Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

‘Tis much when sceptres are in children's hands,
But more when envy breeds unkind division:
There comes the ruin, there begins confusion.’

— William Shakespeare

They were remarkably in tune as of late.

Or maybe they’d always been?

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise to her; he’d always been so attuned to her moods, her sense of humour, her needs, even though he could frustrate and confuse her to no end (she suspected this feeling to be mutual). It was why she’d felt so drawn to him in the first place; the strong pull she’d experienced when he’d taken her hand in his for the first time, about a year ago. It’d been a novel experience; the positively electric, pleasant current that had passed through them upon this innocent contact. She’d marvelled at it, at him. How he allowed her to assist him on his cases, how they seemed to finish each other’s thoughts before even voicing them out loud. He seemed to know exactly what she required; always searching, always observing. A professional deformation she was only all too willing to reap the benefits of on a far more personal and intimate level.

Strong hands move up her ankles, stroking her calves with an admirable patience – feather light touches – before tickling the spot at the back of her right knee. She laughs, rich and warm, goosebumps erupting on her skin. It’s as she imagined it would be; comfortable, familiar and yet so wonderfully new.

No clothing, no stitches, no barriers, no more boundaries.

It’s almost like alchemy, or maybe more like chemistry, as there has always been plenty of that between them. She feels like a lit furnace, nay, like a cauldron, and he is the steady flame that causes the slow burn that is threatening to consume her from the inside out. Something’s brewing inside of her. She can feel it, simmering deep down.

She finds herself hungry for his taste, thirsty for his touch.

Warm fingers cup her thighs, pinching, squeezing, scratching her delicate skin. She loves it. They are precise in their path, sure of their way, meticulous in their method. A knuckle brushes against the curls at the apex of her thighs – already damp with her secretions – and she realises he must be able to see the glistening of her sex, relish the evaporations of her moisture, smell the musk of her womanhood. It makes her squirm with barely restrained arousal as she moans.

She longs for him to taste her.

His scent means familiarity, a comfort that she hasn’t allowed herself for a very long time. She’s made it a point not to depend on other people for her own sense of well-being, but whenever she catches a whiff of his scent, something warms in the pit of her stomach. A trace of his favourite cologne, the clean cotton of his white collar – permeated slightly by honest sweat – the musk of his skin, the vague aroma of bound books and whisky. It all calls to her, speaks to her, soothes her.

Palms move upwards, briefly grab a hold of her hips before gingerly tracing the slopes of her sides, teasingly brushing the undersides of her breasts. Discovering what makes her tremble, memorising the exact movements that cause her to shudder.           

She can feel the heat of his unclothed body against her own in the darkness that envelops her – naked, soft and incredibly warm – the weight of it as he slowly presses down towards her. The brush of his coarse chest hair against the sensitive skin of her breasts.

Nimble fingers toy with her nipple, teasing it into a stiff peak. A firm squeeze, a pinch between two fingers, a guttural moan. He’s playing with fire, but he would never play with her.

Her heart beats a steady but hurried rhythm against her chest – an everlasting tattoo on her skin – even though it feels as though it’s too big for her body, such is its emotional overflow. Her torso feels heavy, pressed down into the lush mattress. She can barely distinguish the sound of panting breaths above the roaring of her own blood, pounding in her ears and coursing through her veins. It hardly matters to whom they belong anymore, so entwines feels she with him.

Her skin is damp with perspiration, a light sheen covering porcelain ivory. Fingers move downwards to slip through her sodden folds, moving in torturous strokes, taking their time and driving her to utter distraction.

She wants more of him.

She needs everything from him.

She can feel it, bubbling just below the surface.

She tilts her hips upwards in silent invitation and one lone digit enters her, breaching and pushing until it can go no further, before retreating and stroking its way back inside. She gasps – a soft, shaky exhale – as it brushes against the spongy tissue beneath her pelvic bone, before a second finger joins it. Her hand clutches the soft sheets, crushing them and threatening to tear them apart, and she needs him deeper still.

A third finger, and it’s almost enough as the pace that is set is gloriously slow, exploring her, learning her, ever the investigator. Gliding over her slippery lips before dipping back inside, stroking the flame, adding fuel to her fire. The heat becomes almost all-encompassing.

They had been so in tune, up until this point. But now, there is a wedge between them, something that keeps them from moving either forwards or backwards as a pair. It’s very similar to the way her body longs to move towards that final crescendo, the conflict between implosion and explosion that weighs heavily upon her frayed nerves, holding her back.

She is soaking, the heat and humidity of him seeping into her muscles, her bones, the core of her being. She feels as though she is about to burst, filled to the brim with desire for him.

She wants to come, desperately so, but even now he admonishes her, forces her to slow her pace. And even now, she defies him. She wants more, she needs him to—

A firm press upon her most sensitive of places, and she shatters, boiling over until her every limb feels liquefied.

When she reaches her peak, it doesn’t resemble a flaming inferno, an extravagant explosion bursting forth. It feels like a smouldering flame, a slow burn – so reminiscent of their relationship thus far – overtaking her body in one divine, luxurious and incandescent wave, that starts out as a small ripple across the surface before turning into an enormous surge, crushing against the shores of her being.

Her back arches off the bed in a sensuous arc – taut as a bowstring – toes curling into the sheets as the waves of burning pleasure threaten to drown her.

“Jack…” His name on a breath as light as the flap of a butterfly’s wings.

Nothing but a desperate plea to an otherwise deafening silence in an empty room.

***

She slowly pulls her fingers from her spent body in the aftermath, imagining he would take his time with this, as well, savouring each moment of them being together. She likes to think she would.

She’s at once overcome by an indescribable feeling of emptiness that has her choking back tears.

Her body aches for him. Her mind calls out for him. Her heart fears that she is losing him.

He does not belong to her, and neither does she belong to him. They belong to one another – peas in a pod. By all accounts, this thought alone should terrify her, but it’s vastly overruled by the fear of losing him before she’s ever had the chance to know him completely. To lay with him, to wake with him, to share everything and nothing with him. The mere thought of him slipping through her fingers – like sand through an hourglass – before their fingers have ever even truly interlaced, makes her heart constrict violently.

