Chapter 23

It was one of Belle’s very dearest things to hear. She thought it would have been, even if she had been romantically inclined. From everything she’d read and witnessed, love seemed altogether random. It came upon people chaotically and uncontrollably and swept them away—an experience they seemed to take for granted was worth it, rather than terrifying and slightly demeaning, to be reduced to impulse and emotion. Of course, Belle was a creature of impulse and emotion herself, but they were her impulses, her emotions.

If she forced herself to think about love in a positive way, she wondered if perhaps it was like music: something that cut past words and thoughts and worldly complications and spoke directly to the heart. That was, as it happened, an aspect of music she appreciated. But the notion of a person doing it, a person who could have been anyone, circumventing her, like maggots in a wound? No. Just no. Besides, if love was an arbitrary parasite, like was a tough little wildflower, springing up, bright and resilient, wherever you allowed it to grow.

At least, that was the theory. That was what she told herself when she felt alone and set apart. But today she wasn’t quite done with being her own worst enemy. “What is the use of liking me?”

Miss Carswile made a sound at the back of her throat, low and amused, not quite a laugh. “What is the use of liking anyone?”

“Someone else could ... give more?”

“Miss Tarleton, the great love of my life is—and will likely always be—my sense of an infinitely good and infinitely beautiful divine being.”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t or won’t love a person, too, though.”

“True. But it’s certainly not a priority for me. And my point is more to do with the fact that there are as many ways of loving in the world as there are people in it. What does it matter that there is one love that is not your love?”

It was the first time Belle had spoken about this to someone without the conversation falling apart on her. Without becoming a knife that was being blithely twisted through her innards. Rufus, she knew, was broadly comfortable, broadly accepting. But she also knew that was in large part because he didn’t want anything from her beyond friendship, and sometimes not even that. Bonny was still convinced she was broken. Peggy had been deeply, profoundly, hurt. “But,” she muttered, “is that not the love against which all other loves are shadows?”

“Some may believe so. It is not what I believe.”

“Yes yes”—Belle rolled her eyes—“because, to you, divine love is the only love.”

“That is not what I said. I see our earthly loves, in whatever form they come, as fragments of divine love. That does not make them less than God’s love. It makes them part of it. It’s not as though Paul wrote to the Corinthians, ‘And now abide faith, hope, love, these three; but the greatest of these is that fluttery sensation in your stomach.’”

And what if you’re wrong? Belle wanted to ask. What if you’re wrong and the rest of the world is right. What if everything I am is never enough? What if the way I love always feels like less than it could or should be. Except she recognised instinctively that those were not the kind of fears that could be answered in words. Or by another person. The conversation may not have been knife-shaped (yet), but it had still left her raw around the edges. She had neither intended nor expected to subject Miss Carswile to quite so many of her truths, like a callow lad casting up his accounts after a night on the town.

“This would sound a lot better,” she said aloud, and perhaps more sharply than was fair, “if you had not been attempting to cure a man of sodomy through marriage.”

Miss Carswile, who had been reclining at her ease between the roots, sat forward with a startled little cough. “I beg your pardon?”

“Was that not the plan?”

“No,” exclaimed Miss Carswile, looking only slightly less distressed than when she had thought Rufus was about to kill her brother. “Heavens, no. I’ve only recently learned what sodomy is . I thought it had something to do with a lack of hospitality towards visiting angels.”

Turning her face away, Belle did her best to stifle a giggle. “As far as I know, Rufus is exceptionally considerate to any and all angels that cross his threshold. Did you really not know you were engaged to a man who ... well. Likes men?”

“You have to remember that Sir Horley has spoken nothing to me beyond the barest civilities. Everything I know about him, I know from his aunt.”

“And she struck you as a reasonable judge?”

“In fairness, no. But I also saw no reason to disbelieve her when she told me that her nephew wished to turn over a new leaf.”

“A new leaf of ... living a life to someone else’s preferences, instead of his own?”

Miss Carswile frowned—something else she did elegantly, her exquisitely carved features shifting into an expression of concern, when Belle’s face in anger crumpled like a discarded stocking. “That was not how it was presented to me. I understood that he was dissolute and selfish, that he had done shameful things in the past, but hoped to do better in future. She alluded to some corruptive influence upon her husband that had led to his death, but I assumed drinking or gambling dens or whatever else men do.”

