His hands running over her body made it difficult to unbutton his shirt, but she managed. When she'd finished and he made no move to take the shirt off, she slid her hands over his shoulders and skimmed the fabric down his arms. Before it hit the ground, she caught it in one hand and carelessly tossed it behind her. He sat on the bed then, drawing her near with a thought of pulling her into his lap. But once again, he worried that he might be too rough for her. Faint memories of having promised not to worry came back to him. But that was ridiculous! Of course he needed to worry. As her husband, that was his sacred employment. An idea came to him and he became hopeful once more.
"Elsie?" It came out a bit muffled as he'd been nuzzling her breasts.
"Hmmm?" she murmured.
"I love calling you that," he said, sidetracked. It seemed very important that she know that just then.
She gave a little laugh and said, "I love hearing it."
"Elsie," he remembered his idea. "You know that I've never really — I've never been a husband before."
"I'm very glad of it." Her eyes smiled as she placed her hands on the sides of his face.
He was trying to convey his inexperience to her. He wasn't completely without practice, but when he thought of those few times, pressured by people he used to call friends, he grimaced. He'd been so young when he started on the stage. And those few, sad nights he'd been with women had been dark, hurried, nearly fully dressed, and altogether dismal. Nothing at all like the love and light he'd found with Elsie Carson.
He'd pieced together some knowledge from risqué photos and the ribald talk of his fellow performers. The things they'd mentioned...well, he didn't know if some of them were even possible, let alone normal. They'd certainly made it sound as though the women had enjoyed it, but what faith could be placed in such boasts, really?
"Elsie. There are so many things I — only I don't know —" He stopped. This was excruciating. "Will you swear to tell me, right away, if anything...hurts, or if you don't like — only I'd be easier if —"
Then she understood. Here was where his fears lay. Pleased that she could easily reassure him, she kissed him on the nose and said,
"Of course, Charles. I swear it. And you must tell me if I hurt you," she nodded encouragingly.
Relieved that he had her word, he made an incredulous face to show her exactly what he thought of her ability to hurt him.
"Oh, really, Mr. Carson? You don't think a little old housekeeper could ever hurt the great butler of Downton Abbey?"
He laughed and reached for her.
Impulsively; with a gleam in her eyes, she lunged at him, intending to knock him down on the bed. She was extremely successful.
He gave a shout of pain and reached for his back.
Terrified, she scrambled off his chest and cried, "Oh, no! Charles!" She searched frantically for the cause of his pain.
Then, quick as lightning, his face burst into a smile and he flipped her over onto her back.
One of his hands trapped both of hers above her head. His body pressed heavily down on her and she couldn't have moved a muscle if she tried.
"See?" he grinned.
Relieved, aroused, furious, and deliriously happy all at once, she shouted,
"That's not — you cheated!" Half-heartedly, pleased to have lost this battle, she pushed up against him, trying to buck him off. She pulled mightily at the hand holding both of hers, but it wouldn't budge.
When she furiously pressed her body against his, he moaned his approval and buried his face in her neck. As he tussled with his new wife, he thought about everything he'd ever heard about marriage. He decided that its delights had been severely underrated. He'd known that he would win this gentle wrestling match. Privately, he thought that his wife would have had a much better chance if she hadn't been laughing so much.
Her gown was already up to her hips, so it was a simple matter to lift it so that he could gaze upon her breasts. He'd been wanting to do something ever since he'd first put his hands on her. Her promise made him brave. She was still laughing, hardly able to catch her breath for mirth, when he leaned down and drew the rosy tip of her breast into his mouth. Her laughter stopped abruptly. He only lingered for a moment, paying rapt attention to her face and body. Her eyes closed; she moaned and opened her legs to him. When she thrust her hips up to him, he gave her other breast the same attention.
He continued that way for what seemed to be an eternity. Gently, he went from one breast to the other, pulling the now taut nipples into his mouth to suckle at his leisure. Her moans and whimpers gave him confidence and drove him mad all at once.
When he released her hands, she thrust her fingers into his hair. He pressed his lips against hers. Eagerly, she opened her lips to his tongue and he slowly explored her mouth. She'd never imagined that kissing would be like this. She'd imagined it to be more tame, less erotic. But there was no doubt that the way Charles Carson kissed was anything but prim. In response to her hips rhythmically driving into his, he laid his hand on her leg and unhurriedly let it wander toward the inside of her thigh.
She inhaled sharply, badly wanting to feel his hand there. But he withdrew and quickly undressed. He entered her slowly. She was right when she thought he was doing it deliberately to drive her insane. His plan was to make love to her slowly, learn what she liked, and bring her to the edge of her release over and over again, withholding it until she begged him.
