A/N: Apologies for the delay. This chapter does contain some mature content. Gulp. Also, I've decided not to end the story at the moment. I'll keep going for a bit; at least until inspiration or your patience runs dry, whichever comes first. Thanks again to the lovely sensitivebore who graciously allowed me to lift certain elements from her marvelous fic Perseverance, which can be read and re-read on A03. And thanks to all of you who continue to leave such kind, thoughtful comments. I appreciate you all.
She pulls away from him. "It's this that frightens you, isn't it? Not so much what I've done or what you've done, but what we are together, that you want this as well. I think the wanting of it is what scares you, Mr. Carson. Yours and mine."
"I don't know. I don't know why I can't just.." He trails off, antsy because he doesn't have the words to tell her what he means, what she means to him, what he wants for them. He should know by now that she doesn't need words to understand him. He's an open book and each page is a love letter to her. She strokes his cheek tenderly.
"Was it love, then?" He can't look her in the eye, too ashamed that he's jealous of an almost childhood liaison.
"I thought it was, at the time." She takes his face in her hands and gently turns it toward her. "It might have grown into love or what I think of as love now, had we time and opportunity."
"And what is that?" He can feel himself trembling, breaking apart.
She leans into him. "Someone so close as can finish my thoughts. Someone who takes my part, always. Someone who makes me feel what I thought had long since died." She kisses him on his jaw, on his cheek, on his mouth. He breaks away suddenly, takes her by the elbow and gently, tenderly escorts her to their room.
/
It's not so quiet now. He can hear the birds, the wind soughing through the trees. The light is brilliant, blinding. He releases her and turns to draw the covers of their bed back. His hands are trembling; he's so nervous, more nervous than their wedding day. He'd thought he'd gotten past all that. But this time is different; this is real. It feels honest and true. He turns to face her and she's everything, smiling and calm, waiting for him. He reaches for her, begins to pull the pins from her hair. His fingers are still trembling, damn them. He's trying not to pull at her hair, but he can feel the strands jerk from time to time. She puts her hands over his, guiding him to those last few pins buried in that heavy knot. Her hair down is what undoes him; it's so intimate. He'd never seen her hair down before, never. Not in all the years they'd worked together, even those rare occasions they'd been rousted from their beds during the night. She'd always taken the time to pin it up. Once, twice, he'd been so overwhelmed that he'd taken great handfuls of it, twisted it in his hands and pulled as he shuddered and grunted his way to release. He's got to calm down now, though, he's got to be able to take his time. This is different, special, and he wants to show her with his body all the things he's not able to say.
She looks at him, her husband, her lover, her man, and she can feel the difference in him, she can feel the letting go. She doesn't fool herself that he's a changed man, but still. She can feel the love pulsing off him like a physical presence. She's too happy to scold herself for being foolish, girlish. His hands in her hair, shaking, gentle, is what undoes her. He's so careful with her, too gentle almost, and yet once or twice she's felt that power, that feeling that he's nearly out of control. It excites her. She feels the heat and moisture gathering and she wants to crash against him, to prove to him with her body that she's truly his.
He leans down, places a tentative kiss on her lips; she wraps her arms around his neck and crushes herself against him. He jerks involuntarily; she can feel his hardness against her hip. She smiles wickedly against his mouth and pulls back, fumbling with the buttons of her dress.
They undress quickly and slide into bed together. He pushes her hair away from her face and the look of pure love brings tears to her eyes. She kisses him hard, writhes against him. He grunts, pushes her thighs apart with his knee and guides himself inside her with one long stroke. She gasps; he's such a large man and she's not accustomed to him, them, yet. He pulls back, alarmed, but she kisses him, opens her mouth so that her tongue can trace his lips. He spasms, rocks back and forth. She strokes his back, his buttocks.
He's gripping her hair, kissing her neck. It's so warm and wet; he's not sure how long he can keep going, but he wants to try. He wants it to be nice for her. He takes a deep breath, slows himself. He wants to learn what pleases her, what excites her. His fingers trace gentle patterns on her cheek, her neck. Slowly, carefully, they drift down to her breasts and he begins to caress her, listening to the noises she makes, trying to do more of what pleases her. She's panting, whispering "yes, oh yes" and he grips her breast hard. The other is at her hip, driving himself inside her as deeply as he can. She moves, pushes against him and they find that perfect rhythm.
"I can't, I can't, not yet."
"Yes, you can. Let go, now, it's…" She grips his buttocks hard and rocks against him, as though she's trying to push him deeper inside. She wraps her legs around his hips, and he can't, he can't last another moment. He slides over the precipice, mumbling her name all the while and kissing the warm dark hollow of her neck.
/
"Was it nice? Then, I mean?"
"Well, yes, I suppose." She fidgets a bit, uncomfortable. "He was kind, if that's what you mean." She is still for a moment. "Were yours," she hesitates, "nice?"
He can feel the tops of his ears burning. This wasn't a proper conversation to have with a lady, even if that lady was lying in his arms after…well, after.
"Well, it wasn't like yours, exactly." She adjusts herself carefully so that she can see him and still remain close.
"How do you mean?"
"Well, I was young and foolish."
She breaks in with a laugh. "Weren't we all, Mr. Carson?"
"You really must try to call me Charles." She can hear the smile in his voice. "And no, Elsie, I don't think we were all as young and foolish as I was. It wasn't," he hesitates. "It wasn't love, Elsie. It was just…" He shudders in distaste. It wasn't possible to compare that past with this present.
"I understand, Charles."
"You do?"
"Yes, I do." She moved closer, settling herself in the crook of his arm and tracing lazy, satisfied patterns on his chest.
He stills her hand. "And for you? Is this," his voice cracks a little, "love for you?"
She raises up on one elbow, clutching the sheet to her chest. "And what do you think, my man?"
He looks away, flustered, embarrassed. "I dunno. I just..." She quiets him by placing her finger lightly on his mouth. She stretches up to kiss him, gently, sweetly.
"Well, I do know. I love you, Charles Carson. I love you."