These Arms of Mine
A/N: Elsie has been listening to These Arms of Mine by Otis Redding. You can listen on your platform of choice. She's been missing Charles an awful lot.
With every creak and groan of the cottage, her heart flutters. Her mind is playing tricks on her because she thinks that it is his knock at the door. That perhaps he is turning the key in the lock, easing the door open, quietly slipping inside the sanctuary of their home. The thought that he is returning from London to be with her, to offer her companionship, to love her, to be with her preoccupies her. She imagines him bringing her cups of tea while she is working and when she needs a break from it all, that he will hold her hand while they walk the gardens of the village. And in the quiet of night, he will hold her close, bare skin to bare skin, tracing his fingertips along peach skin, worshiping every inch of her body.
She banishes these thoughts during the day, she is disciplined enough for that; knows that she has to work so that when he returns they can make the most of their time together. But at night, when the harsh light from the lamps is extinguished and only soft moonlight peeks in through the bedroom window does she allow herself to live the moment of his return. Every night in her dreams comes a steady knock at the door and she hurries to open it, and finds him standing there. In her waking hours, she thinks that she is too old to hurry to the door, fling it open, pull him inside, and kiss him for all she is worth. To not let him catch his breath, to not say so much as a "Hello" or a "Welcome home" but to cover him in kisses of adoration and affection. Since that first night they spent at the cottage, tangled in the crisp cotton sheets, their bodies stretched across the beautiful antique bed, and his hands and lips burning a hot trail across her body, his homecoming is all she has been able to think of.
As she lies in bed, the house still smells of fresh linens and shortbread. She cannot remember when she has felt so domestic, when she has wanted to have the house spotless and food baked awaiting a man's arrival. She doesn't know if it is the change of scenery, the domestic feelings that the cottage stirs in her, the ghosts of those who came before, or that this place feels like it is theirs, hers and Charles, together; a private place that they share between them. Perhaps that is the difference.
Just as house quiets, she hears it, not the creaking of the house or the branches of a tree scraping against the window, but a knock at the door. She pushes the sheet away from her body, reaches for her dressing gown, and makes her way down the corridor and toward the door. She smoothes a hand through her hair, growing longer now, her experiment with closely cropped locks over, and settles her hand on the door handle. She wonders who is at her door at this time of night. Charles is not due until tomorrow. She takes in a deep breath and steadies herself.
Then she sees him. Standing before her. Suitcase in one hand, two boxes in the other. And instantly her arms are reaching up, hands sliding up his chest, over his shoulders, around his neck, and she is tugging him down, pulling him into a blistering kiss.
"Don't tell me you've missed me," he asks smugly when she finally releases him.
"I have Mr. Carson. Very much. And it costs me nothing to say it," she admits. Ten days has been too long by half and she has missed him. In this moment she can think of nothing except the warmth of his embrace, the smell of amber, wood and leather that fills her senses when he is near; the lingering image of his bare chest, broad and smooth hovering over her.
She realizes that she has not let him in, that he is standing in the doorway, still holding his bag and two boxes. She laughs a bit, pats his chest with her hand, and welcomes him into the front room of the cottage.
He notices the midnight blue silk dressing gown and matching pajamas that she is wearing, realizes that perhaps he has awakened her. He had packed quickly, thrown some things into a bag, and booked the last train from London. That he has managed to find his way to her amid the chaos in his brain is a small miracle.
"I wasn't expecting you until tomorrow," she admits. "But I must say finding you on my doorstep is a nice surprise."
He sets his bag down and the two boxes on the table near the door; scrubs his hand across his face and then through his hair. "Oh, Elsie. I'm sorry, you were asleep. I didn't think…." he apologizes as he runs his forefinger along the sash of her dressing gown.
She thinks of a risqué comment, wants to invite him to join her in bed. The sheets are still warm and there are fresh flowers lending their fragrance to the room. However, she doesn't because she senses the he is tired, that something isn't quite right.
"How is London?" she asks taking his hand and leading him to sit on the sofa.
"I had a visit from Alice," he says quietly, his eyes not meeting hers.
TBC… Thank you for reading, reblogging on Tumblr, comments, private messages and reviews. The next chapter will not be far behind. I am grading student papers so it will probably be up by Friday. x