17. Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Seventeen

‘You any closer to sorting all this out?’ A few inches shorter than himself but formidable nonetheless, Lawrence Hempel pulled up beside Phineas, hands in his pockets.

‘Closer every day,’ Phineas replied, keeping his stare determinedly ahead. ‘I can feel it.’

‘You said Rosie would be with you for weeks. It’s been that.’

Phineas grappled for some cutting remark, but none sprung to mind. For years he’d antagonised his neighbour for the simple reason that he did not think a friend would be an asset to him. Now, he stood beside him as a failure.

Lawrence adjusted his shirt cuff. ‘No one fucks with my family, Babbage. I trust you because the duke did, and because Iris does. Not because you’ve earned it from me. I’ve heard of Pennington. I’m not a fool. You said you’d keep Rosie safe, and you have, but she also needs to be free. She’s got a bright life ahead of her, even after all this. I’d hate to see her bogged down and constantly looking over her shoulder, weighed down by a man who can’t figure things out.’

‘I don’t want that either. She’s determined. She’s strong. She’s—’

‘Solve it your way soon, or I’ll solve it mine.’ And Lawrence set off across the room to Amadeus. The boy excitedly showed his father the book and some other toy before pointing to the box of firecrackers. With a mischievous grin, Lawrence hoisted the crate onto his hip. He shot a sly look over his shoulder in the direction of his wife, who was occupied with the baby as she spoke with Iris and Odette. Then he hurried a few of the children out a side door. Their shadows danced across the curtains as they ran the perimeter of the building before each line of grey conspiracy faded into London.

He’d known he lived beside a family. Their constant red-dotted parade past his windows and the occasional thump and rattle through the walls were regular reminders. But a family… He’d never considered one for his own life. What an odd beast a family was. Fighting and compromises, gentleness and antagonism—a family was composed of so many shifting components. Had he, the corporal, and his mother been a family? Perhaps, in the lines of regiment, in the perfectly ordered camp with lessons and bugle practise, they had been, in their own way. An awkward thrumming, a type of nostalgic tick wedged a part of himself open, and a bizarre confluence of affection and discomfort trickled through him. This was his place, but only temporarily, and yet, it felt nice to belong to something bigger than oneself. Something that wasn’t about duty or work. Something that simply was .

Phineas scanned the room, his gaze flicking from chair to chair until he found the anchor he craved. Rosanna. Heavens, another new dress, this one emerald green. It hugged her breasts and skimmed over her decadent body until it disappeared beneath the table. He rolled his tongue against his palette, for a moment cherishing the memory of her nipple, hard and taut, in his mouth. And in that moment of depravity, she looked up, half rose in her seat with a smile like sunshine, and beckoned to him. And he, completely lacking in restraint, trotted over. She kissed his cheek, and he kissed hers. She tasted like… like happiness .

‘You got Ammie a gift.’ She squeezed his arm, then settled back into her chair. ‘He loved it. Although it is Ammie, and he loves everything. But he’s taken a shine to you.’

Phineas shrugged through the burgeoning warmth in his chest. He unbuttoned his coat and took a seat at the table. ‘It seemed the proper thing to do.’

A waiter set a plate of cake onto the table before Rosanna. Outside, a piercing whistle was followed by a fizz of light flashing through the gaps in the curtains. Energy and gunpowder crinkled and cracked. Sparks of yellow light edged the windows before a muffled shout of, ‘Run, kids! Through the lane and into the kitchens,’ echoed. Wilhelmina rose and looked across the room with a frown. Rosanna stifled a laugh against the back of her hand.

‘As usual, the worst behaved child is Papa. I suppose this is all a little crazy for a steady bank man like yourself. I suppose I am all sorts of crazy in your life.’ She separated a small piece of cake off with her fork but didn’t raise it to her mouth. Just twisted it on the prongs and divided it into increasingly smaller pieces until the entire wedge was a collection of crumbs.

‘I like order. I can manage its alternative.’ He inched his fingers across the table and stole a morsel of sponge from her plate.