She does not know how to go about, dealing with all of this, and this doesn’t sit well with her. It does not bode well, thinking about a man this much. But this is Jack, her Jack, and it’s already different. Somehow, she’s allowed for their friendship to blossom, meanwhile steadfastly ignoring the fact that something deeper and far more fragile has firmly taken root.

But there is no point in denying that it has.

He came so very close to naming it a few months ago. She thought she’d lost him then, and she could simply not allow for it to happen again, although she was entirely unsure as to how to prevent it. The fear of losing him – one of her closest friends – was, in turn, drowned out by a much larger terror; commitment, becoming shackled, feeling trapped.

She knows – in her heart of hearts – that Jack would never mistreat her, but the grief and betrayal of her past follows her everywhere she goes, and forever is such a long way away…

She is still his friend. Isn’t she? After her minor slip-up with Compton (even though things hadn’t progressed quite as far as Jack might’ve thought) she’d done everything in her power – without going overboard, she didn’t pine after men, after all – to make things right between them again. Whatever that entailed these days, she honestly couldn’t say. Why it meant so much to her; she was afraid to dignify that question with an answer. Somehow, she’d felt slightly off-kilter – call it a hunch, a gut feeling, ‘female intuition’ – and now, it appeared, for good reason.

Old friends, indeed. Part of her had wanted to applaud him (and his sudden, saucy personality) for unexpectedly turning the tables on her, but another very large part of her had felt decidedly unsettled. He’d felt distant, as if removing himself from her, and it felt all wrong, altogether wrong.

They’d seemed so familiar.

It had stung.

It still did.

It had struck her in that moment that, for all she knew about Jack, there were still so many mysteries she had yet to uncover. She didn’t want that voyage of discovery to end, but the harsh tug at her heartstrings had told her it may have come precariously close to that.

And what of their friendship, if everything were to go completely tits up, were she to act upon her emotions, her wants, her needs, her urges to hold him close and—

A sudden lump forms in her throat.

She tries very hard not to let these confusing feelings overtake her – for they would surely mean a downfall of some kind – and she rather conveniently denies the nagging suspicion that it’s probably already too late for that. She doesn’t like the feeling of spiralling out of control and decides then and there to remedy the situation in the best way she knows how.

She wants answers, and she wants them now.

Besides, she’s always been one for action first, contemplation second.

Suddenly feeling quite invigorated, she pushes back the silk covers and sets about getting redressed. It’s still early – as she had retreated to the privacy of her boudoir, sulking for all intents and purposes, skipping dinner – and she is feeling quite peckish all of a sudden, with a particular appetite for some Italian cuisine and rather specific female companionship.

Chapter Text

‘The sweetest honey
Is loathsome in his own deliciousness
And in the taste confounds the appetite.’

— William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet

‘One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well.’

 — Virginia Woolf

They were remarkably in step as of late.

He’d hardly ever felt more wrong-footed.

These days, with every step forward, it felt as though he were taking two steps back. He was retreating from her, and he thought himself a miserable coward for doing so.

Phryne Fisher spelled Trouble – with a capital T – and he’d known it the very moment he’d first laid eyes on her. The pink hat, the deep wine-red dress, covered by a sheer, patterned fabric. The sight of her bare back, barely clothed and showing hints of a sensuous curve. As she’d presented her theories on the death of Mr. Andrews, he’d wanted to trace her spine with his tongue, all the way to the lushness of her beautiful derrière, and he’d felt repulsed by his own depraved urges. He had attempted to keep her at arm’s length from there on out, but had realised fairly early on in their acquaintance that this had been a moot point. Even though she was a bloody infuriating nuisance, he found he liked working with her. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise to him; she’d always been so attuned to his thoughts, his past, his inner-turmoil, his dry wit. Sometimes, it felt as though she could read his mind, using the leverage against him in order to get ahead of him.

Using it to her own advantage.

Surely the Group Captain didn't say I couldn't be escorted by my fiancé?

Well, I... appreciate your assets...

Maybe he’d always been taking two steps back, walking two steps behind, moving around her in circles as she danced in front of him – just out of reach?

He wondered if she’d realised just how much it had affected him, finding out she had been visiting the RAAF and her ‘old friend’ – who was just far too friendly to his liking – of her own volition, without having been aware of the murder that had occurred.

She was entitled to social visits, obviously, and he had no right to stake a claim. She had been there on ‘another matter’, and although he did trust her (somewhat), he trusted Captain Lyle Compton for about as far as he could throw him. He did not underestimate his own physical strength, but judging from the Captain’s tall frame, he suspected that wouldn’t be a very impressive toss. The predatory glint in the man’s eyes didn’t sit well with him at all, and he had been overcome by a rush of protectiveness and – dare he say – possessiveness.

Maybe he and Compton were very much alike, but that didn’t mean that he liked him.

For the life of him, he couldn’t see the resemblance beyond the fact that they both appeared to have some kind of interest in Miss Fisher.

Phryne.

It was all too difficult to think about whether she’d ‘reacquainted’ herself with Compton out of spite – as a punishment for his earlier comment about her, suggesting she was dancing to the Captain’s tune – or because she simply had no respect or regard for his feelings. He supposed both motivations were just as bad, but at least the former would have some sort of emotional grounds for her behaviour, which meant his remark had had some sort of deeper impact on her.

Did his feelings really mean this little to her?

He’d gradually distanced himself from her after that, although it had pained him tremendously to do so. He’d convinced himself that it needed to be done. He couldn’t, wouldn’t allow for her to trample all over his heart, not again. He didn’t think he could bear it.

Not again.

They’d seemed so intimate.

It had hurt.

It still did.

She knew he cared for her; of this he had little doubt. She had to know. He’d all but blatantly told her – not in so many words, but she’d caught on to his meaning – not even that many months ago. Not to mention his less-than-subtle repeat performance only a few weeks ago, when he’d blurted out that he would never be one of them. Not even if she wanted him to be.