“And,” asked Belle, no less bewildered, “you still thought it was a good idea to marry such a person?”

“Well, I’m sure there are worse people to marry. Sir Horley was always very courteous when we met and assured me of his intentions to change. I did not think it was my place either to judge or condemn.”

“Oh,” said Belle.

“Yes,” returned Miss Carswile, sharp again herself. “Oh.” Then she gave a rueful half smile. “It took me quite some time to learn that my husband-to-be’s terrible misdeeds amounted to nothing more than what I assume to be mutually agreed-upon encounters with other men.”

“There are many who do see that as a misdeed, though.”

“Well, I am not one of them. I certainly see no scriptural precedent. Or rather, one can find a scriptural precedent for most things, and no things, so it behoves one to consider the matter of context, and to extricate what we think of as the Gospel—the message of God’s love—from a very old book we call the Bible.”

Belle eyed her with sudden suspicion. “Nobody ever spoke like this when I was attending church. Are you some kind of heretic?”

“Who knows?” Miss Carswile lifted her brows wickedly. “Perhaps I am.”

“No, but are you?”

“I’m simply someone trying to live their life in accordance with precepts they believe in.”

For a moment or two, Belle was silent, thinking. “What if there is a God, and God does actually hate people committing sodomy?”

“While I cannot answer for God”—Miss Carswile also seemed to be thinking—“I can try to tell you what I think about what God might think, if that will help?”

“Sounds complicated, but go on.”

“Well, I think there’s a lot of violence and pain and cruelty and need in the world—what’s the matter? You’re making fur-ball face again.”

“This didn’t go where I expected. I thought you were going to tell me something nice .”

“All I’m trying to say is that the world is big and there’s a lot going on in it, and, even for an omnipotent, omniscient, all-loving being, God is probably quite busy. I really can’t imagine, if I were in God’s position, I would give ... let me see, how would you phrase it. A flying fuck where people consensually put their pricks.”

“That’s a good point,” said Belle, pleased. “But then if God is omnipotent, omniscient, and all-loving, like you say, why is the world full of suffering?”

Miss Carswile gave the deepest of deep sighs. “Belle?”

“Yes.”

“Read a book. Start with Epicurus.”

Belle, however, was not interested in Epicurus. “You called me Belle.”

“I did.”

“And you said fuck .”

“Indeed.”

“And prick .”

“Quite.”

“I liked it a lot.”

“Thank you.”

The sun was lingering upon the lip of the horizon; their bower was full of a mossy dark.

“Can I ask you a question?” piped up Belle.

“If it is about the fundamentals of Christian thought, no.”

“Why did you want to marry Rufus.”

“I told you. His aunt—”

“No, no, no.” Belle cut her off. “That’s about Rufus. I’m asking about you .”

For the first time in their admittedly limited acquaintance, Belle seemed to have taken Miss Carswile by surprise. “Ah,” she said, a shadow upon her cheeks that might have been a blush. “It seemed a useful thing to do for someone else. A married woman has more freedom. And I confess, when I learned the true extent of the convenience upon which our union would be based, I found the notion of a man who would want very little from me in a ... in a ... marital context rather appealing.”

“You have no interest in men?”

“Aesthetically? Sometimes. Emotionally, hardly. Have you met them? Also”—and here Miss Carswile’s lips turned into their elusive smile—“much like the Lord, I am quite busy.”

Very naturally indeed, Belle edged a tiny bit closer. “Before you re-approach the issue of matrimony, you should have some understanding of what even the most convenient husband might wish you to abandon.”

“Should I now?” Miss Carswile turned her head so that they were breath to breath beneath the willow tree.

“Don’t you think?”

“For your information, I am not a complete innocent. I regularly see to the business of my own satisfaction.”

Belle tipped her face up, so her lips did everything but graze Miss Carswile’s skin. “The fact you refer to it as the business isn’t a good sign, Verity.”

“I see I have become Verity.”

“You started it.”

“Are you trying to seduce me, Belle?”

Drawing back, Belle put her free hand to her heart. “What an outrageous suggestion. I am offering you an instructive opportunity, upon which to inform future decision-making. Also”—she let her false indignation dance away with the gathering fireflies—“it’s different when it’s with someone else. It feels different.”

“You’re”—again Verity’s voice trembled with a touch of uncertainty—“you’re injured.”