‘Do you mind!’ she scolded, then smiled and pushed the cake across to him. ‘Perhaps, but we both know that before my arrival, your house was so ordered. And I’ve seen the bank. It’s all so tightly managed. We are completely capricious, and the hotel is far worse. Each day is a flip of the coin, sometimes several. Your world is so different. So predictable.’

Phineas was raising a triangle of sponge to his mouth but halted mid-air. ‘You think I’m boring.’

‘No!’ Rosanna ran a fingernail along a crease in the tablecloth. A pink tinge inched along her neck and cheeks. For weeks, all she had done was unsettle him. How marvellous to have finally made her uncomfortable. ‘If all of this is too much for you, and you’d like to go home to eat, we can. That’s all I’m saying.’

Phineas chuckled. For all its unfamiliarity, the sound settled against his chest, a familiar tune when it came to Rosanna. ‘I’m just teasing, Hempel. But do you really think finance is like that? Predictable quiet and columns?’

‘ You are all quiet and columns. All blank walls and black waistcoats. Why would I imagine that world any different?’ She pulled her plate back across the table, stole his fork, and deftly snuck a wedge into her mouth. A tight crumb adhered to her lip, and with a quick flick of her tongue, she knocked it free. An ache, a need, a hunger rippled along his spine, and while he chewed the cake he tasted her, that delicious lingering of her essence that had clung to his fingers after she’d come to him on the upper floors and demanded her pleasure.

‘I am not all quiet and columns.’ His voice came out husky and raw, scratching his throat. Rosanna rolled her lips like she was trying not to laugh, a light glimmer in her eyes as she shot him a conciliatory smile. ‘I’m not! And I will show you.’ He studied her dress. Subtle folds gathered to cinch her waist. His breath snagged in his chest. ‘Very pretty, but you cannot wear that.’

‘What’s wrong with my dress?’ she asked, slightly flaring the skirt as she stood.

‘It won’t help where we’re going. Does the hotel have a stash of things guests leave behind?’

He led her by the hand for the first few blocks as they took backstreets and alleys away from the hotel. Her silken skin felt warm against his palm, as smooth as his own, worn to luxury after years of ledgers and pens. As they approached the high street, he released her, but before she stepped into the thoroughfare before Capel Court, he gripped her shoulder and pulled her back.

‘Let me check you. One last time.’

He was a cad, a scoundrel. A damned lusty schoolboy with an infatuation, and as she adjusted herself into a stiff, formal pose, he tried to feel guilt, but appreciation—no, damn himself, nothing so ordered, it was simply lust—smothered it all. Tight trousers which hugged her behind, a tucked-in white shirt, and a waistcoat that skimmed her curves. A too-loose coat concealed her breasts, and with much effort, they’d tucked her hair into a bowler hat. If she could hold her tongue and they stayed in shadows, she might blend in enough.

‘Do I look like a clerk?’

‘You’ll do. Head down. Hat on, preferably low over your face. And if you hear the words fourteen hundred , I want you to run for the exit. Don’t wait for me, and don’t look back. The words are code, used when someone has spotted an imposter. It’s one thing to be sprung without a membership, but I’ve never known a woman to be caught in here.’

‘What do they do when they spot an imposter?’ she asked.

‘If it’s a man, they’ll rough him up. Knock his hat, tear his clothes, manhandle him all the way to the doors. Are you ready?’

Rosanna checked the buttons on her coat, then bit her lip to hide a smile. She craved testing boundaries as much as he sought their comfort. Only small tells, like her fidgeting with her coat sleeves or worrying her bottom lip, hinted that her stiff confidence and stomping forthright walk was a lie.

They ascended the short stairs and passed between the tall columns to cross the portico, blood thrumming loud in his ears. As they walked through the heavy wooden doors, Phineas had to tap at the back of Rosanna’s hat in a silent reminder to keep her head down because she craned her neck to look up, taking in everything. Once they had made their way beneath the royal crest of the lion and unicorn with the words Dieu et mon droit carved into the stone— God and my right— he ushered her between the strips of shadow and light along the outer corridor. There he found a space where they could stand, inconspicuous and obscured by heavy sandstone blocks and tall columns. Rosanna steadied herself against him as she peered between the arches to take in the cacophony of the trading floor.

