AUTHOR'S NOTE: This chapter is rated M and not for a nightmare this time ;) In all seriousness, there is sexual content, more explicit than is usual for me, although I tried to keep things from being really graphic. I changed the rating of this story to M, even though most of the chapters remain at T.

I also wanted to thank you once again for all the reviews - especially the guest ones, because I can't answer you directly - there is seriously nothing which motivates me to keep posting my fics more than hearing back from you and seeing that there are people who enjoy reading them.

For a long time after Mary left him Matthew is just lying in his bed and staring at the ceiling in shock.

What has he done?

What have they done?

Because, as hard it is for him to believe his own actions and feelings, it's even harder to believe Mary's.

She reacted… She kissed and touched him as if… The way she writhed under his touch, the way she moaned in response to his kisses and caresses, it was exactly like…

It was exactly like before. She kissed and touched him and reacted to his kisses and touches as she had done in France, when he had been whole. It was as if… as if it didn't make any difference to her.

As if she still wanted him. As if she was still attracted to him.

His brain tries to mock those conclusions, mercilessly pointing out the impossibility of anyone finding him desirable in his present state, but Matthew simply can't refute the evidence of those heated, wonderful minutes.

As impossible as it is, Mary clearly desires him and enjoys his touch just the same as before, even knowing full well that he can't follow it through.

But if she is not repulsed by his broken, ruined body – and repulsion is the very last thing he can accuse Mary of after this morning – if she desires and misses being intimate with him as much he desires and misses being intimate with her – more, really, since her reactions are coming both from her mind and her body, unlike his incomplete desires – then maybe he should stop concentrating so hard on what he can't do and focus on what he can, instead.

He swallows, allowing himself to remember their lovemaking in detail for the first time in months. As much as it hurts, there is a purpose to this indulgence, a scientific approach even. He analyses every cherished second of his memories in the light of what of then he is able to recreate now and how Mary reacted then to any of it. He remembers her gasps when he touched her most intimate places with his fingers and the way her every move wordlessly begged for more. He licks his lips unconsciously when he remembers using them on her and with what wild abandon she responded to that. He remembers how much she seemed to love it when he kissed her neck and breasts and the hollow of her arm, her breath stuttering and her heart beating wildly.

His lips and fingers and tongue are still perfectly functioning. He glares at his immobile, dead legs, thinking that positioning them might be a bother and a hindrance, but nothing which he can't deal with, in truth.

If Mary still wants him – and she has just given him every indication that she does – he is reasonably certain there are still ways left for him to give her pleasure.

He gasps audibly at the audacity of that thought, but he can't deny the truth of it.

He truly can be intimate with her again if she's willing to try.

Of course, he can't avoid a bitter reflection that there is no way for him to achieve his own pleasure, but he dismisses it impatiently. This is not what is important here. As much as he misses it most acutely, what truly matters is that he's just realised there is a chance he can stop feeling like an utter failure and disappointment to his wife.

He envisions their morning activities, only taking them further, as they were likely to go if they weren't interrupted by Anna. In his mind, he pulls off Mary's nightgown and, after taking a moment to admire her gorgeous body, reaches hungrily for her breasts, for her neck, between her legs, and nearly moans out loud. His body might be dead, there is no responding rush of blood to the lower part of it, but his mind is ablaze with desire and want for her, his fingers flexing in yearning to touch what he imagines. He wants her, desperately, and for the first time since he learnt of the extent of his injury and its consequences, he allows himself to feel it all.

Even with his body remaining as unresponsive as it always is now, he feels like a man.

A man passionately in love with his wife.

xxx

There is a new and undeniable current between them for the rest of the day and Mary is hyper aware of it. Matthew's eyes seem electric whenever she encounters their gaze on her and she can't suppress a shiver in response to their blue intensity. There's no doubt in her mind that their morning kiss is as present in his mind as it is in hers and she smiles smugly at the thought. It would have been insufferable if she was the only one so affected by what happened; but since she obviously isn't, she is filled with anticipation for the evening.

No day has ever dragged so torturously slowly for her.

It is a relief when they escape the confines of their house to go on one of their daily walks. At least he can't look at her easily while she is pushing his chair. She can see his luscious blond hair though, so close to her hands, and she has to tighten them on the wheelchair's handles to avoid the temptation of threading her fingers through those soft locks again, as she did this morning.