It was a plan doomed to fail. When he lightly caressed her breast, she whimpered and pressed her own hand on top of his. Upon looking down and seeing her white fingertips on his hand that held her breast, he couldn't help but thrust strongly into her. Her cries and her hair fanned out beneath her made him pound into her, over and over, until he came, emptying himself inside her. When his body jerked in the last throes of his release, she arched her back with a cry, clutching his arms tightly. He could feel the throbbing pulse of her around him, and he thought he might die from the sensation on his overly sensitized skin. Trying to keep her as still as he could, he held her hips in a crushing grip. This restriction to her natural movements had a profound effect on her. The waves of her release were fading away when he grabbed her hips, forcing a second orgasm to tear through her. She gave a hoarse cry while she shook violently.
Breathing heavily, in awe of this woman, he rolled to his back, bringing her with him.
Her one leg was thrown over his and she rested her arm across his vast chest. He held her tight to him with one arm, the fingers of which danced lazily over her bottom. He wondered idly if she was very ticklish. With a smile of smug contentment, he vowed to find out one day. When she let out an exhausted giggle, however, his smile faded. His mind flashed back to what they'd just done. His internal promise to be gentle with her, to treat her like a lady, mocked him. Wrestling on your marriage bed, Charles? Honestly. He was fairly certain he hadn't hurt her — she'd promised to tell him, after all. But he was ashamed once again. He had to let her know that he couldn't think more highly of her. That she deserved the most reverential treatment. He bit his lip. But he didn't want to stop what they'd begun. Her reactions to him and his body drove him wild. He was starting to become convinced that God himself had molded this woman just for him. If he lost her now, he didn't think he could live through it. But he had to say something.
"Elsie, you must let me apologize," he began.
She lifted her head to look at him in confusion.
"I've promised myself to be gentle with you." He couldn't look her in the eyes as he spoke. Instead, he focused on their hands, twined together on his chest. Unconsciously, he started to toy nervously with her fingers.
She made a face to show her surprise. She didn't think he noticed.
"I've broken my promise more than once now." His embarrassment and shame knew no bounds as he talked of these forbidden things.
"I know," he coughed lightly, stalling for time as he searched for the right thing to say to make her feel safe, "I know that I shouldn't….ah...bother you so much. That I should let you be. I'll try my best, Elsie, I promise. I want you to be happy."
As he finished this horrific speech, she slid away from him to settle on her back. A miserable feeling of distance growing between them made her desperate. Ever since last night, when she'd first reached for him, this was the sum total of her fears: would he think her...inappropriate? Someone to be ashamed of? Would her honest, innocent, loving responses to him drive him away in dismay and disappointment? From his words, she got the sense that he had a clear idea of what married couples did. And it wasn't what they had been doing.
What followed, whatever they said next to one another, would be the moment that would truly shape their lives. And she knew it. She made one of the most difficult and terrifying decisions of her life when she decided to speak.
"Charles?" she asked quietly.
One of her hands clutched the bedsheet to her chest. The other lay limply at her side. She stared at the ceiling while her tears fell, one after another. Alarmed, he reached for the hand at her side. She didn't even seem to notice.
Worried, he asked, "Yes?"
And softly, brokenly, hardly beyond a whisper, she asked her question.
"Do you think it's…very wrong…" she swallowed, "that I enjoy…" she searched frantically for the right words, "being bothered?"
Having said the words out loud seemed to suck all the breath out of her. Lifting a hand to cover her eyes, she only managed one silent, body-wracking sob before he pulled her fiercely into his arms.
"Oh, Elsie, no!" He tried to pry her hands away from her face. She still wept and misery engulfed him. Stupid, stupid man! he chided himself. He quickly grew desperate and a lump formed in his throat. He could not have been prouder of his brave, strong wife. What it must have cost her to ask such a thing!
Almost able to hold in his own tears, he begged her, "Please, Elsie! Stop." He kissed the backs of her hands. "Stop, please! I love you. Please look at me!"
Finally, she met his gaze and he took a deep breath, praying that he would be able to say the right words.
"My love," he began brokenly.
She stifled a sob at the endearment.
"I would never think that. Ever. I swear to you. I just don't want you to feel that you have to — I just want — I didn't know if you wanted me —"
A wave of exhaustion came over her when she heard his words. She felt as though her emotions had been tossed about like a rag doll over the past few days. But she understood now. He was only trying to be gentlemanly. He wanted her as much as she wanted him, but he was trying to give her the treatment he thought that ladies deserved. She'd thought that it would be easier, but getting used to being married was turning out to be fraught with obstacles.
"I want you, Charles," she whispered, eyes red. "Always. And I don't want you to be —" she paused, trying to keep the tears at bay, "ashamed of me."
"Thank God," he whispered fervently before capturing her mouth in a bruising kiss. "I couldn't be prouder of you. My courageous bride," he smiled sadly, regretting that he'd made her suffer. He continued, "We are man and wife. Everything between us is right," he nodded firmly, as though just discovering a new gospel. When he saw her smile, he grew giddy. "If we want to hang from the chandeliers, then we shall!"
Her head on his chest, she laughed tiredly at that and said, "We don't have any chandeliers."
"Well, I'll get you some," he pronounced.
But she'd already fallen asleep.