The London Stock Exchange. A chaotic, bleating, bleeding morass of fortune, misfortune, and chance. In so many ways, the stock exchange was gambling elevated to the status of respectability, of a profession. In these walls, debt became an asset, interest an opportunity, and fortunes were built and demolished in an instant. Here, men made deals worth thousands of pounds, shook hands like gentlemen, then stole hats and chalked each other’s backs like naughty schoolboys. Shouts of trade and business were coupled with teasing and pranks. A bowler hat tipped and flew across the room, and when it landed, the men in its vicinity kicked it amongst themselves like it was a football—until one man sent it sailing through the air again with an extra energetic kick, pursued by its hapless owner. Rosanna clutched the lip of her own bowler. Phineas tapped her hand and shook his head. ‘They’ll spot you if you look nervous. Be confident, like you belong.’

Phineas leant into Rosanna, as close as he dared without looking too intimate. ‘The bank might be all order and quiet, but this is real finance. It’s chaotic. Unpredictable. Ruthless and unforgiving. A man might have a crowd of admirers one day and be abandoned the next. Here, there are no connections, no loyalty. Only money.’

‘Does money matter so much to you?’ She pulled at her coat collar as she searched his face. ‘I hadn’t realised. I thought you only liked numbers.’

‘Everyone likes money, especially those who grew up without it. When I was free of the army, I swore I would take charge of my own life, and that meant not merely earning money, but understanding it. I swore I would never again be dependent on the whims of employers who might be fair or mean, or officers who’d bought their commissions and didn’t understand what a day’s march felt like, but who ordered men to take them, regardless. When I started as a clerk, I learnt fast. When I had enough savings, I made my own investments and built my own stability.’

A loud thump and the cracking whack of a mallet against the wooden wainscot reverberated through the room. Phineas pinched Rosanna’s coat by the elbow and led her to the side, partially for greater obscurity, but also so that she might have a better view of the ritual that was about to unfold. Another thump filled the air. Then the third beat finally cracked the raucousness of the chamber, and the shouts and talk faded away into mutterings. Almost everyone turned towards a liveried man who stood atop a small plinth. He raised a speaking trumpet to his mouth.

‘Mr Reginald Ronald Billings is hereby barred from undertaking business at the London Stock Exchange.’

Across the room, another man scratched out the offending name on a chalk board. Normally after this ceremony, a few men shouted or swore, and the room returned to the hefty noise of trade. But today, a different kind of energy raced through the gathering, and the shouts turned accusatory and bitter, much louder than they had been before.

‘Oh dear. He was not expecting to be called out. Poor fellow, he’s here.’ Phineas pointed at the thickening of the crowd. Rosanna pushed herself onto tiptoes, catching his arm to steady her balance. Instantly, that delicious shiver she created in him rippled through his skin.

‘What has he done?’ she asked.

Phineas swallowed his distraction and clutched at words of explanation. He pressed his nose to her ear. ‘He’s defaulted on his debts. The committee has declared him a lame duck, as is the term. It means he’s bankrupt, unreliable, and no longer welcome in the world of finance. Most men avoid the ceremony if they are aware its coming. He had no idea.’

A group of men swarmed around the unfortunate Mr Billings. An elbow raised, perhaps to deliver a blow, or maybe just to knock the man’s hat from his head—Phineas could not tell. They circled around him, calling and shouting, and the occasional cry or plea for mercy leaked out between the insults. The group of traders shoved and passed Mr Billings, one to the other, and he staggered between them.

‘It’s like being tied in the stocks,’ Rosanna observed the rough shoving and shouts until the group ejected Mr Billings, not hatless but with a torn coat and only one shoe, from the chambers. ‘It’s humiliating.’