She smiles wryly at the thought that obviously she is not as reconciled to a lifetime of celibacy as she's thought, at least not now when she has hope of its end by nightfall.

If Matthew doesn't back off in fear, of course.

But whenever she has such thought, dismal but realistic, she catches his eyes on her again or feels the sparks flying between them when he touches her hand and slowly caresses it with his thumb, and her heart beats faster with the assurance that she is right to hope; that she wouldn't be able to feel this kind of desire if it wasn't very much reciprocated by her husband, however insane it sounds knowing his condition.

Damn the doctors and broken spines, she thinks viciously. She wants this beautiful, broken man with every fibre of her being and she is increasingly sure that impossible as it should be, he wants her too.

xxx

"Let's stop by our bench," says Matthew as they are slowly approaching the huge Lebanon cedar. "I want to see your face when we talk."

She parks his wheelchair by the bench and sits down, facing him. The sheer want in his eyes, absent for so very long, nearly takes her breath away.

"You're so beautiful, darling," he says huskily, his blue eyes boring into hers. "It strikes me all the time and yet I think I don't tell you half as often as I should."

"Thank you," she answers, her eyes not leaving his. "I only hope you will continue to find me so when I am as big as a barn."

Matthew's eyes flicker to her still mostly flat belly, his face full of awe.

"I'm certain I will only find you more beautiful then," he says earnestly. "I still can't believe that we really made a baby."

Mary touches her waist in equal awe.

"I can't believe it either," she says, shaking her head slightly. "We are so incredibly lucky. Although I must admit I appreciate it much more now, when my nausea is mostly gone finally."

"I'm glad to hear it's getting easier to bear for you," he says, looking at her with concern. "You are truly better, aren't you? Although I noticed you still don't eat much."

"I eat enough," answers Mary dismissively, then sends him a flirtatious look, hoping to distract him enough to abandon the topic of her health. She has something very different occupying her mind today, after all. "And haven't you noticed how much better I felt this morning?"

She sees the way Matthew swallows, his eyes getting darker and intense, and congratulates herself on the success of her chosen strategy.

"Oh, I have noticed. You certainly seemed very well," he hesitates for a moment, making her hold her breath in apprehension whether he'll follow this line of discussion where she very much wants him to go or will retreat and rebuff her again. "I discovered I am also better than I expected to be."

"I've noticed," answers Mary, her throat dry. "I was very happy to see it."

The way he looks at her!

"Were you?" he asks and she feels that everything hinges on her getting the answer to his question right. "Were you really?"

"Can you have any doubts?" she asks, making her tone playful and seductive. "I don't think I could have made my feelings on the matter any more obvious."

He smiles at that and this is the kind of smile which makes her legs weak and useless. She is glad she is sitting down already.

"I don't, really, but I wanted to be sure. This is the very last thing I would like to get wrong."

"Then I will gladly assure you that you haven't."

She observes him taking in her words and she holds her breath again, this time in pure anticipation.

"Then you wouldn't mind… keeping me company this evening?" he asks somewhat shyly and it takes her all her self-control to stop herself from squealing in glee and throwing herself into his arms.

"Not at all," she says smoothly instead. "You're my husband after all. Where should I do that though? In our sitting room? Or would you prefer the library?"

He sends her a chiding look which just makes her more giddy.

"You know very well that I have a more private setting in mind."

"Are you looking forward to tonight then?" she asks, licking her lips unconsciously and playing with the beads on her necklace. Her breath hitches when Matthew's face lowers towards hers, his hand taking her necklace out of her fingers to tug on it playfully and pull her towards him.

"I'm looking forward to all sorts of things," he answers in a voice she hasn't heard since France and she is not at all shocked when he kisses her.

They stay in control – they are in public, after all, even if mostly obscured by the tree – but even though they sit apart, with just their lips and hands touching, this kiss is anything but innocent. It is full of promise of all sorts of things and so they are both quite flustered when they realise it has been witnessed, after all.

Mary notices Edith, standing just yards away from them and looking at them with the strangest expression – a mix of guilt and envy, perhaps? – but analysing her sister's feelings is the very last thing she wants to dwell upon right now.

