A/N: M-rated chapter below. Read at your own risk…

She's doing the washing up from luncheon. The water is steaming and it's causing little tendrils of hair to escape and curl along her neck. Very attractive, he thinks. Very inviting. He pushes his chair back from the table; she turns to look at him with a smile. He stands and walks toward her, reaching out for her. She's shown him often enough that she's not fragile, delicate. He'd worked with her side-by-side for more than 15 years; he knows how strong she is. But. What he feels for her is so overwhelming, so powerful, it frightens him. He makes sure to control it as best he can. He would never want to hurt her, never want to mar her beautiful skin with marks from his hands, from the rough stubble of his beard. He would never want to lay on her with his full weight, to cause her the slightest discomfort. And yet. There have been those few times since, a very few in the daylight when he could see her eyes (and his face burns to think of it, daylight), he could see that she wanted more. He holds her, lightly at first, gently nuzzling the curls on the back of her neck. She tastes of salt, lemons.

"Whatever are you doing, Mr. Carson?" A peal of laughter escapes her. "You can see I'm doing the washing up."

"I can see that, Mrs. Carson." He buries his nose in her hair, pushes it away and bites her neck, gently, even though it is a secret place that none could see, if he does perchance leave a mark.

"Charles Edward Carson!" She's shocked, and a little pleased. He's never been quite so…forward before.

"Can't a husband take certain liberties?" he teases. He tightens his grip and pulls her close to him. She can feel now that he wants to…well that he wants to. Her own moisture is gathering and her not even done with the washing up. Slatternly.

"Charles, I…" He turns her suddenly, and the water from her hands flies onto his face, his hands, his shirt and waistcoat. He kisses her, hoping to avoid any silly argument about finishing the dishes. Gods damn the dirty dishes. He'll do them and a hundred more, later. He can feel her relax in his arms, lean into him, and she opens her mouth. He knows better now what she likes, not everything, though. He's not sure she knows everything she likes, but he knows some. He's learning. He's listened to that soft panting moan and tried to do more of what causes it each time they lay together. He thinks he can never tire of this, never tire of the feel of her against him, her tongue in his mouth, tentative at first, then thrusting when she becomes excited. He is so aroused now that he cannot wait for the bedroom, cannot wait even to remove all their clothes. He has to have her here, now, in the kitchen against the sink. He grabs her, lifts her onto the countertop. She's shocked, starts to protest, but he kisses her again. Again. Soft kisses, so that she remembers she can trust him. She breaks off.

"Here?" she whispers, scandalized. "We can't do this here."

"I thought you were the one who said we can do what we like now." He gives her a roguish grin.

"I did, but…but…"

"But you didn't mean this?" He kisses her again, harder, and traces her lips with his tongue. She shudders. He begins to unbutton her blouse. She's too shocked to protest, but there is something in her eyes that tells him that this is acceptable. More than acceptable. He exposes the swell of her breasts; he grunts, aggravated by all the layers that separate them. He knows he can't wait much longer; he's not a young man, after all. He reaches beneath her skirts, finds her knickers and pulls at them none too gently. Elsie shifts in an effort to help him get them off. His desire has ignited her own and she's nearly as desperate as he. Together they work her knickers down and he removes them gently, as gently as he can, from her ankles. Now she looks away, embarrassed. This is so wanton, so decadent. She hadn't imagined he could be so passionate. Loving, yes, but reserved. He always keeps some feelings tightly reined in. Now it seems he's letting some of them loose. Ah well, Elsie thinks, in for a penny, in for a pound, and she raises her skirts.

He fumbles for a moment, only a moment, then he quickly unbuttons his pants, pushes them and his shorts down around his ankles. She opens her legs and reaches for him, love and desire and passion in her eyes. Her hands, her chest, so warm. He guides himself inside her with one long grunt and he gathers her to him, murmuring soft nonsense words in her ear. She pulls back and kisses him, hard. Their tongues crash together much as their bodies do, and she has to break away, has to lean back to take a deep, shuddering breath. She exposes the creamy length of her neck and he licks it with his tongue, from the hollow groove at her chest all the way to her chin. He's thrusting, pumping harder and harder, his hands gripping her where they can get purchase, her hip, her breast. Her arms and legs are wrapped around him; she has to hold him tightly to keep from falling. Suddenly, he reaches between their joined bodies, reaches a gentle finger into that small dark space he's been reluctant (afraid) to venture and tentatively, clumsily begins to stroke. This is a new sensation that drives all rational thought from her mind. Never, never had she known it could be like this. Never had she known she could feel this way. She'd never touched herself before, been taught it was forbidden, a sin. Here, with Charles, she was experiencing more pleasure than she'd ever known. She thought she'd die from it. All she could do was press herself more closely to him, bury her face in his neck and kiss him over and over again in that warm dark hollow until sparks explode behind her eyes and her body is rigid and taut before it goes limp again.