‘It’s meant to be. Finance is not pretty. Far from it.’ Phineas glanced up over the tall arches, to where the echoes from the floor swirled and butted against the ceiling before they bounced back down. ‘Although it looks different from a distance.’

Phineas grabbed her hand. In a room full of men who eyed one another, keen for a way to wring a pound from their flesh, it was a rash thing to do. Her bare palm against his ran soft as cotton, and she gasped in exhilaration as they clapped up the stairs. On the first floor, he dodged between the columns and the makeshift offices built out over decades of haphazard renovations until they leant over the mezzanine balustrade that ran along the edge of the room. Here, he released her, and rested both elbows against the rail. She copied him, her fine fingers clasped before his in a mimicry of his pose, and they looked down through the cavity, to the spectacle of the trading floor below.

‘In the bank, we take all of this.’ He swept a hand across the concentrated activity of the arguing and madness, the negotiations and confusion, the handshakes and blows. ‘And we make order out of chaos. We create a world of calm and understanding. But it’s more than that. It’s about security. Some people want riches but don’t want to work. Others, like Pennington, seem to enjoy breaking the rules. There is never enough for men like that. They cheat and swindle and exploit every bit of trust to amass fortunes. But those types are the exceptions. Most people in the ledger we found the other night are honest people, hoping to make their lives a little more predictable and comfortable. They are so easily taken in by smooth talkers and charlatans, not because of greed, but because they have hope. I understand this. I can help them avoid the pitfalls, or at least stomp out the fraudsters before they get too confident.’

Raw energy thrummed through the exchange. Rosanna, her eyes darting across it all, flashed him a coy smile, and his entire body set aflame with a glance. She understood what it meant. She understood him .

‘It’s both crazier and more magnificent than I imagined. It’s the world ticking over, isn’t it? From small wishes to grand schemes.’ She rubbed at a freckle on the back of her hand, as if trying to erase the evidence of too much time in the sun. ‘Does Lord Richard invest in stocks like this? Is this what he wanted my dowry for? To gamble on the world’s fortunes?’

Bitterness clung to her voice as she almost spat the word dowry into the void. So much more than a tidy sum of cash to ensure her well-being after marriage. Dowry meant her body, her freedom, her associations, her future of either poverty or comfort, even the presence of tolerance or love. A simple number attached to the life of a woman. Was it any wonder that, when her doting father had given her the momentous freedom of making her own decision, she had agonised and drawn the men of the city into columns of possible cads and possible beaux? She elucidated her thoughts by saying she wanted to be loved, and that was part of it. But more than that, like almost everyone in the columns, she wanted to be safe.

‘He didn’t deserve you.’ The ruckus from the trading floor threatened to smother his confession, so he leant in closer and took her hand, squeezing his fingers into her palm. ‘And he deserves to be hung from a lamppost for making you think so little of yourself.’

He’d stolen too many kisses from her already. As he leant close, a part of him felt the pinch of guilt even while his impulse stomped over his resolve. But another part of him reasoned that of all his crimes, one more did not matter so much. He moved mere inches, but when she turned to meet him, her lips ready and accepting, he capsized and crowded her space with his desires.

Both innocent and eager, Rosanna’s kisses splintered and cracked his barricades, and with each little sigh as she tipped her head, as the brims of their hats bumped together, he felt himself slipping dangerously close to her sunshine. Without dresses, boning, petticoats, and whatever else she normally layered herself with, the heat of her body met his hungry touch, and he ran his palm along her torso, over each fantastic curve, over the bold, healthy undulation of her hips, her waist, her arse. Only a thin layer of fabric separated him from all her delectable places.

‘We shouldn’t,’ he whispered. Yet he still drew the edge of her earlobe into his mouth.

‘Why not?’ Her breath warmed the space behind his ear, and dear heavens, she licked him—a light kiss of her tongue in the shallow of his collarbone.

‘Because… Because…’

Rosanna silenced his stammering with her mouth, kissing him with her fervour, her abundance, her everything. ‘When I came to your room and you touched me, did you enjoy yourself?’