Clearly, she had no desire for him to be one of them, or any of them, as it turned out. Why else had she turned to the no doubt passionate and thrilling embrace of an ‘old friend’?

He was a new friend, wasn’t he?

He was upset, bitter, and he felt utterly betrayed. Not just by her – even though he knew full well that she had every right to stay with whomever she wanted – but by his own feelings, as well. Just reminiscing? From what Jack knew about reminiscing with old friends, it generally meant that he and said friends remained clothed, talked and dredged up past stories until the early hours.

He idly wondered why it fascinated him that her toenails had been painted in the same shade of vibrant red as her lips. Would the blush on her round cheeks be an indicator of the flush that would spread across her body when she—

He’d been envious of Captain Compton, unjustifiably so. She wasn’t interested in him, and he’d just have to grin and bear it.

***

Over the course of the past week, however – dealing with the murder at Strano’s – his firm conviction that she definitively did not have an interest in him whatsoever had started to show small cracks and tears.

What was she up to? He knew she was up to something (when wasn’t she?), but he couldn’t pinpoint what it was, exactly. He had his suspicions, however, and one of the theories he found most intriguing was that she was, beyond a shadow of a doubt, jealous.

It was ridiculous, really.

The two of them, envious of ‘old friends’.

Although he’d never admit it to her. He’d laid his soul bare before her on two occasions, making his intentions quite clear, and both times she’d ran into the arms of another.

He knew she’d never admit to it either. She had gone through too much in her life and on top of that, she was even more obstinate than he, and had too much pride to show him that she too, was presumably wounded by all of this. She’d suffer in silence, as would he, if she were to suffer at all. But eventually, he supposed she would move on from him, find another interest or ‘old friend’ to entertain her thoughts and her boudoir. She’d smooth over her ruffled feathers, worm her way back into his cases – because he did not doubt her powers of persuasion or her assets, nor his own weakness for them – and she would come out of the whole affair in a way only Phryne Fisher could; squeaky clean. Looking beautiful while doing so.

He already resented her for it.

Her recent behaviour gnawed at him. Her inquisitions, her equivocations, her evasions.

She wanted to know what he was up to (such was the irony). What he was doing, whom he was seeing, in his private life.

She was prying.

That was a bit rich, even coming from her. He’d never pried when she’d – once again – entertained yet another gentleman suitor. Well. He’d tried his damnedest not to.

I had a few questions for Concetta.

He strongly doubted all of them had had to do with the case.

Promise me you’ll be careful too.

The stroke across the lapels. The slight tug, the soft brush; those had been new.

Burning the midnight oil, Jack?

Why did she care what he did when he wasn’t at her home for drinks?

Oh, I was tucked up in bed at a very sensible hour.

What the hell was she playing at?

He'd thought himself inured to her games, but oh, he had been wrong.

And although it could have very well been his imagination – wishful thinking – it had seemed to him that the presence of Concetta was utterly distracting to Phryne. She had been holding a man at gunpoint for Christ’s sake, yet the sight of Concetta, handing him his coat and assisting him in putting it on, had made her hand tremble. She’d tried to hide her initial reaction, but he was a detective; observation was his stock and trade, and the small details – generally overlooked by any other person – could build a strong case.

He hadn’t been able to shake the brief look he’d found in her eyes, before she’d schooled her features into feigned indifference; confusion, shock, anger and a possessive streak. The kind of look that said she did not appreciate another person, nay, another woman touching him so casually, so freely and without restraint.

He knew that look well, as it could have been found, mirrored in his own eyes, on many an occasion.

Unfortunately for her, she did not have a monopoly on touching Jack Robinson.

He’d felt just a little bit smug about that, and although he knew he shouldn’t, it felt good to know that this had stirred something within her.

He wasn’t one of them, and she never told him she wanted him to be, or what she wanted from him in the first place (apart from an in on his cases). He knew she desired him, physically, but he needed more from her than that. She’d been upset at the restaurant, visibly, yet she had no right to claim him.

He wasn’t hers. Neither was she his. They weren’t possessions, and therefore, they could not be owned. But they could be shared.

Concetta wasn’t payback of any kind, as he would never stoop that low, nor implicate a third party in order to serve Phryne her just desserts. But Concetta could offer him everything that Phryne could not, at least not with a similar certainty nor with a promise of fidelity (on both a professional and a personal level). Or forever.

He could live without forever, but he needed her fidelity if they were to ever be together.

***

The touch of soft lips against his feels wonderful, slowly but surely becoming familiar. Her tongue is gentle and he can feel a hunger growing in his gut. And yet, he is aware that his mind is in turmoil and his heart is in pieces.

He is reminded of the other night, when she told him she would willingly leave her family to be with him. When he’d stayed, ‘burning the midnight oil’, until he’d disentangled himself from her warm embrace. A few shared, fevered kisses, less than innocent caresses, a discarded jacket.

Phryne need not know.

Oh God. Phryne.

His body is almost convinced at her touch, but will not be led astray this easily once more. His heart isn’t in it. His mind fervently wishes for it to be so.

He feels terribly conflicted all of a sudden.

Or maybe he has been feeling this way ever since he started paying more regular visits to Strano’s, and to Concetta?

He’d chalked it up to cold feet, the fear of irrevocably moving on from his marriage, from Rosie, of becoming close and intimate with another woman, baring himself.

He realises with a start that it’s not the fear of moving on from Rosie that’s holding him back.

It’s the fear of moving away from Phryne.

He can’t let go of her. Or rather; he doesn’t want to.

“You don’t need to say it.”

He doesn’t even think he can find the right words to express himself in this moment.

“Your heart is...is taken.”

“I care for you. You deserve to be loved...”

Placating him with soothing Italian sweet-nothings, effectively silencing his half-formed protests.

“I will be fine. Roberto will hang...And when I marry again, it will be for love.”

A pregnant pause.

“But you are taken.”