“Please,” Belle retorted. “It takes more than getting shot and nearly dying to dampen my ardour.”

“Don’t you need . . . ah . . . mobility?”

“Listen”—Belle smirked—“you are not ready for what I can do with two hands. This is a blessing.”

“God.” If it was a prayer, it was a profane one; resignation and amusement and curiosity. “You’re completely shameless, aren’t you?”

“When I need to be. Do you mind?”

“Quite the contrary. I find it annoying and ... and alluring.”

Trying not to jar her shoulder—fainting before she’d even got started was not her ideal way to embark upon an assignation—Belle eased herself into Verity’s lap and found herself immediately steadied there by an arm about her waist. It was always so delightfully shocking, that first moment of true closeness, when you irrevocably broke the boundaries of discretion and civility. When you committed to the risk of intimacy.

“That’s good to know,” Belle told her. “Because I find you alluring too.”

“What about annoying?”

“I’m shallow.”

With Belle perched as she was, they were eye level. The darkness had swallowed the colour from Verity’s eyes, but they gleamed with no less intensity. “Do you really?”

“Do I really what?”

“Think I’m”—Verity cleared her throat—“what you said.”

“Hopelessly. I’ve thought so ever since I kidnapped you. Surely you’ve noticed? Subtlety does not run in my family.”

“I’m not used to the idea of being perceived that way. I know I have the requisite number of limbs and features in proportion. I wear green out of vanity because I think it suits me—”

“It does.”

“But alluring conjures something specific.”

Leaning forward, Belle indulged herself in small, teasing motions. Gliding her cheek against Verity’s. Nosing into the sweet silken curls that bobbed at her temples in defiance of her otherwise drawn-back hair. Pressing her closed lips to odd places: the tip of her nose and the edge of her jaw, the thought line between Verity’s lovely brows. “Would you prefer me to admire the quantity of your limbs? Four is generally my favourite.”

To Belle’s surprise, Verity tipped back her head and laughed, full-throated and joyous. “Let’s stick with alluring , shall we?”

“Are you sure? Because the symmetry of your cheekbones drives me wild .”

“Belle . . .”

“And the geometry of your chin is positively Pythagorean.”

“You mean triangular?”

“Such harmonious configur—”

Before she got any further, Verity’s free hand caught her by the nape of her neck—a touch that when correctly applied could make Belle as weak as a kitten—and dragged their mouths together. It was a very Verity kiss: direct and determined, with a hidden softness at its heart. Belle yielded gladly, let herself be taken and explored, knowing that first kisses flourished best when allowed to find their own way. And, sure enough, curiosity became fervour and Belle met the fervour and then gentled it, for this was a dance with steps for every season and every inclination.

“Well,” murmured Verity when breath demanded they part. “That is certainly not something I could experience alone.”

Belle laughed, the taste of Verity still clinging to her lips. “Bonny and I used to practice on our hands.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“We wanted to make sure we were good at it by the time we found someone to kiss us.”

“Now I’m concerned. Is it possible to be bad?”

“I mean, kind of. But,” Belle went on hastily, “you weren’t. I promise.”

“I have so little experience, I’m not even sure what bad would look like in this context?”

“Oh, you’d know. To be honest, I think it’s more about a lack of connection, which is subjective, than a lack of demonstrable technique. But sometimes it’s a lack of demonstrable technique. Bonny has names for them.”

“Names for bad kisses?”

Belle nodded. “Windmill in a Hurricane, Stabby Stabby McStab Stab, that sort of thing.”

“I can tell,” said Verity, with a kind of doomed curiosity, “I’m going to regret asking, but I feel compelled to ask.”

“You really want to know?”

“I really want to know.”

“This is the kissing equivalent,” Belle warned her, “of fruit of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil.”

“Tempt me?”

It was an invitation liable to turn anyone serpentine. But Belle was afflicted by the curse of honesty. “I think you’re going to be regretful rather than tempted, but here goes. Windmill in a Hurricane is when they ...”

And Belle stuck her tongue into Verity’s mouth, thrashing it chaotically until they were both laughing too much to continue, and she was gently but firmly pushed away.

“That was horrendous,” said Verity.

“And Stabby Stabby McStab Stab ...”

“Oh no, don’t you—”

Lunging forward, Belle began a relentless oral thrusting—which turned out to be more difficult than she had anticipated, partly because it was tiring but also because her victim was squirming vigorously enough to present a moving target.