He couldn’t even find a yes . Only a groan.

‘You asked me if I would like your fingers or your mouth. I’ve looked in your books and not seen anything about oral intimacies. Will you show me what you meant?’

His fingers curled in on themselves and gouged the decadent curve of her hips. She had mastered how to circumnavigate his defences, how to slit her blade through the small exposures in his armour. And now, surrounded by noise and with so little between them—just a thin cotton shirt and his ever-eroding restraint—he inhaled the sweetness of surrender, of roses and sunshine. He’d carry the memory of her forever, so why not give himself a little more fodder for the impending days of empty loneliness? He slipped the button on her waistband, inched his hand across her soft stomach, then teased his finger through her coarse hair and stroked until he found the top of her slit. He crept a little lower. Just enough to feel the heat of her most intimate parts, to coat his fingertip with her wetness. Then he withdrew and sucked the pad of his fingertip.

‘Delicious. Delectable. Divine.’ He stroked her again, and she loosened, collapsing a little with a moan.

‘We can’t stay out here,’ she said, her breath racing over his ear as he kissed her nape. ‘Can we?’

‘We need to go somewhere else, so that you can be loud.’ Reluctantly, he withdrew from her trousers, catching her hand and tugging her towards the hallway. ‘I know the perfect place.’

Phineas tried handle after door handle until he found an unlocked and abandoned office at the far end of the corridor. The steady tap and whirl of hole punches and machines from the room next door hummed, pattering and discordant, through the walls. He slammed the door shut and pushed Rosanna against the wood, hungrily finding her mouth again.

‘What’s that noise?’ she asked with a pant.

‘It’s the tickertape machine. It prints out prices of stocks from all the other markets. Does it bother you?’

‘No, but… do you like the sound?’

He chuckled. ‘Not in that way. But I like that it’s loud. Because when I make you scream, no one will hear you but me.’ Possessive and brutal, he gripped her chin and kissed her, hard. As with everything Rosanna, she met his firmness with her own strength before softening and yielding. And for a moment, he imagined a world where she cried out his name every night, not that of some other man—one worthier than him who would one day fill his place in her life as a proper husband. One who could give her the status and stability that she deserved.

Phineas banished the torturous image as he grappled with her shirt buttons. Now, here, she was his, and this memory would belong to no other man. She demanded his mouth, and that’s what she’d get, but he’d take his own time and make his own decisions about where and when and for how long. He plucked at her loose stays, mouthing the gorgeous swell of her breast until he nudged a nipple free. Drawing it into his mouth, he grunted. Nothing in the world tasted as good as his wife, and he swirled his tongue until her point hardened.

Working back to her mouth, he dragged his tongue across every fortification, winding around her battlements, searching for her weakness, feeling for what she wanted but did not say aloud. Listening to her body, listening to her air like it was his only oxygen. She moved and trembled without pause, a cacophony of emotion that he had to shut his eyes to just feel. Strung tight, she trembled with fear and anxious desire.

‘So scared.’ He eased, kissed her neck, pressed his lips behind her ear. He unfastened another button, knocked her hat from her head. ‘Why?’

Bright afternoon light squeezed through the edges of the curtains, and thin strips fell in stark lines across her face. She pinched her eyes tight and shook her head. ‘I’m not scared of anything,’ she said, her voice deep and raspy. And before he could counter, she jumped and wrapped herself around him, her arms around his shoulders, her legs around his waist. The slight tug of her leap against him nearly sent them both toppling, and her acceleration and momentum were intoxicating. Staggering and giddy, he cast about the room for space. Rosanna tightened her legs around him, far too trusting that he would lead the way. At last, with a bump and a giggle, he found steadiness against a desk. He knocked away a dry inkpot and a few scraps of paper to perch her on its edge.