Her words pierce his heart, as though he is struck by lightning.

He’s taken.

It’s a daunting realisation, especially when named, spoken by the woman you care for. Even more so, because he knows it is the truth.

Care. He hasn’t even used the word ‘love’ to describe his feelings for her, has he?

Christ.

He barely notices her rising, until she returns to him, holding a bottle of wine in her hands. He takes it from her as she offers it to him – as if in a daze – and turns the bottle in his hands to read the label.

It’s an extremely good year, a wonderful Italian vintage. He looks up at her from his seat, a confused frown marring his features.

She smiles. It’s a small smile – a sad smile – but there is a warm twinkle in her gaze, even though he can see tears that are beginning to form at the corners of her eyes.

“Good luck, Gianni,” she says knowingly, kindly, and he understands her meaning with perfect clarity. She leaves him then, alone at the restaurant, as she walks away with her head held high.

Left alone with his musings.

Food for thought.

Chapter Text

‘The hunger for love is much more difficult to remove than the hunger for bread.’

— Mother Teresa

‘Hunger is the best sauce in the world.’

— Cervantes

A closed, empty parlour. No whiskey. A crackling fire that does nothing to warm the coldness she feels deep inside, seeping into her veins.

Verdi. Rigoletto: La donna è mobile.

She is dressed in black. All black, down to her shoes, and she hasn’t even left the house.

She’s grieving.

Mourning the loss of a friend.

She’s exaggerating.

She is sulking. There is nothing else for it. She shifts in the comfortable armchair by the fire – feeling increasingly uncomfortable and restless – her legs tucked to the side and underneath her.

La donna è mobil'
Qual piuma al vento,
muta d'accento
e di pensier'

The woman is fickle
Like a feather in the wind,
she changes her words
and her thoughts

She snorts at the irony of her choice of music. Fickle, indeed. More like afraid; a fickleness born out of fear. Changing her words, carefully phrasing, rearranging her thoughts so as not to be confronted by her feelings. Afraid to admit that she misses him. That she cares for him.

Likes him.

Loves him, even.

She has not a clue how to deal with this, and she supposes as he grew cold, she ran scared.

She knows she’s feeling sorry for herself, and she distinctly does not like it. It’s not like her to wallow in self-pity, yet here she is. She’s aware of the fact that half of the blame is on her, that her own decisions play a very large part in how Jack has dealt with all of this.

And vice versa.

È sempre misero
chi a lei s'affida,
chi le confida
mal cauto il cuore

Always miserable
is he who trusts her,
he who confides in her
his unwary heart

She’s miserable, too. Or rather; she is miserable, period. He isn’t here, is he? He is probably at Strano’s, having Italian. Food or otherwise. She highly doubts he’s feeling even an ounce of misery right now, and either way, it shouldn’t matter. Except that it does. She envies him, even though she knows she had no right to feel this way.

But she does feel this way.

She is jealous.

And she is scared.

Did you get the answers you were looking for?

Too early to say.

Taking to Concetta had not solved anything. She’d gone home with even more questions than answers.

You are a friend of Gianni’s? Jack?

A friend, yes.

She was his friend. A colleague. Nothing more, nothing less. And yet, saying it out loud had left a vile taste in her mouth. She didn’t want to be just his friend. She’d had the sudden and strong desire to be more than that, but that’s all she was, to him and to the outside world; Jack Robinson’s friend.

It had made her sick to her stomach.

She wanted Jack. Had wanted him, all of him, for quite some time now. And as she had waited for him to take the reins (well, not exactly waited, Phryne Fisher did not wait, for no man), she had let herself get distracted, side-tracked, one too many times, and now she’d lost him.

Distracted by Concetta. Distracted by other men. Led by emotions. Led astray by jealousy.

Guido had been lovely in his attentions, but he was no comparison to Jack.

Whoever he is; he is a lucky man.

He is indeed, she thinks, wryly. Presumably having dinner with a beautiful Italian woman right at this very moment. She believes it’s best not to inform Jack about Guido. Not yet, at least. After all, he’d kept Concetta from her, as well.

His ‘old friend’.

If she isn’t careful, she will turn into a bitter, jaded old woman. Just the thought of that makes her feel slightly disgusted at her own musings.

She knows why she did it. Kissing Compton. Ending up on the sofa with Compton.

Stating that there was too much ballast for lift-off between herself and Jack.

Compton was familiar. A former adventure, revisited. Jack was familiar too, in a different way, but she wasn’t sure if she was ready for this kind of adventure. She sincerely doubted if he would ever be. Compton was safe, because she knew he would ask nothing from her, afterwards.

Jack would never ask her for anything, either.

I’m not asking you to give it up. I would never ask you to do that.

But until he could reconcile his feelings for her with himself, with her, to know that they weren’t his enemy, unspoken questions would remain. They would cloud the air between them, until the two of them would suffocate under the strain of mistrust.

She’d taken his retreat as a sign that he was going cold on her, as though Compton had been the final straw that broke the camel’s back. Or rather; Jack’s back. His defensive walls had come up, and she’d recognized it the moment he drew them up around him; arming the battlements and pulling up the drawbridge. His best defence was to go on the offense, and so he’d lashed out at her. Verbally, but more so in his brooding silence. The latter had probably hurt her the most.

An unattainable Jack was an impossible Jack, and she did not want for him to suffer alone. But then again, he’d bestowed the same kind of hurt upon her right now. She idly wondered if this was payback of some kind, but dismissed the thought just as easily.

She didn’t know what his game was, but she was decidedly not amused. And yes, she could detect the irony in that. But if he couldn’t handle her visiting her friends, what sort of chance would any kind of possible relationship stand?

He’d been jealous, but frankly, she barely had a leg to stand on at the moment, as she found herself in a rather similar position.

And why was she even considering a romantic relationship with Jack?