"Is there something you want?" she asks impatiently, as Matthew clears his throat, deadly embarrassed at being caught like that, and issuing his own, more polite greeting.

"No," answers Edith, still looking at them rather strangely. "There is something we should talk about, but it can wait."

"Then kindly go somewhere else," suggests Mary impatiently. "We were having a private conversation here."

"It's a public path," points out Edith, but does turn to go, thankfully.

"Don't you think she was acting a bit mysterious?" asks Matthew with a frown, his face still a bit red from embarrassment.

Mary scoffs.

"Edith is as mysterious as a bucket," she says scornfully. "With any hope maybe she fell in love with one of the recovering officers and will be miraculously out of my hair in the near future."

"Haven't you two been getting along better recently?" he asks, slightly bewildered. "Trying to keep up with your relationship is giving me a headache."

"We have and we are," answers Mary with a grimace. Seriously, Edith is truly the last thing she wants to discuss with Matthew now! "But it does not come naturally."

She sadly concludes that there is little chance of resuming their previous mood – an assessment Matthew seems to share – so they slowly go back towards the Abbey where he is scheduled to undergo another session of physiotherapy.

xxx

The dinner is lovely, or it would have been if they didn't invite Isobel to join them as their first dinner guest in their new house.

Of course, when they issued the invitation, none of them had any expectations of any excitement or a need for privacy, thinks Mary gloomily as Anna is getting her ready. As the things stand now, despite all her newly developed camaraderie with her mother-in-law, Mary can't help wishing a slight headache on her – just enough for her to send her regrets.

She is not in luck, regrettably, so she plasters on her most friendly smile and goes to welcome Isobel with all the joy her earnest support of Mary and Matthew's marriage deserves.

xxx

For the first time in his life, Matthew is wishing fervently for his mother to be elsewhere.

Part of it is Mary's fault, of course. She must have chosen her gown for tonight with the sole purpose of torturing him in mind, he is deadly sure of it. In addition to being one of her most revealing ones and accentuating her figure extremely well, it is practically the colour of her flesh, with a net of black beading over it, creating a visual effect not at all conducive to his concentration on general conversation at the table. She looks so impossibly lovely that he is finding himself amazed for at least a hundredth time that she is in fact his wife. Then his eyes fall to the still vivid red scar on her arm, which she is not even attempting to cover, and he has to blink away his tears at this constant reminder of her courage and her love for him.

He really doesn't deserve her in the slightest.

"Matthew? Matthew!"

He blinks again, this time in surprise at the sudden demand of attention from Mother. Although, judging from her impatient look, the demand has not been sudden, he has been just hopelessly lost in contemplating his wife.

"Excuse me, Mother," he apologises sheepishly. "I've been miles away. What have you said?"

Mother rolls her eyes slightly and mutters something about his mind being at the other side of the table, just as his eyes have been, which he valiantly ignores.

"I was just asking how do you find your house," she says louder, with the long suffering air of somebody forced to repeat themselves.

"It's marvellous," he answers promptly, with a smile at Mary. "Mary did such a wonderful job with it, both in regards to the aesthetics and my comfort. Has she shown you the master bath?"

"She has," answers Mother with her own approving smile at Mary. "It is amazing what kinds of inventions the war has brought, sad as the reasons behind them are. I am only glad that you have the means to get everything arranged in accordance with your needs."

That sobers his mood briefly. He knows very well how lucky he is in that aspect.

"Not many wounded soldiers have," he agrees heavily. Even most of the convalescing officers he's met at Downton are going back to much less comfortable conditions that he takes for granted.

"There are charities," says Mary, looking at him intently, "which deal with this problem, with more of them created every day. Maybe we could look into it and find a worthy one to support?"

"What a nice idea!" agrees Mother immediately, as he knew she would. "Let me look into it for you. I'm sure I will find several prospects."

Mary inclines her head gratefully, as Matthew's brain jumps to practical considerations.

"We could also do something locally ourselves," he says thoughtfully. "There must be wounded and crippled soldiers in the area, probably even on the estate. We could prepare some of the cottages for their needs. Nothing as extensive as here, unfortunately, there isn't enough space… But we could think of some more basic accommodations at least."