Phineas tugged at her trousers, not wanting to stop kissing her for a breath. Damn buttons, damn ties, even the few small barriers were too much. Rosanna fumbled, her fingers flicking his out of the way, deftly unfastening her trousers so that he could tug them down. A proper gentleman would take the time to remove her boots, but he wasn’t one, and instead the clothing gathered at her ankles. He wrestled the offending garments from her body, then dropped to his knees and pushed her thighs wide.

When donning her disguise, she’d kept her own stockings and her own boots. Phineas pinched the end of the pink ribbon above her knee, slipped it loose, then drew the silk down to expose her soft skin. He nipped the indentation of her thigh and drew a languid pattern with his tongue over her flesh. He should take his time. He should torture her with his mouth until she knew no other word but his name. He should punish her with pleasure.

With a light grunt, almost a squeak of discovery, Rosanna tucked one leg over his shoulder. ‘Do you want me like this?’ she asked. ‘Is that how it’s done?’

Phineas sucked air between his teeth, forcing himself to find control. Everything about her subsumed him. From the tantalising scent of her sex to the decadent curves of her soft skin, Rosanna suffocated him with her eagerness, her desire, her neediness. He laid a trail of kisses along her thighs. Her muscles tensed, and in the same instance, she arched her back and moaned.

Control. Time. No need to rush.

Rosanna placed her other leg over his shoulder. The back of her boot pressed into his lower back. Her thighs rested against his cheeks, her body wrapped around his, and Phineas gripped at her, pulled at her stocking like it was a rope dangling in salvation and he stood teetering on a precipice. Like everything in his life, he had turned fucking into another examination of order and mastery. Yet, without realising it, Rosanna gently undermined his stability even here. Eager and uncertain, innocent and shameless—how could one person contain so many contradictions, so many thoughts and feelings? She carried her complexity with such lightness. And when she shuffled her arse a little further forwards, when she spread herself a little wider, Phineas released every restraint and let himself fall. Still, before his eyes rolled back in concession, he forced himself to maintain a modicum of order to steal a look, a look to last him a lifetime.

Truly disordered, everything about her disobedient, Rosanna sat perched above him like a wanton goddess. From her open shirt, her skewed stays that half concealed one breast while the other sat free, to the loose curl draped over her shoulder and her half open mouth… Everything about her radiated lust and energy and life. When he caught her gaze, reason slipped from his fingers. And when their eyes locked, an instant stretched into eternity.

Tender expectation, longing, trust, and anticipation—all carried in a look. She splayed her fingers through his hair and drew him closer, directing him to her damp cunt. Electricity rippled through him, and he bowed to her, subservient.

‘You would like the pleasure of my mouth?’ Phineas breathed the words across her thigh, to the decadent line where leg joined hip, where earth met heaven. He stroked her slit and parted the coarse curls to reveal her softness. He flicked his tongue against her soft bud. Sweetness and tang. Phineas circled and licked as he explored her taste, so much better than from his fingers where it was tainted by his own skin. This was pure Rosanna.

Rosanna moaned. ‘No one will hear me?’

Phineas kept his mouth on her sex as he shook his head, then pushed firmer, drawing her clitoris into his mouth before releasing. Rosanna groaned, deep and degenerate, her entire body vibrating with the effort.

‘This is so much better with someone else,’ she gasped. ‘Don’t stop, oh sweet heavens and mercy, don’t ever stop.’

So slick and wet, opening just for him. He slipped his fingers inside her and stroked. ‘How often do you touch yourself?’ he rasped.

‘Much more often since I came to live with you.’ Rosanna grasped him and manoeuvred him like a helpless, licentious puppet, forcing his face back to her core. How many nights had she been lying in her bed, pleasuring herself while he stroked himself in the room above with her image in his mind? The thought was more than he could manage. He scrabbled at his trouser buttons, shoved down his smalls, and took himself in hand.