Granted, her fear of a certain type of commitment to Jack didn’t scare her as much as it used to. For some time now, she wondered what it would be like to wake up next to him. To watch him sip either tea or coffee in the morning at her kitchen table. At his kitchen table. To visit him at home without the need of an excuse for propriety’s sake. Jack was a noble man, a man of honour, sturdy as a rock and she could always rely on him. He challenged her wit, her mind, her abilities. If ever there had been a man she could see herself spending more time with – other than Lin – it was Jack. Apart from which, she felt a remarkable physical attraction to him.

But she had a gnawing fear that this would not be enough for him. He would need some sort of commitment from her. Could she give him that? She could not give him forever, as life was fleeting, but could she offer him herself?

Lately, she felt as though she could.

But would that be enough?

Everything had been developing splendidly; it had all been going so well. It was almost as if it had been too good to be true. The teasing. The flirting. The delicious banter. The delectable looks. The romantic dinner – until the untimely arrival of her father had thrown a spanner in the works.

She choked back a sob, refusing to cry.

She missed him, and it tore her to pieces. Her household had been forced to walk on eggshells around her for the past fortnight, and she felt terribly sorry for the behaviour she’d displayed.

She missed his dry wit.

Their camaraderie.

Their banter.

The way he would tilt his hat.

That glorious arse.

How he would defy her, challenge her.

His hands.

His voice. Dear God, his voice.

The way he had handled the uproar at the station; losing control for but one brief moment in order to regain control of the situation.

She’d felt impossibly drawn to the raw masculinity he’d exuded.

And now all of that was gone. Not forever, because she did not believe in this particular concept. But at least for now, and that was bad enough as it was.

She’s pulled from her self-imposed cocoon of misery by the sound of the parlour-door opening. As she looks up in surprise and confusion (she asked not to be disturbed), Mr. Butler appears in the doorway.

***

He arrives at his cottage in Richmond around 7.30 PM. It’s a little late, but not too late.

He prays it’s not too late, and he’s not even a true believer.

The drive from the restaurant to his home is all a blur, and he’s actually unsure of how he has made it home in one piece. Phryne would have been proud of his disinclination to adhere to the speed limits.

Phryne...

The need to see her, to speak to her, to be in her presence; it had overwhelmed him once Concetta had left him to his own devices. He couldn’t stay away from her, not even if he tried.

He doesn’t want to try anymore. He wants to see her, so that’s what he shall do. It’s not an ungodly hour, and even if it was, he rather doubts even a disapproving look from her aunt Prudence Stanley would be enough to slow him down in his pursuits. Perhaps people would talk; an unmarried man, visiting an unmarried woman late at night. Idle gossip, although he does take heed of rumours; the last thing he wants is for their working relationship to come to an end. At the moment, it’s the only kind of relationship he has with her, and he does not wish to ruin this one, as well.

The bottle of wine is still in his car, occupying the passenger seat. Her seat. It’s as good an excuse as any; they always share a drink after solving a case together, don’t they?

He has come home to freshen up. A quick glance in his bathroom mirror and he realises a shower might just be in order. He looks tired, and to be honest; he smells of Italian food. He knows he probably won’t be able to remove all traces, but he wants to make a decent attempt, at least.

He’s not ashamed of his visits to Concetta, nor should he be; he’s a grown man. But he feels that, for this, he needs to appear before Phryne feeling refreshed, clean, cleansed. A brand new start. Or rather; a restart. Picking up where they left off, but not quite.

Hanging his suit up in front of the open bedroom-window to air it out a little, he heads for the shower.

As the hot spray hits his cool skin, he shivers at the sharp contrast. Grabbing the bar of sandalwood soap, he lathers it up between his hand and his body, cleaning his skin in the process. It’s a mundane task, though he can’t help a slight worry that creeps in as he sets about washing.

Jack knows that he desires her, mentally yes, but physically, as well. He is no stranger to the carnal pleasures, the tempting aspects of the flesh. The tantalizing allure of her flesh. But he has seen the men Phryne entertained (he sincerely hopes it’s now a paste tense). They were all handsome enough, some ridiculously so, had a good physique, a sexual prowess. Apart from his well-built and muscular legs, he feels he possesses none of the qualities mentioned above.

Would he be able to satisfy her, once they would—

He doesn’t want to wander down this path, but it’s too late; the lid on Pandora’s box has been lifted, and his desires come spilling out.

He knows what she looks like naked. He has seen enough of her body – both painted and in real life – and his imagination is vivid enough that he can fill in the blanks, should he still have any. He imagines his hands will fit perfectly on her hips, the globes of her beautiful arse will fill his palms wonderfully. He imagines kneading her soft flesh, stroking her ivory skin. He longs to cup her breasts, to hold them, to watch her nipples pucker under his careful ministrations. He wants to stroke her between her thighs, wants to taste her, if she’ll let him. He wonders if he tastes the same as her natural scent.

Belatedly, he realises his hand has strayed and that his fist is now wrapped tightly around his erect cock. Part of him is repulsed by his own wanton display of desire, but another part of him feels as though he is entitled to this, just this once. If he can’t have this with her, then at least he will allow himself this indulgence.

A man can only take so much.

Just once.

His strokes are hurried, frenzied and without finesse, as he recalls the taste of her mouth, the touch of her lips, the smell of her hair. Her own, unique scent underneath the layers of extravagance and perfume.

Her long, gorgeous legs, wrapped around his waist as he presses deep inside of her.

He longs to know the feeling of her lips on his face, on his body, on his manhood. He can almost feel her clever little tongue, dipping into his slit as she—

His vision actually goes white as he climaxes with a force that probably short-circuits his brain. He braces himself with his free hand as he spills himself against the tiled wall of his shower, the water washing away the evidence of his sin immediately. He feels relief, obviously, but there is also a distant feeling of regret, or remorse, as he comes down from his high, his rush.

He has just pleasured himself, in his shower, whilst fantasizing about the woman he loves, with the hopes of restoring their working-relationship.

He would laugh at the absurdity of the situation, if only he wasn’t feeling so bloody conflicted. He feels depraved, utterly debauched but deliciously sated.