"Bring that to Papa tomorrow," says Mary, her eyes shining. "I can't see him objecting to such a plan."

"No," agrees Matthew, thinking of Robert's kindness both to him and to Bates. "I don't expect he would."

"There are plans for creating whole new villages for treatment and education of disabled soldiers, mostly to prepare them for work in agriculture or small trades suitable for the countryside," adds Isobel with enthusiasm. "If we had houses which could be used for graduates of such programs, maybe we could offer some of them employment on the estate or in the village."

The discussion progresses in a lively manner and Matthew, truly caring about its subject, needs to remind himself to focus on the topic instead of his wife only occasionally. Like when she casually leans on the table, distracting him both with the elegant line of her shoulder and arm and an extremely enticing glimpse of her decolletage. Or when she turns towards his mother and exposes the exact part of her neck which he was kissing that morning and would love to kiss again. Then there is the time when the dinner is finally over and they get up to go through to the sitting room, Matthew following slowly behind them, and there is simply no way for him not to become lost in admiration of her figure in that thrice cursed dress.

He catches Mother sending him several strange looks, part amused, part elated, which he also ignores to the best of his ability.

Mary leans over the table with the gramophone, inspecting their growing stack of records and he joins her instead.

"Do you have any particular songs in mind, darling?" he asks and freezes for a moment when, with a mischievous smile, she hands him If You Were The Only Girl in the World.

"I am quite fond of this one," she says softly and he can see in her eyes the same memories which his own mind conjures – the kiss at the concert, the dance in their hotel room, the time they made love with that very song playing in the background – and he has to forcibly shake himself out of it and look away from her to break the trance.

"Me too," he answers and he hopes that Mother is not listening very closely because his voice is nowhere near to normal. "Oh, me too, darling."

So they listen to the song and just as it finishes, Mother announces that she's going home.

"So early?" asks Mary, with visible surprise. "I hope it's not because we've been bad hosts to you."

"Not at all, my dear," Isobel assures her with a smile. "I'm just reminded that it's only your third night in this house – the very first house you've been allowed to properly share since your honeymoon – and I am not quite so old as to forget how it is and be in your way. Thank you for a lovely dinner."

When she bends to kiss Matthew's cheek before getting into the waiting motor, he could swear she has winked at him.

xxx

Mary doesn't remember the last time she was so nervous about something. She is so overcome by the mix of trepidation and excitement she is practically twitchy when Anna helps her to remove her jewellery and her evening gown. Goodness, she showed none of such ridiculous behaviour on her actual wedding night! Although the fact that it was more of a wedding afternoon and they had already performed the actual act spontaneously and with no time to build up nerves several days earlier undoubtedly had something to do with it.

"Give me the silk nightgown today, Anna," she orders, seeing that her maid has brought the more practical cotton one. She doesn't think a nightgown is going to make a difference in the outcome of that evening, not really – Matthew certainly was not put off by the plain one this morning! – but she can't help worrying that he is going to change his mind and push her off again for one ridiculous reason or another. She needs to be irresistible. She needs to look so alluring that he simply won't be able to send her back to her own bed.

Anna looks at her curiously, but takes the silk one out of the drawer. It has thin straps exposing quite a lot of skin and a pearly sheen which Mary knows is very flattering to her complexion. She smiles with satisfaction when she sees herself in it.

"Leave my hair down too," she says when she sits down at her vanity to allow Anna to brush it out. She remembers the first time Matthew saw her with her hair down, that entranced, open-mouthed stare, and she very much hopes to recreate that effect now, after three whole months having passed.

Anna's curiosity is very noticeably piqued by now, but she doesn't ask, so Mary decides to tell her something in reward. She feels like she will burst if she doesn't tell someone, anyway, and there is nobody to even consider telling other than Anna or Sybil, who is not here. Besides, Sybil has her own relationship with Matthew which complicates things when it comes to certain confessions. Anna's loyalty is wholly Mary's.

"If everything goes well, you will find me in Captain Crawley's bedroom again tomorrow," she says and sees Anna's eyes widen in the mirror.

"Do you think there is any chance it won't, milady?" she asks carefully and Mary bites her lip. She notices a slight tremble in her hands and clutches them with irritation; she is just going to join her husband in his bedroom, for God's sake, there is no reason for such theatrics!