“That was also horrendous,” said Verity, having successfully repelled further attack. “You nearly got me in the eye .”

“And then there’s Not All the Water in the Rough Rude Sea, which—”

“I don’t need further illumination.”

“Are you sure? Because it’s when they lick all around your mouth over and over and over again.”

“There shall be no licking.”

Belle rested her fingertips lightly against Verity’s lips. “Maybe hold that thought.”

“If you say so. This has been a harrowing education.”

“I’ll make it better,” Belle promised. “Bonny also went through a stage of inventing kisses.”

“Inventing them?”

“Yes. Giving them names and writing lavish descriptions of how they ought to be performed. He was planning to write a book of them.”

“Did he run out of kisses?”

“More just out of steam. I cannot think of one project Bonny has embarked upon that he has completed, unless you count falling in love with a duke and living happily ever after. I suspect I’m the same. About the projects, I mean.”

“I don’t know.” Verity offered her a rather provocative look. “You seem quite accomplished at getting what you want.”

Belle grinned back. “I’m working on it. Now let me see if I can remember ...” She brushed her mouth lightly against Verity’s, right at the corner of her lips, first one side, then the other. “Twin Butterflies.”

“I like that much better than A Ship Wrecked against the Rocks or whatever it was.”

“Moonlight upon Still Waters.” The next kiss Belle bestowed slowly, languorously, her tongue pressing inside only at the last to stroke the length of Verity’s. “The Honeybee’s Daydream.” This was a series of soft sucking nibbles until, once again, Verity’s lips parted for her, and Belle was darting playfully between them, withdrawing before the kiss had a chance to deepen. “It’s all nonsense, of course,” she concluded.

There was a flush standing out upon Verity’s cheeks. Her mouth still looked like invitation. “Is it?”

“Yes.” Insinuating her good arm about Verity’s neck, Belle wriggled closer, pressing her words to Verity’s mouth like a fresh set of kisses. “The only kiss that truly matters is a kiss from someone you really want to kiss and who really wants to kiss you back.”

“Then we are on the verge of the most perfect kiss in the known universe,” Verity returned, her usually measured tones still shaky.

Belle did not believe in perfect—she believed in a wide variety of very good things—but what followed came perilously close. It was the sort of kiss where time lost its meaning, where the world shed all its anxieties and obligations, leaving only two bodies pressed together, two mouths likewise, everything that wasn’t the to-and-fro of breath and heat, rough and sweet, rendered as insubstantial as the moonlight that fell in hazy ripples through the willow branches. Verity’s hair shed its fastenings entirely, perhaps abetted by Belle’s fingers, and came down around them both in a curtain of shadow and silk.

“Debauchery suits you,” Belle whispered.

They were lying together in the embrace of the tree roots, Verity ever so unravelled, with her mouth parted and glistening, her pelisse undone, and her harsh breath causing her breasts to swell deliciously against the otherwise modest neckline of her travelling dress. “I have always been concerned it might.”

Dipping her head, Belle pressed her open mouth to the base of Verity’s throat, just to feel the passion of her quickened pulse. She hesitated after, not wanting to move too quickly or transgress where she wasn’t welcome, but there was no resistance in Verity’s body. Just that trust and wonder and thrumming eagerness. A little lower, and Belle felt the cool press of metal against her lips: Verity’s golden cross.

“This is ...” She paused. “You are comfortable?”

“A well-planned day or a cup of tea in the rain makes me comfortable,” returned Verity. “I don’t think comfortable is what you’re intending, is it?”

“I just mean, you’re not going to regret this afterwards?”

“Why would I?”

Belle toyed with the cross. “God or guilt or something?”

There was a moment of silence. Then, “Belle?”

“Yes?”

“Do you want a theological debate or to fuck me? I don’t think I have the capacity to handle both at the same time.”

“I’d definitely rather fuck you.”

“That,” said Verity crisply, “was the correct answer.”

“You will tell me, though, if I do or say anything that ... that you don’t like or feels like too much?”

“No, I shall endure it in martyred silence like St. Sebastian. What do you take me for?”

Surprised, Belle laughed. “You’re very sarcastic when you’re inflamed.”

“Indeed. We are uncovering many facets of me today.”

Belle produced her best rakish leer. “I can think of a few facets I’d like to uncover.”