Rosanna moaned again, a long rattling sound. Her back arched as she presented herself, and he licked and laved, circled her tenderness, sucked hard on her clitoris, dipped his tongue into her body, and teased at the length of her slit. With every shift in his attention, she writhed and jerked against the desk. Palm tight around his shaft, Phineas pumped harder, lost and abandoned to her essence. She seemed to clamber over him, opening wider, ankles crossed against his back, ensnaring him and making him captive to her desires. She sang her bliss, her words like an orchestra to his ego. Over and over, she said his name. Yes, Phineas, I like that, Phineas, I love your mouth, do that again, Phineas . And when her words lost form and became nothing but whimpering, he tightened his grasp on himself with one hand and slipped a finger inside her with the other. Rosanna bucked and pushed his face into her cunt so hard that he thought he might suffocate, but no other heaven even mattered. She quietened to tiny pants and whispered whimpers, don’t stop, don’t stop , until her quiet became a roar, and the most magnificent rumble of exhilaration spilled from her lips. She pulsed against him, and he greedily drank and lapped at all of her. Slackening, she collapsed over him like a cocoon of intimacy as she panted into the background hum.

Then she pushed him from her body with a gentle nudge. ‘Are you touching yourself?’

He grunted, still driving himself forwards, his eyes on her wetness, on her gorgeous sex, swollen and glistening from his mouth and her orgasm.

‘I want to watch you,’ she said. ‘Stand up.’

Phineas obeyed mutely, his hand still working and stroking at himself. She gripped his chin and kissed him, light and tenuous, then pulled back to hold his gaze. ‘Don’t you look away,’ she ordered as she slid her hand beside his, into the restraint of his clothing, cupped him, stroked him, inexperienced and experimental. Each little touch and flutter as she caressed his body swallowed his senses, and still, barely blinking, she watched him. And when he panted harder, heavier, when he grunted, she continued to hold him in place with her grip and her eyes. Her eyes bored into him, deep and relentless, and while his years of solitude and silence railed against the intrusion, something more debased, more vulnerable, revelled in the intimacy. With all his forced composure, he held her stare until, with a moan of her name, he found his release. He spent against her thigh and tumbled, both lost and found, adrift and anchored, into the mired agony of uncontrolled bliss.

Every part of his body hummed and buzzed, frenetic. He tucked himself away, broke her stare, and retrieved a fresh kerchief from his pocket to wipe at her thigh.

With her palm against his cheek, Rosanna drew his attention back to herself. ‘Don’t be embarrassed. I like seeing you like that.’

‘Watching me? As I—’

‘Uncontrolled,’ she said. ‘I like seeing you lose yourself.’

‘I shouldn’t. I don’t like to lose myself.’

‘Shh…’ She stroked his cheek, then leant forwards and kissed him.

There was nothing extraordinary about it. It was a kiss of satiation, of endings, of consumed desires. A kiss of embers. Yet unlike every other moment with Rosanna, it did not careen headlong into chaos. She remained gentle, supporting him, firm and steadfast. And in her kiss, all the restlessness in him settled. She held back, for him. She saw him; she understood the confusion, and she reached out. Even as she broke their connection, she held him until he could retreat and close himself back into his safety, his quiet familiarity.

Yet not familiar. Something within him felt off kilter. His heart did not sit as it should, like it had completely detached. Instead it dragged itself across the dusty floor, flopping, pedantic, ticking like an over-wound watch. And as he felt its rhythm, as he looked to the sublime panting of his wife, to her scarlet red lips and her chest puffing with exhilaration, to the endless comfort of her eyes, he knew his heart would never again feel comfortable inside his own chest.

Because it no longer belonged to him.

The realisation stabbed him, like he was a wounded spectre dissolving into oblivion. There was nothing else for it. His heart was now hers. From the slight curl of her index finger in the centre of his palm, to the laughter that spilled from her crimson lips, to the pink of her cheeks, to the pull of her buttons… When faced with all her decadence and innocence and obstinance and compassion, he was her slave. The yearning comprehension in his chest filled him with terror, but mostly, relief. He could love. He was not ice and stone. For all its danger, the realisation of his love freed him.

He would never, ever tell her. He couldn’t burden her with his own longings, create obligation when he had promised he would not.

But nor could he keep her.

It was time to let her go.