"I hope not," she answers honestly, even if her nervousness doesn't abate in the slightest. "I think he is ready to let me be so close with him again, but I can't be sure until he actually does."

"The way he's looking at you lately, milady, I think he wants to let you very much," observes Anna matter-of-factly.

Mary exhales and raises her eyes to smile at Anna.

"I hope so!" she repeats. "But still, wish me luck!"

"I will," Anna smiles at her conspiratorially. "I know those stubborn men considering themselves too damaged to deserve happiness. But I don't think you will need much luck tonight, milady. Not at all."

xxx

If Mary is nervous, Matthew is completely beside himself when William prepares him for bed. He tells himself he is ridiculous but, as he tries to hold himself up on his arms so William can pull up his pyjama pants, he can't escape a bitter observation that there could hardly be a more pathetic lover than him as he is now.

Still, Mary seemed to want him – she promised she was going to join him – and he is determined not to disappoint her again.

"Mason," he says, making every effort to sound normal. "Don't come tomorrow until I ring for you."

William sends him a confused look since he never does come without Matthew ringing for him first; Matthew has his own alarm clock and much prefers to wake up alone than with somebody standing over him, which William gets very well.

Matthew shakes his head at himself.

"It's possible," he explains, and there is a slight tremor in his voice, there's no way to deny it. "It's possible that Lady Mary will be here in the morning."

If he's lucky. Impossibly lucky, really, but he did wake up with her in his arms this morning and he is determined to somehow do everything right and to wake up like that again.

God, let him make everything right for her!

"Ah," says Mason only, nodding as if everything was clear now and maybe it is. He certainly saw before how worked up his captain could get over Lady Mary. "I will wait for your ring, sir."

He helps Matthew to get into bed and goes away, leaving him with no distraction from thinking entirely too much.

And then Mary is standing in the door between their bedrooms and for a long moment he is not capable of thinking at all.

She is perfection personified.

His eyes greedily take it all in: her long, luscious, wavy hair, the way her nightgown clings to her slight curves, her long, slender limbs and perfect figure.

The way her dark, expressive eyes are taking him in with equal zeal.

He swallows against the sudden dryness in his throat and speaks first.

"I thought you promised to keep me company, darling," he says thickly. "It might be hard to do over such a distance."

He gains courage from seeing how much his words put her at ease as she smirks at him in response.

"Why?" she asks in a voice which can be only described as sultry. "Are you planning to do more than talk? Because the distance is comfortable enough for a conversation."

"I told you I'm looking forward to all sorts of things," he responds, his own voice getting lower. "Come here and find out."

She does, with alacrity which further convinces him that she is as eager as he is, and within moments lies down mere inches from him.

"Is that close enough, darling?" she asks breathlessly.

"No," he responds and kisses her.

It is a different kiss than the one from the morning. Despite all the kisses they have exchanged over the years, Matthew feels that it is somehow their first, or at least a pivotal one. His lips capture Mary's carefully, delicately, slowly, as if he is learning them all over again – their shape, their feel, their taste, the way they move against his. It strikes him that for the very first time in their marriage there is no urgency, no reason to hurry, no separation hanging over them; they have the rest of their lives to get it right and enjoy it. They are married and none of them is going to war ever again. They have all the time in the world.

This realisation is so exhilarating that he smiles in delight against Mary's lips and deepens the kiss, luxuriating in her immediate acquiescence. She obviously is allowing him to take the lead on this, probably because she's afraid he will bolt if she doesn't – not without a reason, admits Matthew ruefully – but it's equally obvious that she eagerly welcomes his every touch. That she eagerly welcomes him.

He breaks the kiss and rests his forehead against hers.

"You know I love you so terribly much?" he whispers and feels a prickling of tears against his eyes when he sees how she looks at him in response.

"I know you do," she answers only, but he sees so much love in her dark eyes, feels it in the gentleness of her slender hand on his cheek, that he is nearly overwhelmed by it.

"I want to make love to you," he says hoarsely. "So much. In whatever way I still can. Is that what you want?"