Scrubbed red-raw after his little mishap, he dons the same grey suit so as not to arouse too much suspicion, but exchanges his shirt for a clean one. He knows Phryne, and he knows she will know something is up if he appears before her in a different suit than the one he’s been wearing today. Again, he has nothing to hide from her. Well, not much anyway, but he wants to reconcile with her. Bringing up ‘old friends’ might not be the best way to rekindle this relatively new friendship.

Hair freshly pomaded – though not as heavily as his hair is still a bit on the damp side – he dabs a bit of cologne on the collar of his shirt. It’s not anywhere near as expensive as the brands she can afford, but it suits him. And it will make him smell less like oregano at any rate. Although the clean evening breeze has done a remarkable job on his suit.

The drive to St. Kilda is far less frenzied, less hurried, than his earlier drive (and other, unmentionable activities).

Bottle of wine in hand, he approaches the porch, wondering what the hell it is that he is doing.

He takes a deep breath, grounds himself, bracing for impact, before knocking on the stained glass windowpane.

“The Inspector to see you, Miss Fisher.”

Pur mai non sentesi
felice appieno
chi su quel seno
non liba amore

Yet one never feels
fully happy
who from that bosom
does not drink love

Chapter Text

‘Our minds are like our stomachs ; they are whetted by the change of their food, and variety supplies both with fresh appetite.’

— Quintilian

“Allow me, sir,” Mr. Butler offers, taking the bottle of wine from his hands and disappearing into the kitchen with it. Jack stands in the hallway, twiddling his thumbs, questioning his presence here for the umpteenth time since stepping out of his car.

Just when he begins to wonder if Mr. Butler would notice if he were to quietly slip back into the night, the servant reappears with a now opened bottle, allowing the wine to breathe.

The man is admirably clairvoyant, as Jack is in dire need of a drink, and soon. He feels a strong impulse to take a large swig straight from the bottle.

Also, alcohol might aid him in anointing Phryne’s mood.

And his own.

It’s not often he finds her sitting in her parlour with the doors closed, as she’s not typically a very private person as such, and this worries him slightly. She has locked herself in – both figuratively and literally speaking – and he grins ruefully at their similarities.

She’s dressed in all black, and he finds it unusual; as far as he knows, she hasn’t been breaking and entering as of late. Or maybe he’s just grown accustomed (and fond) of her colourful ensembles? She still looks beautiful, all the same. He drinks in the way the light from the fire highlights the sheen of her dark bob, framing her sparkling eyes. Although upon his arrival, the sparkle appears to be absent. Something is amiss – is she upset? – although he’s grasping at straws and doesn’t know where to begin.

***

As Mr. Butler quietly closes the parlour door behind him on his way out, she feasts her eyes on the unexpected Inspector, trying to mask the joy she feels at his sudden arrival, attempting to school her features. He appears to be somewhat uneasy, as though he isn’t quite sure of the welcome that awaits him. As though he is uncertain whether he still belongs here.

He does, she wants him to belong, but she’s hurt and envious and terribly confused.

His usually impeccable timing appears to be off.

Or maybe it’s just right? She’s been looking for a way to confront him with all of this, and by walking into her parlour on this night, he has supplied her with a convenient entrance.

“You’re not eating Italian tonight, Jack?” she asks him, her face giving nothing away, although she attempts to relax her body into a more alluring pose, as though everything is perfectly fine.

As though she is perfectly fine, even though inwardly, she is shaking like a leaf. The whole thing is ridiculous, preposterous; she should not allow herself to get swept away by any man.

He’s still wearing his grey three-piece suit and that blue-red tie with intricate cream-coloured detailing.

She hates that tie. It’s hideous, and for a brief moment, she considers untying the knot to fling it into the fire. She’s normally rather fond of his ties, but not this one. It ties him to another woman, and she resents it.

“Strano’s is closed,” he informs her, the beginnings of a typical Jack-smirk lurking around his mouth. Even a woman with half her intelligence would not be able to miss the metaphor hidden in his message.

Damn him. How does he keep doing this to her? Make her want him so much, even though she knows that she shouldn’t, that it’s dangerous to love him so. She’s convinced that the sound she just heard is the noise of all pretence dropping onto the carpet.

“Looks like you’ll have to make do with me.” In more ways than one, Inspector.

“Looks like we’ll have to make do with each other,” he grins as he turns the bottle of uncorked wine in his hands, and she is lost. A tiny flutter of a smile escapes her indifferent façade.

Damn him.

She decides it’s probably best not to ask him about the origins of that bottle of Italian vino.

***

“May I?” he asks her, gesturing to the small tray with two wine glasses that seems to have appeared out of nowhere.

“Please, Inspector.”A distant agreement.

He hands her a glass, then comes to stand next to her by the fireplace; a familiar, warm setting, but he feels as though he’s skating on very thin ice.

The wine itself is lovely and just a tad bit on the sweeter side (although she’s had better), but something inside of her is quickly turning rather sour, despite her best efforts to control her resentment.

She’s wound too tight, has allowed for too many emotions to swim to the surface just before his arrival. She is grateful, and at the same time annoyed that he’s come from another woman to her parlour.

Oh, the irony. It strikes her then, how much she must have hurt him in the past. But she can’t let him see her vulnerability, not yet, not when she does not yet know where they stand.

“I didn’t expect you here tonight, Jack.”

So that’s how she’s going to be. He’s going to need some strong ammunition and finds he’s suddenly running low on patience.

“Oh?”

“No need to play coy, Inspector. I can imagine – albeit barely – that my company must become tedious, at times. It’s only healthy to venture out into the world, meet new people, get in touch with—”

“‘Old friends’?” he supplies calmly, although his blood is starting to boil. The nerve of the woman. Her haughty tone causes him distress. He knows this move; she’s retreating back into her shell, in her own way.

She notices his set jaw, yet can’t resist pushing him a little further. He is always so composed, and she wants him to lose control, like he did at the station. She wants to see it, because she feels terribly out of control herself, and at least that would even the scores somewhat. She knows that she’s being terribly unfair to him, but she can’t seem to stop her lips from moving. She’s rambling now, like a speeding train, heading towards a collision.