Which meant Verity was laughing her rich bold laugh as Belle drew down the bodice of her dress. And then that laughter dissolved into a breathy sigh as Belle kissed her way first across one breast and then the other, chasing little flurries of responsive goose pimples across the tender skin. It was hard, when confronted by such bounty, not to lament having one arm in a sling because Belle would have loved to fill her hands like a pirate with gold doubloons. In this, she had always feared she was a little ... unimaginative. All bodies were unique and full of beauty. The line of a hip, whether rounded or angular, could be nice. The dip of a waist, especially from behind. But the fact remained, for Belle at least, you couldn’t get much better than a boob. Ideally two. And especially when they were as supple and sensitive as Verity’s were turning out to be, her nipples tightening as Belle circled them with the pad of her thumb.

“‘Thy two breasts,’” she murmured against them, “‘are like two young roes that are twins, which feed among the lilies.’”

Verity arched her back in offering. “Oh, so you have read the Bible.”

“The good bits, obviously. I can also do ‘And before the throne there was a sea of glass like unto crystal: and in the midst of the throne, and round about the throne, were four beasts full of eyes before and behind,’ but it doesn’t seem quite as appropriate.”

“Revelation and the Song of Songs. I should have guessed.”

“Of course. The Song of Songs is racy as fuck. And Revelation is utterly gothic. Those are my two favourite things.” She danced her fingertips up and down the tantalising dip between Verity’s partially exposed breasts. “You have to remember, my brother and I grew up in Surrey. It was a great trial to us because Surrey is extraordinarily boring. We thought the end of the world as described in Revelation, with the rainbow throne and all the strange beasts appearing and the sea turning to blood, would have been an improvement.”

Verity was gazing at her intently—desire commingling with amusement in her eyes and upon her mouth, alongside an unexpected fondness. “‘Thou art all fair, my love,’” she said after a moment or two. “‘There is no spot in thee.’”

And Belle found herself flustered, though she hardly knew why. Before she could examine the feeling, however, she was drawn into another series of kisses, deeper, if anything, than the last, as they clung to each other and entangled tongues, limbs, hair, their increasingly dishevelled garments. Belle’s hand drifted naturally downwards, stroking through layers of fabric the long spare lines of Verity’s body. There was something, still, of the sculptural about her, so lean and sharp and austere, but she was fire now, not stone. A fresh-made Galatea, animated by not the whims of a yearning Pygmalion, but her own desires and choices.

Hiking up Verity’s skirt and petticoat, and burrowing beneath her chemise, Belle’s questing fingers discovered worsted wool stockings tied with a simple ribbon garter. Pressing her face against her companion’s neck, she muffled a moan. “You are killing me, Verity.”

“Whatever’s the matter?”

“Women in practical undergarments are my greatest weakness .” Not counting breasts. And prim people unravelling.

Verity gave a little cough. “Well, had I known I was to be corrupted beneath a willow tree rather than saving my absurd brother from getting shot in the face, I would have worn something a little more enticing.”

“No, no”—Belle traced the boundary where wool became flesh—“I am in earnest. It makes it extra ... extra ... everything .”

She teased her way around the garter, pushing her way beneath it to stroke the pristine skin and causing the stocking to slip, liberating yet more skin, as smooth as the pages of a newly printed book. It was somehow an even greater provocation not to be able to see—Belle’s eyes were on Verity’s face, when they were not bent, along with her mouth, in service to her breasts—but instead to be discovering her, learning her, by touch alone. The slight roughness of her knee. The little valleys at the top of her thighs. The soft abundance of the hair that sheltered her quim. And, of course, all the lovely wet heat that awaited Belle’s exploration.

Verity let out a stuttering breath. “Oh— oh .”

Slipping delicately between her folds, Belle gathered Verity’s arousal straight from the source and used it to slide her fingertips upwards to the place she knew could often bestow the greatest pleasure. “You’re well?”

“Of course I’m not fucking well ,” Verity snarled. “This is wonderful. More.” She seemed to recall herself. “If you please.”

“In this context,” Belle told her, “I respond equally well to commands and petitions.”

Verity’s head tipped back, exposing the shadow-washed column of her throat, the tips of her teeth exposed by her open mouth. “You ...” Her voice came in fits and starts, as though she had half forgotten how to use it. “You ... were ... right.”

“I often am. But in what particular?”