The answer is obvious, really, Mary certainly gave him every indication of her wishes on the subject, but he needs her to say it to believe that it's true, that he is not misinterpreting things disastrously out of his own desperation. Some part of him can't wrap his head around the fact that she may still want him when he's like that; that however broken and useless he is, she still somehow finds him desirable.

"It is, my darling, it is," she whispers back, caressing his face so delicately as if she was afraid he is fragile enough to break at the slightest touch. Maybe he is. He does feel fragile, exposed, vulnerable, even though he is fully dressed in his pyjamas. "I've missed being close with you so much."

He swallows.

"Me too," he admits painfully. "So much that it's been driving me insane. But darling, you know it won't be quite…"

She puts her fingers against his lips, preventing him from finishing that sentence.

"Hush," she whispers intently. "I just want to be with you. On any terms. You are enough to me, Matthew, just as you are. I don't want to be anywhere else."

It's impossible not to kiss her after hearing that so he does. He kisses her deeply now, his fingers getting entangled in her wondrous, soft hair, the smell of irises and vanilla all around him, the movement of Mary's lips, of her tongue against his, simply too intoxicating for words. He reaches to move one of the straps of Mary's nightgown aside, marvelling at the perfection of her shoulder, at the softness of her skin, at the enticing dip of her slim waist when his hand travels lower. And he feels, oh God, he feels it, a burgeoning and growing need for her, the urge to touch her, to caress, to make her his. His hand tightens on a bunch of silk and suddenly he finds himself impatient to get it out of the way.

"As beautiful as this nightgown is, could you take it off? I want to see you."

She looks at him fiercely in response.

"Only if you will allow me to see you."

He swallows against the sudden dryness in his throat. The prospect of being naked and exposed in front of her is still beyond daunting. The very thought of her seeing his scars, his unnaturally still legs, his…

Some of his fear must show on his face, because Mary is caressing it reassuringly again, her eyes full of regret.

"I'm sorry," she says contritely. "I'm so sorry for pushing you. Of course I will take off my nightgown if you want, you don't have to do anything in return."

He takes a shaky breath.

"You may take off my shirt," he forces himself to say. She looks at him with a slight frown.

"Are you sure?" she asks and he nods, his throat too dry to speak. Yes, he is sure. He is not ready for more – he doesn't know if he's ever going to be ready for more – but he wants to feel her skin on his wherever he can feel it. The scars are mostly on his back, she doesn't even have to see them if they are too hideous.

She reaches hesitantly for the buttons of his pyjama shirt, keeping her eyes on his face the whole time to make sure he won't baulk, but somehow he doesn't. The slight touch of her fingers on his chest is enough to distract him from his insecurities for now. He shrugs the shirt off as soon as she is done.

"Your turn," he says and is proud that he managed to sound more eager than scared.

She sits up and pulls the nightgown over her head and Matthew feels his mouth hang open.

He doesn't know how it's possible but it's as if he's somehow forgotten just how beautiful she is. It hits him now with a gale force and he thinks he has momentarily ceased to breathe. He moves his eyes deliberately from her luscious hair, through her exquisite face down to this maddening, perfect body and he has to swallow again, but it has nothing to do with fear this time.

He reaches out to card his fingers through her hair and is stunned all anew how incredibly soft and silky it is.

"Be careful with my hair there," she says, stopping his hand. "That's where my scar is."

He immediately takes it away, looking at her in alarm.

"Does it still hurt? After all this time?" he asks, alarmed by the thought that it couldn't have healed right if it still pains her.

She smiles reassuringly and shakes her head.

"Not at all, it's completely healed. But it makes me look ugly."

"That," he says, reaching deliberately now to part her hair. "Is utterly impossible."

She flinches slightly when he exposes it. It is about an inch wide and three or four inches long, the puckered skin still red and slightly raised, and his heart clenches at the realisation how close he came to losing her. If the shrapnel was bigger or hit her a bit lower… He thinks that it was him she risked herself for like this, that it was him she loved enough to sustain this injury, and he bends slightly to kiss the scar in gratitude and awe – both that she loved him enough to do that and that the injury was not serious, that he did not lose her to it.

She starts, looking up at him incredulously.

"You suffered it while saving me," he answers quietly. "And however ungrateful I was before, I am so very grateful now."

The smile emerging on her face at his words takes his breath away all over again.

"Truly?" she asks shakily. "You truly feel grateful for it?"

