He wakes gradually to find himself still in her arms, still cradled between her breasts. He tries not to move, tries to regulate his breathing so as not to disturb her. He wants to squeeze, to burrow in, but he does not want to spoil the peace of this moment. So much of his life now feels like a dream. He had admired her for years and carefully hid the preference he felt for her behind position, duty and later age. No one would suspect him of carrying on over a woman; he was too old by far. That was only for the young. And no one did, save Lady Mary. She always was too clever by half and there was something in her gaze when she spotted them together, something sharp and proprietary and knowing. It had been she who encouraged him to propose, not that he would ever admit that to Elsie. She was none too fond of Lady Mary, in spite of all she'd done for their Anna and Mr. Bates. No, it would do no good to let that cat out of the bag. But Lady Mary had encouraged him, given him hope. He was tired, after all, tired of pretending, tired of putting on the mask that grew just a bit heavier each day, tired of not being able to reach out and smooth a stray hair away from her face, tired of restraining himself from touching her except on the elbow or the small of her back and even then only out of necessity and not pure desire. When she fell ill, the fear of her dying was compounded by his anger at never having pursued her, of never having tried. He could not resist singing when Beryl had given him the good news, all the stress and worry evaporated on hearing that one word: benign. So what had taken him so long after that? What had kept him from gathering her in his arms right then? Fear, habit, he didn't know what. He'd always had a soft spot for Lady Mary, but now he was truly indebted to her, for wasn't she the one who, in spite of her grief (or perhaps because of it), prodded him, pestered him, needled him to move forward, to ask her and have done, to make a new life for himself, for them. And once she'd seen that done, she had insisted on the best of the available cottages for them, demanded that they choose from among the best pieces of furniture in the attics, ensured that their living would continue until the death of both. She had cleared all obstacles like a woman possessed. If she could not be happy, then she would gain some measure of happiness by seeing him so. At least it seemed that way to him. And so he asked her; fumbled it royally, he was so nervous. He thought she might say yes, he thought she might agree, but he couldn't be sure. He was so afraid that she might refuse and then what would he do? But she hadn't; she'd accepted in her calm, kindly way and he was relieved, overjoyed. And now he is here, in her arms on what looks to be a beautiful spring day. He risks a small, contented sigh.
She stirs then, hugs him to her, nuzzles her face in his hair.
"This is nice. You always disappear so quickly in the mornings."
He hadn't thought that she would notice. "Well, I don't want to intrude."
"Intrude?" she scoffs, almost shrieks with suppressed laughter. "You've a husband's rights now," she teases. "Your home is your castle and every room your domain."
He picks up her playful mood. "Well in that case, perhaps I'll exercise some of those rights this morning."
"And what rights would those be?" she asks archly.
"I'm not entirely sure. I am rather new at this. Perhaps this?" He grazes a fingertip across her nipple and she jerks involuntarily.
"That could certainly be construed as one of your rights."
"So we've established one set of rights." He continues to caress her, watching with fascination and delight as her body responds to his touch. Her muscles tense, always, when they lay together, as though the anticipation of making love is too great to bear. Without thinking, he leans over and kisses her nipple. He hears her sharp intake of breath as she presses herself to him. The fabric of her nightgown is worn and thin; hazily he thinks he should buy her a new one, but he's glad also, because the thin cloth affords more opportunity to feel her breast with his mouth, his tongue. He's kissing her breast and she is arching her back, pressing herself into him, pressing more of her nipple, her breast into his mouth. His hands reach down clumsily to find the hem of her nightgown. He wants to feel her skin, he wants nothing to separate them. He's suckling hungrily, passionately; he's never done this before and briefly wonders whether she has before he pushes that thought firmly away. Soon she's lifting her hips, her hands scrabbling to help him remove her gown, to unbutton it and pull it over her head. Her body is so beautiful to him; with his hands he maps its contours in the night, but in the daytime he has grown bolder, no longer taking embarrassed sidelong glances at her, now he looks straight on, the beautiful swell of her breasts, the curve of her waist and hips, the creamy skin. He looks into her eyes for a moment and kisses her hard on the mouth, then kisses her neck, her collarbone, then her breasts, first one, then the other, kneading, rubbing the one nipple with his fingers while doing the same with his tongue to the other. Her hips are bucking now and his pajama pants are moist. He is almost unbearably hard. She's worked the buttons of his pajama top loose and opens it to rub her hands against a wide swath of his chest.
"I want…" she mutters.
"What," he says roughly, "what is it you want?"
She looks away, still embarrassed at what lies between them. It's easier to show him than to say the words. It seems wanton, whorish even, to tell your man what pleases you. She knows it's foolish, she knows he's not like that (much), but still she cannot form the words. Instead she moves her hands to the waistband of his pajama bottoms, his hips, lightly strokes the bulge she feels pressing against her center.
He cannot think for the mad throbbing. He works his way out of his pajama bottoms and she helps him kick them off. At last she can feel his hard length against her skin and she smiles, opens her legs and lifts her hips to give him room to maneuver. He takes a hand and tries to guides himself in slowly, so slowly. He never wants this to end, but he knows it must. That doesn't mean he has to hasten it. He wants to hear those cries again, low and guttural. He slides himself all the way inside her, then spasms as she wraps her legs around his lower back, his hips, strokes his thighs and his back.
"Will you say it Elsie? Please, will you say it?" She doesn't often say it; she feels it, he knows she feels it, but he wants to hear her say it.
"I love you." She takes one hand and gently turns his face toward hers. "I love you," she says and kisses him again and again, snaking her tongue in and around and outside his mouth until he thinks he will burst with passion and love.
He murmurs into her neck those beautiful words she strains to hear and remember. Oh, love, I love you. I love you. I've always loved you. I'm so sorry, I'm sorry. Oh my dear darling girl. You are so beautiful, this is too much, I can't.
"There now," she soothes him, takes his hand in hers and squeezes it tightly. "It's alright, mo ghradh, it's alright. I love you. I love you."
She folds him in her arms and he rocks against her harder, faster. She matches his rhythm, discovering with surprised delight that she can feel that delicious friction building.
He hears her small cries of pleasure and moves his hand to that secret dark place that is so wet. His fingers slide along, moving with her and soon small low moans sound in his ear. He feels a tightening so he pumps harder and faster until there is nothing left. He buries his face in her neck and swallows the tears that threaten.