He put away the last dish while he watched her drying her hands. When she would have turned away, he slid his hand around her waist and pulled her to him. He guided her up to her toes so he could kiss her properly. When he sensed her starting to pull away again, he lingered longer at her lips, making clear to her, he thought, his intentions for that sunny afternoon. He bent his head to her neck and she sighed her appreciation before gazing up at him, sliding her finger along his jaw, and then walking away to pick up her knitting.

He frowned at her back, bemused. He looked longingly toward the direction of their bedroom, appearing for all the world like a puppy who doesn't understand why its toy has been taken away. After a moment of confused hesitation, he joined her on their sofa. He tried to lean back and be comfortable, but he was entirely too restless. Didn't she want to spend a leisurely afternoon in their sun-dappled bedroom? She'd never refused him before! Perhaps she didn't understand his intentions? But how odd! She had always been quick to glean his quiet desires. Whenever his kisses or his hands lingered, she had always silently taken his hand and led him to their bedroom. He chewed his bottom lip. Perhaps she was ill.

He thought a moment.

And laid his hand on her thigh, warm through her day dress.

She smiled at him and returned her gaze to her knitting.

"How is your head, Charlie?" she asked as she looped the yarn around a needle.

He paused.

"What?" was his eloquent rejoinder.

"Your head, dear. You said you've been having headaches lately."

Ah, that was it, then. She was worried after him! He smiled, relieved.

"Oh, no worries, there, my love! Haven't had a twinge in days." He squeezed her leg just above her knee.

"Oh, good," she answered.

And still she knitted.

What the hell was she making, anyway? He fought the urge to tear the bright, unformed project from her hands. He fidgeted next to her.

"Everything all right?" she asked, not bothering to look at him.

"Well, yes," he said, "but, Elsie…" he paused.

"Hmm?" The way she calmly hummed the single syllable, it was clear that she couldn't have been any more interested in his answer than she was in whether it was raining in Dover.

He was at a complete and utter loss. Never had he ever considered how to ask her for something so intimate. He wanted her. Right this minute. He knew that other married people only had relations at night, in the dark. But not them! They were in love, for heaven's sake! Had waited their entire lives to be with one another! They were not constrained to the petty conventions of others! They made love whenever they chose. Which was often. And varied. But they didn't speak of it! How could he ask her? His methods had worked until just this minute. He'd counted on her witching, mind-reading abilities too much, he realized.

His thoughts were forced to come to a halt when she huffed softly and set her knitting in her lap.

"I just don't feel like sitting!" she exclaimed.

He smiled. Leaned forward. At last! She'd read his thoughts again.

"The dust has been gathering around that bookcase for too long. You stay right here and put your feet up. I'm going to attack those dust bunnies."

His bottom lip came up and his brows came down in frustration. But she didn't see it. She was already on her hands and knees with a dustpan.

On her hands.

And her knees.

With her bottom pointed in his direction.

He tilted his neck, hot and uncomfortable in his trousers all of a sudden.

She worked steadily, bobbing back and forth on her knees, brushing and scrubbing and lord knew what else. Her fierce attempt to rid their home of dirt was having the additional effect of driving her husband mad with lust.

This is insanity, he thought! She was his wife! He had seen her in every possible state. They'd been together in the height of intimacy. Why was he sitting in extreme discomfort when his bed was only steps away?!

He stood. Took the three steps needed to reach her. Firmly took her by the elbow to guide her to her feet.

"You drive me mad, woman," he rumbled.

"Do I?" she seemed shocked and she glanced down at the dustbin on the floor as though it was somehow to blame for his inexplicable and sudden anger.

He crushed her softness against his own hardness and growled low into her ear.

"How is it possible that you don't know how badly I want you right now?"

"Oh, Charlie," she sighed into his neck, "I knew." And she gave him a breathy, light, single laugh.

He brought his head back so that she might see his dumbfounded expression.

"What?" he stuttered. "But why-?"

She put her hand to his cheek.

"Sometimes...sometimes I think I'd like to hear you say the words, my dear."

His eyes narrowed. She thought she might have seen wonder and appreciation in his familiar and loving gaze.

She had gone from feigned ignorance, to lightly teasing, to soft vulnerability in a matter of moments.

He was enchanted.

His bride was a hidden well of unknowable depths. And she needed something from him. Something he suddenly realized he could easily give. Any awkwardness or embarrassment he was feeling vanished in the face of her need.

"Would you, now, my little temptress?" he whispered. "You'd like to hear how much I want you?"

She nodded, unable to speak.

"You'd like to hear of my appreciation for every part of you? You'd like to hear what it does to me when you make those noises of which I am so fond?"

Her eyes were wide now and she was beyond even nodding.

He took her hand and led her to their bedroom.

"Well, I think I can manage that."

And he did.