“It is different. There ... like that.” Her hand came down and wrapped around Belle’s wrist, her grip close to bruising. “Don’t stop.”

“I wouldn’t dare.” Belle sank her teeth lightly into the top of Verity’s left breast, earning a guttural sound. “You need not worry.” She kissed the reddened spot. “I have you.”

Belle stroked and circled, watching Verity all the time, partly for the pure gratification of it but mostly so she could gauge what motions and what pressure elicited the greatest response from her lover. She knew from her own body, and from past experience, that too much of anything here—except at the moment of crisis—could easily become too much. That the pleasure collected like dew upon a spider’s web, not simply from one place, but from all places, inside and out.

At last, Verity’s grasp slackened, and Belle shook her off, turning her hand so that she could press a finger, and then a second, into all that clinging heat while her thumb worked diligently above. She was cautious, at first, because not everyone appreciated penetration, but Verity tightened in welcome, a hard ripple travelling through her whole body. She looked gloriously feral there in the dark and dappled moonlight, with her hair coiled about her like snakes, and her hips bucking up to meet Belle’s touch.

“Harder,” she said. “Faster. And kiss me.”

And Belle was only too happy to oblige on all three counts. Her arm was beginning to ache, but it was the best kind of ache, being the result of service to another’s satisfaction. And when she lowered her head to be kissed, Verity caught her mouth like a lion, all teeth and exultant hunger. It was like this, not long after, that she came, her wild cry smothered against Belle’s lips and her body a reckless wave, hands thrown above her head, fingers curled into claws.

Belle coaxed her through it, her thumb pressed right where it was needed, gentling as the shudders faded and Verity’s breath steadied. They fell against each other, sticky and tousled, and for a while said nothing, chasing private stars.

“What about you?” asked Verity, at last, her breasts still agleam and her mouth swollen from that final kiss, one stocking rumpled about her ankle.

“What about me?”

“Is there anything I can—”

“Oh no. Not this time.”

“That does not seem equitable.”

“Sex isn’t an accounts ledger.” A great yawn racked Belle’s whole body. Rufus would probably scold her if he knew this was her idea of convalescence. On the other hand, at least she wasn’t bored. “Sometimes the giving is the gift, and that’s enough.”

Verity’s fingers trailed up and down the side of her neck. “I’ll trust you on that. But I would nevertheless value an opportunity to balance the books.” Her hint of a smile glimmered on her mouth. “For the sake of my continued education.”

“Well,” Belle murmured, “if it’s educational .”

They fell silent again.

“You know,” said Verity, somewhat abruptly. “You don’t have to marry Sir Horley either.”

Some of the lassitude fled Belle’s limbs. “That’s quite the non sequitur.”

“We can claim I have been your companion the whole journey. Neither of our reputations need suffer.”

“And what about Rufus?”

“Does he want to marry you?”

“Not really,” Belle admitted. “Probably slightly more than he wanted to marry you—no offence.”

“None taken. But that’s a low bar, Belle.”

“I have a fairly substantial dowry, and his aunt has probably already disinherited him.”

“Because no gentleman has ever found gainful employment.”

“I think,” Belle said softly, “he needs a home. Something that he can believe will not abandon him. I think I need the same.”

It was not a topic Belle wanted to be pressed further on, and to her relief, Verity did not press. “May I at least accompany you as far as Gretna Green?”

Belle’s eyes flew to her companion’s, but they offered very little clue as to her thinking. “Why?”

“For one thing, I’m more than halfway there already, having already chased you the length of the country. For another, it is not appropriate for a woman to be travelling alone with a gentleman to whom she is not yet wed.”

“I just had my fingers up your quim and my tongue down your throat.”

“That has no bearing on what society does and does not observe, and what society does and does not censure. Besides,” Verity went on serenely, “if I come with you, should you change your mind about tying yourself to Sir Horley for the rest of your life, or his life, you still can.”

Belle glowered. “How noble of you.”

“As you yourself have observed several times”—the irony lay thick upon Verity’s voice—“I am a deeply virtuous person. Also, this way we can continue to ...” She sighed. “I am too post-coital for euphemism. This way we can continue to fuck each other. I assume your fiancé will have no objection?”

“It would be bizarre if he did.”

“And you yourself have no objection?”

“To us fucking each other?”

“Indeed.”

“As it happens,” said Belle, settling her head more comfortably against Verity’s breast. “None whatsoever.”