“Precisely. I can understand the appeal, Jack.”

“Can you, now?” he grunts through gritted teeth, and he can rapidly feel his control slipping away from him at her words. They sting, like tiny needles to his heart. He clenches his fingers into a fist, tries to redirect some of the pressure as he places his wineglass on the mantelpiece. This is not how he wanted the evening to turn out, but he now knows a confrontation is inevitable.

When hasn’t it been with her?

“Why, yes of course! It’s nice to catch up with one’s acquaintances, isn’t it? Although I must admit, Lyle Compton turned out to be somewhat of a disappointment, what with all of his lies and whatnot. However, you and Concetta, on the other hand—”

She’s pushing him beyond his limits, and it’s too much. He’s still raw, too sore, and he snaps.

“Damn it, Phryne!” he roars, slamming his fist on the mantelpiece and almost tipping over his glass, and she is shaken to her core, and not just with sudden shock. She can feel the flutter of her inner-muscles as they clench. If he notices the dilation of her pupils, he doesn’t mention it.

But notice it, he does.

Is this...exciting her?

“Why Compton?” he snarls at her, closing the distance between them until he is all but pressing her into the wall next to the fireplace with his weight. He can’t have her; why must she torment him so? He’s even too hurt for her indecent proximity to arouse him.

This, this is what she has been hungering for. Jack, unleashed, and it is beautiful. It has affected him, her little tryst, and somehow, this knowledge thrills her.

He smells really good. Clean, earthy, but fresh.

She wants his strong thigh insinuated between her legs, she needs to move against him, create a friction, but at the same time; she’s frayed and upset. Upset at his inquiry, at his implied accusations. Upset that he can make her feel this way. She’s usually much more in control than this.

“Why Concetta?” she bites back, chin jutted out. It’s a weak jab, but it’s all she’s got.

“You’re deflecting,” he breathes, his eyes wild.

“Then stop being Senior Detective Inspector Robinson and be Jack, for now,” she retaliates sharply, roughly brushing down his jacket as if to ascertain her position in his life, as if to reclaim her habit of touching his clothing.

For a moment, nothing fills the room but their heavy breathing as she refuses to meet his eyes. It’s suddenly too much, too intimate, and she regrets pushing him.

He steps away from her, taking the heat of his body with him, and she feels utterly bereft.

“I’m sorry, Phryne.” A hand through his hair, mussing up his pomaded curls. She is terribly distracted by one loose curl that makes its way onto his forehead. “I—I mean, maybe I should—”

Get out, that’s what he should do, but he’s nailed to the spot.

And why is the cut of her pants so wonderfully tight?

“It’s alright, Jack... I’m sorry, too; I shouldn’t have pressed,” she says, as she moves to the drinks cart, raising a bottle of whiskey, “maybe a different kind of drink is more appropriate, given the circumstances?”

“No, you shouldn’t have. And no, thank you.” He doesn’t think imbibing more alcohol is a wise move right now. It’s difficult enough to reel his carefully coveted control back in as it is. He resumes his spot at the mantelpiece – trying to ignore his instincts to just leave, to bolt through the door and never look back – his lean frame a familiar picture that warms her heart as she saunters up to him.

Her hand is on the frame of the fireplace, the tips of her fingers almost touching his.

Almost.

They both know this discussion is not over yet.

However, she sees no reason why she should not diverge a little longer.

“You’re not indulging, Jack. This reminds me of a different night, in another time.”

“Yes, but my motivations for declining tonight are vastly different,” he states bluntly, surprising even himself.

She smiles at his honesty as she takes a sip.

“You know Jack, I haven’t tried to actively seduce you,” she all but purrs, and she can no longer deny the impulse to brush back the errant lock of hair. There. Much better.

“You could have fooled me,” he blurts out rudely.

“Believe me Jack, you would have known if I had.”

He believes her.

“Although I do not doubt your methods of persuasion, and risking your ridicule; how?”

“I would never make fun of you, Jack,” she states, taking in his raised eyebrow and rolling her eyes, “Well, alright, but not about something as important as this.”

“You’re deflecting again, Miss Fisher,” he accuses.

“Are you asking me to seduce you, Inspector?”

“All a matter of hypothesis.”

“Jack.”

“Phryne.”

An exasperated sigh.

“The truth is, Jack, I have never attempted to seduce you because I had no idea how to go about it. I mean, at first I did, when we first met. But that was because I didn’t know you, then,” she rushes to add the last sentence at the appearance of a slight frown on his face.

“And now you do?”

“I believe so, Jack. Although...not as well as one might like,” she states cheekily, earning her a tilt of his head as a reprimand. “At first you were just another man. Well, not just another man, but you know what I mean, don’t you?”

He nods his confirmation, silently encouraging her to continue.

“You were never one of them, Jack.”

“And now?” he croaks as she steps closer to him, her chest but a breath away from his.

“Now, things are different,” she states, her voice in a low register as the hand that has been lying dormant now comes up to cup his cheek, her thumb stroking his firm cheekbone. The look in her eyes is open, vulnerable, a silent plea and he has to avert his gaze.

“Yes, well...”

He coughs – flustered – as he moves away to sit on the chaise longue, creating some space between them. Her innocent yet deliberate touch was about to send his body into overdrive. She joins him shortly after – sans alcohol, sitting sideways with her legs tucked underneath her body, her arm on the back of the chaise, her hand close to his neck – a small distance separating them, but too small for propriety’s sake. He supposes some things will never change.

“I went to Compton because he was the safe option,” she confesses quietly, and at Jack’s confused expression, she explains. “Maybe safe isn’t the right word. Familiar, perhaps? I’d been, well, down that road before, so to speak. And I...frankly, I was afraid.”

She places a dainty hand on his knee. He knows her far too well to know that this is not a subconscious move on her part, but he also realises she means to comfort him rather than seduce him. Although he finds that with her, the two often go hand in hand. He swallows.

“Afraid of what, exactly?”

