own protection.
"I've never told anyone, you know," she confesses, feeling his grip tighten. She clasps him then, emotions hitting her hard, ones she hadn't expected and didn't know quite how to manage.
"Not even Sybil?" he questions gently, pulling back to look into her yet again.
"No," she returns. Her eyes close as he brushes a strand of hair from her face. "I didn't see the need. No one could do anything, so why tell them something that would only bring them grief?"
"So you could heal," he responds with a sigh. "So you could have someone to help you through it. You deserve that, Mary."
"Did you tell anyone?" she asks, the words escaping her before she can think them through. "About the abortion?"
He looks as if he has just been punched.
"No," he confesses, gazing back at her heavily. "But I should have."
He cradles her as best he can without disturbing her knee, fluffing her support pillow before settling back in beside her. Her mind is reeling, her heart spinning like mad, but she gazes at his profile outlined by the muted lights of London.
"You would be an amazing father," she offers, watching the corners of his mouth turn up just so.
"One can always hope," he murmurs into the night, taking her hand yet again, planting a kiss on her palm. She rests her head on his chest, wondering where all of this is going in the aftermath of what has just been.
"Goodnight, Charles," she whispers, curious as to why his name now feels alive on her tongue.
"Goodnight, Mary," he replies. His tone makes her feel wrapped up in soft fleece, and she allows herself to rest in it, even if for only one night.
For with a track record like hers, how much more can she allow herself to expect?
Penny for your thoughts?