"Yes," he answers sincerely and assuredly. "I do."

She throws her arms around him, pulling him towards her for a passionate, joyful kiss, and he wraps his own arms around her. He nearly moans when he feels her skin against his, her breasts pushed against his chest, her hands clutching at his back. He missed it, God, how he missed it! He moves his hands all over her body, eagerly relearning every curve and angle, luxuriating in the incredible softness of it and the way she reacts to his every touch, so clearly wanting it. He breaks their kiss only to move his lips downwards to feast on her neck and then slowly lower, until he reaches her breasts and his blood sings at hearing her gasp in response. He moves his hand slowly, deliberately down her back and around her hips until he reaches between her legs and now it is his turn to gasp when he feels her reaction to it.

If he had any doubts left about her continuous desire for him, he doesn't anymore.

With single minded determination, he concentrates on discovering what he can do for her like that, when it is not just a first step before joining their bodies, but a whole journey and goal all on its own. His long fingers slide into her – first one, some time later the other – while his thumb searches for the best place to touch her. His lips and tongue continue to tease her breast while he's doing it and he gasps again, his eyes fluttering shut in sheer pleasure, when he feels her fingers sneaking into his hair and pulling at it, her body arching against his. Then she pulls his face up for a hungry kiss of her own, her mouth soon doing its own exploration of his ear, his neck, his chest, her hands caressing seemingly every inch of him – he doesn't even think every inch he can still feel, he's beyond thinking now – and then her movements get frantic, hurried, uncontrolled until suddenly she stills with a loud cry.

His own heart is racing, his brain overwhelmed with the reality of what is happening, by Mary's shudders against him, by the way her body pulses and clenches around his fingers, her rough breathing as she kisses him frantically in thanks – and then he feels it too, that impossible, heady rush of release, cresting like a wave through whatever of his body he can still feel and he cries out too, in shock and utter elation.

xxx

They lay on their sides, facing each other, their breathing equally laboured and their eyes wide and incredulous.

"That was…" says Mary and she is not even sure what she wants to say.

Matthew nods, clearly as awed as she is. He looks stunned, disbelieving.

"I felt…" he says, his voice hoarse and just as amazed as his face is. "Mary, I felt…"

She nods slowly. She noticed it too.

"It was real," she says, caressing his beautiful face again. "Whatever it was you felt, it was real. I saw you, I heard you, I felt you. It was real."

He frowns, his eyes briefly looking downwards before he raises them back to hers.

"But I didn't… There was nothing…"

He looks so confused and she hardly has any answers, but she shrugs and tries to find some anyway.

"Obviously it is not the only way you can experience pleasure," she says, striving for a nonchalant tone, but feeling herself blush. As uninhabited as she is with him when it comes to enjoying their bodies, she simply can't speak of it without acute embarrassment.

Matthew nods thoughtfully.

"I think you're right," he answers slowly. "There must be more to it. Because I didn't feel any physical response below my injury, but Mary, I really felt it all somehow. And if you noticed it too, it must have been real."

His eyes widen even more.

"I felt it," he repeats and then smiles the most brilliant smile Mary has seen on him since their honeymoon. "I really did!"

She kisses him, moved beyond words by it all.

He looks at her inquiringly when they part.

"What about you, darling?" he asks and she sees how anxious he is to hear her answer. "Was it enough for you?"

She laughs breathlessly.

"How can you even doubt it?" she answers him with a question of her own. "It was… Darling, it was incredible. You were incredible. Frankly, I don't think I'm ever going to get enough of you."

He exhales slowly, a shy but proud smile showing on his face.

"That's good to hear," he says and his eyes are full of light when he looks into hers. "Because I can't imagine I will ever get enough of you."

He pulls her close to him again for yet another kiss – this one languid, unhurried, full of satisfaction and quiet happiness. She feels his hand reaching for her belly, pausing in wonder at the very slight bulge there, barely visible except when she's naked.

"It starts to grow," he says, in an even more incredulous tone of voice. "This is real too."

She rests her forehead against his and places her hand over his on her belly, lacing their fingers together.

"It is all real, darling. You just have to believe it."

He doesn't answer her but, for the very first time since he learnt of what happened to him, she thinks that he might.