A/N: Another M-rated chapter. I should also reiterate that I do not own either of these characters, nor do I earn anything from them but helpless, happy fangirl squees.
This is madness, he thinks. His in-laws are right next door; they likely can hear all this rustling and squeaking. He's got to calm himself, he's got to get control, but how can he when she is sitting astride him, when he can feel the heat of her through his pajama bottoms. She's worked her nightgown up around her hips and she's undoing the buttons, smiling, smiling conspiratorially at him, at this game they're playing together. She's so lovely in the moonlight; it's a clear night and the moon is nearly half-full, so he can see her in spite of the electric light being switched off. In one graceful, swooping motion, she's pulled the nightgown over her head and tossed it (tossed it?) over the side of the bed. She crouches down against him, pressing her breasts against his pajama top, fumbling for the buttons to loosen it. His hands are roaming, groping, he's got no control over them. They're smoothing up and down her back, reaching down to cup her bottom, to settle her more firmly against him. She gasps, then she laughs, a quiet, evil little chuckle. She's kissing him now, kissing his neck and chest, anywhere there is skin. She's running her hands in delicate little patterns along his chest and she stops, tracing gentle fingertips over and around his nipples. She scoots down his length and tentatively, experimentally darts her tongue out, runs the tip of it along the tiny nub. He grunts and she stops, shoots him a questioning look and he nods to her. Yes, yes, keep doing that, yes, don't ever stop, but I've got to be quiet, we've got to be careful, but don't stop, don't ever stop. She leans her head down gently, rubs her face along the hollow groove between his nipples, and places soft, delicate kisses all along his chest. This feeling, this sitting astride him gives her such a feeling of power. She feels him coming undone under her hands, quivering like an arrow about to be loosed from a bow. He's whimpering now, actually whimpering, and the strain of keeping quiet is written in the tight line of his lips. He squeezes her shoulders, hard, and she discovers that she likes that, likes feeling his strength as he responds to her touches. She pushes his pajama top back over his shoulders impatiently, gesturing for him to move, to sit up just enough to slip it off, and the bed squeaks again dangerously, the sound of it amplified in the quiet of the house. No matter, no matter. That could merely be the sound of them settling in for the night.
She's never felt desire like this before. Perhaps it's because this is forbidden, taboo? Her family home and she's, well, she's making love to her husband in this new, this wanton way and he wants her. He wants her very badly now, she can almost feel his length throbbing against her. She feels like crying, curiously, crying because it's too much, too overwhelming. She has to move so slowly, so agonizingly slowly so they won't disturb, so they won't reveal to anyone what's going on in this room, in this small bed, just like the bed she used to occupy at Downton, only now she's sharing it with her man, her man. She's never felt such intense longing for him, never felt such heat, such throbbing. She's enjoyed all of their intimate moments, thought she had thoroughly enjoyed them, but none has prepared her for this time. And of all times they must be quiet. Gently, carefully, she works his pajama bottoms down, risks a look at his length. He's ready, eager; she can't resist drawing a finger down the length of his erection. He jolts, shakes his head no, no, I don't want to, not that way, and kicks his feet to work his pajama bottoms down the length of his legs. She helps untangle his feet, then he pulls her up, damn the squeaking, damn the noise, he is inside this moment and nothing and no one else save her matters. She gasps as he sets her on top of his length, one hand to steady her, one hand to push himself inside her. As he enters her, she covers her mouth to muffle the moan that threatens to escape. This is so wholly new, so warm and full, she can feel, she can feel him filling her. He pulls her down to kiss her. She wants to move, she wants to move quick, fast, but he stills her hips with his hands, encourages her to rock slowly up and down, back and forth. She shakes her head, no, no I can't, I can't wait, it won't work that way, but he simply tightens his grip and forces her to slow down. It's his turn to smile now; he's helped her establish a rhythm, a slow rocking movement and the look of pleasure and contentment on her face is one he thinks he'll never forget. Not ever. He takes a hand, runs it along the length of her braid, that heavy silken cord. He pulls, just a gentle tug, but her eyes fly open in surprise, pleasant surprise. He uses the pads of his fingers to trace her pulse, then her collarbone, her breasts. She leans over him and he takes her nipple in his mouth, sucking, biting gently. She gasps in surprised delight, then whispers in his ear, oh yes, yes, love, yes. He is rigid with suppressed pleasure. All he can do is grip harder; he knows he's leaving marks, but he can't help himself. It's either grip her hard or roar at the top of his lungs. He doubts he could even do that at home. No sense scaring the neighbors. He moves his finger to that secret place within her that he longs to stroke. He can feel the sensitive nub change and swell under his touch; his fingertips are wet and sliding to and fro. He starts to buck his hips as she plunges down his length and pulls back up, faster and faster. She knows he is close; his muscles are tightening, his jaw is working against all the sounds he wants to make, sounds he usually makes. She presses herself against him as tightly as she can and moves against him quickly now, quickly. It will all be over soon. I love you I love you I love you she whispers as they tumble over the edge together. One final push and they fall. Literally.