His name, torn from her lips and the gentle scrape of fingernails against his scalp make him come undone, unhinged as he presses her against the mattress; until he can no longer give or take his demanding breaths, her little hums of pleasure. Deep, needy kisses and his open mouth pressed hotly to her jawline, the throbbing pulse at her neck and there is no denying it any longer, no use pretending that they have not wanted this for months and seasons and years. This is everything, he thinks, everything he didn't dare ask for, dream of; he never thought this day would come. (Splintered shards of his heart, secreted away when he wasn't looking and pieced back together with tender hands, and now the last piece, given freely, all of it is hers, he belongs to her completely). Years he has spent, squandered, refusing this, ignoring his feelings only to find that he was wrong (so pitifully mistaken,) that his silver service and margins all tallied up could never give him what he feels for her in this moment, this serpentine pleasure. (Had he known this, known the taste of her, this intimacy, he could never have been without it.)

And he is lost to her, spiralling quickly to the point of no return when she brings his shaking hands to her hemline. Pauses with imploring eyes, with those swollen lips and her flushed cheeks, a question there, a quiet reticence. (And his answer is yes, how can it not be? Yes, to this woman and this hindered love, the painful penance, yes to all of it.) Slowly, he pushes the fabric over her hips, up over her head, doing away with the wrappings and she responds in kind, undoes his buttons with nimble fingers and reaches for his waistband. They are stripped bare, naked together for the first time - her skin is deliciously warm, fevered against his - and Carson is parched for her, desperate with need (for his wife, gods, she is his wife.)

Her ample breasts which fit perfectly in his palms; loving, gentle cups followed by hard kisses eliciting little cries that excite him almost unbearably. Her legs drawn up around him now, and the decadent friction of their hips, pelvises pushing and pulling in a slow grind. Carson wonders what it might have been like, a different way in a shop or a factory (just like this, perhaps, an entire lifetime spent in her embrace) and a sharp pang of shame clenches in his chest. And as his lips begin to tease the expanse of rosy teats, his tongue hardening them, soothing, he thinks of that nearby path, (a cottage in the village, just a stone's throw away and suckling babes, children with dark hair and blue eyes playing in the garden.) Then suddenly, suddenly there are tears are in his eyes, spilling down his face, (now of all times, when he should be happiest, should rejoice that he has not been alone in this, in his feelings.)

Years of service for him, graces and airs and respectable conversation have been his redemption, silver polish and good wine his very lifeblood; this is what he has told himself. (And if that had meant miles of endless stairs, and nights, cold and lonely, his chest hollow after sherry and a shared fire, then what of it? It was a small price to pay, mere pittance for the penance of being a fool on the stage, a man without honour, a man not worthy of love). But if she has cared for him, if she had wanted this, him, (if they both never took what had been right there in front of them, made something more of what they were given) then it has all been superfluous, a damned sham of an existence, and he can't, he could not bear that – it simply cannot be. The tears are of heavy streams now, wetted into her hair, and embarrassment courses through him, (and gods, how sorry he is, impossibly sorry for the courage he never found, the life they never lived.)

"Oh, Mrs Hughes –"

His voice is hoarse, breaking away with emotion and her lips are a soft comfort, delicate against his wet cheeks, at the crease of his brow. Her sex is warm and wet against his, her nails clamping into his skin then, unexpectedly, digging into his hipbones and he is moaning, crying out as she pulls him down, takes him inside of her in one sudden motion. (The barriers dissipated at long last, no obstacles left between them) she surrounds him, completes him and Carson thinks she understands, that maybe she'd known all along that this is where they needed to get to, where he needed to be.

"Children. We might have had– – grandchildren, and gods, we could've –"

"Shh," she says. "I know. I know."

Her voice is light and wisping, swathing him in the sweet tune even as their bodies move faster, as she drives their hips in a hard rhythm and she moans breathlessly, quiet gasps in his ear.

"Always." Angry, helpless sobs now and he is shaking his head, burying his face there, in the valley of her bosom, and his cock deep, deeper inside her. "It's always been you."

"Oh, Mr Carson – Charles, I – " His lips press into the hollow of her neck, and she clutches at him, grips his shoulders, his back as he takes her, and she takes him and they are having each other, finally, finally. "I love you."

"Gods. Yes. Yes, Mrs – Elsie, yes." (She is beautiful, gods, glorious under him, around him, she is the very air that he breathes and his name on her lips makes him fall, crumble in her hands.) "Forgive me, my love, my heart. Forgive me."

They come together then, after these hours and months and years of wanting, of aching and love; his fingers are pushing into her thighs, and she is rocking hard and fast against him when his seed spills into her, and she catches him in a hard, bruising kiss and oh, he's pleading his love, begging her forgiveness, dry sobs of need in her mouth, when her muscles clench around him for that long and overdue, that agonising moment of release. "I love you, Mrs Carson. I love you."