“Of you, Jack. You scared the living day out of me when you told me you had to give me up, all those months ago. It was...It was one of the scariest things I’ve ever felt, and that scared me even more. And now, with Compton, when you gave me the cold shoulder, I thought that—”

A slight squeeze to his knee in her distress and he can feel a faint stirring in his trousers.

Focus, Robbo!

“You thought what, Phryne?” he asks her, not unkindly, but inquisitive, sensing the importance of her words.

“I thought that I’d lost you again, Jack. And I couldn’t bear it. And then Compton was there and things just sort of...happened,” she finishes lamely. “Although he never got much further than a kiss, this time around.”

He subtly raises his eyebrows at that, but holds up his hand; no further details necessary. The less he knows, the better.

“And so, when you saw me with Concetta, you assumed—”

She’s now gesturing rather uncharacteristically with her unoccupied hand when she speaks. “I’m not like those women, Jack. I can’t stay at home, waiting for my husband to return from the war, or from work, or from wherever. And I don’t want to leave everything and everyone behind for the sake of one man. And—”

Had she pictured the two of them together? Had she put herself in the shoes of the women he’d fancied and drawn the conclusion that he would never like her, because she wasn’t like them?

Dear God, had he been talking to a woman with a bag on her head and cotton in her ears for the past few months? Phryne was normally never this obtuse. If anything, her sharp wit was one of the reasons he’d felt drawn to her in the first place.

Which led Jack to the only logical conclusion: Phryne Fisher was still scared.

“Concetta isn’t you, Phryne. I—I couldn’t stay with her. Why else would I be here, now, with you?” he placates her.

“But you did consider her offer?”

He doesn’t dare ask her how she knows, and he doesn’t want to lie to her anymore.

“I did.”

She swallows audibly, lowering her eyes, removing her hand from his knee. He, in turn, places a hand under her chin, tilting her head up gently so he can look into her eyes as he speaks to her in soft, dulcet tones.

“When—when I didn’t know about your father yet...and then with Compton, I didn’t know what to do with myself. I felt betrayed, Phryne. It hurt. So much. I thought we had grown rather close, and then when you invited me over for dinner, I thought...” he trails off.

“What, Jack? What did you think?” she whispers, and he has to fight back a sob, all at once strongly reminded of the night in her parlour when he’d come to say his goodbyes, of sorts. He can tell she is close to tears herself.

“I thought that maybe there was a small chance that you wanted me, all of me, for yourself. And I liked that. I wanted that,” he swallows, “I still want that.” His confession is small and spoken in a low voice that she can barely hear, as he averts his eyes as though he has done something awful.

Just when she believes he can’t make her love him more, he does. His confession has her shaking to the very core of her being. Her entire world tilts on its axes, and suddenly she finds she’s no longer afraid. He has put his cards on the table, her dear Jack. It’s only fair to repay him in kind. If he can be brave, so can she.

“Jack. I’ll always be honest with you. You know that, don’t you?”

He looks at her.

“I do.”

She takes a deep breath.

“I do want us to be together, Jack, so very much. I want for us to be in each other’s lives, in whatever way suitable to the two of us; as colleagues, as friends.” A careful pause. “As more than friends?”

A question he is not yet able, nor ready to answer.

His regard is silent, but his gaze is warm. It adds to the pulse that is now beating a steady rhythm between her legs.

“I value our friendship, Jack. I would never want to lose that, ever,” she says in a small, vulnerable voice.

“Me neither,” he sighs. “Maybe—maybe we should start by leaving the ‘old friends’ in the past, where they belong, for sanity’s sake?”

He wants her friendship, he wants more than just that, but he can do without the former lovers. He selfishly wants her for himself, but as long as she can’t give him that kind of commitment, he’ll settle for friendship any day if it means they’ll still be a part of each other’s lives.

“A marvellous idea!” She rises abruptly – grateful for an excuse to break the tension – and walks over to the drinks cart, to pour two glasses of whiskey, before reclaiming her place on the chaise. But this time, as she sits, their thighs are definitely touching. Her heat scorches him through his neatly pressed grey woollen trousers.

“To new friends, then!”

Chapter Text

‘Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite by bare imagination of a feast?’

— William Shakespeare

‘The appetite is sharpened by the first bites’

— José Rizal

The parlour has been quiet for a while now, as the record has stopped playing.

Jack revels in the intimacy of the stillness, although it’s rather daunting at the same time.

Nowhere to hide. No further distractions.

He raises his glass in a toast, then brings it to his lips, but pauses to peer at Phryne over the brim. Her close proximity is intoxicating this time, and he can’t help a slight tease; an attempt to restore the atmosphere, the tension that has always been present whenever they have been alone in her parlour.

It’s heady.

It’s dangerous.

It’s addictive.

She’s addictive.

“No hidden tonics tonight?”

“Why, Inspector, are you implying that you have your sights set on my bed, then?” A sly smile slides in place, like the cat who just got to the cream and decided to roll around in it.

Well, he just waltzed right into that one, didn’t he? But two could play that game.

“No,” he rumbles determinedly, letting his gaze linger on her body appreciatively – pausing briefly at her breasts – his eyes dark as he notes the disappointment in her eyes, before they too, darken, “not on the bed, per se.”

Oh, but this was a wonderful development!

“These are dangerous games you are playing, Detective Inspector,” she admonishes him, as her eyes flicker down to his parted lips. Jack has always been a secretive flirt, a hidden tease, but he has never been this blatant about it. Perhaps he’s just as curious to explore the new boundaries of this ‘new friends’-business as she is?

“I’m a serious man, Miss Fisher. I do not play.”

He does play. He’s playing right now, and the stakes are higher than ever before.

She takes his glass from his hands, and places it beside her own on the side table, before taking his right hand in her smaller ones. She knows he needs something from her, her Jack. He is an honourable man, and she knows he loves her, knows that she loves him. But he would never allow himself to be lured into something noncommittal , something meaningless. He’s been hurt one too many times for something as short-lived as that.

He deserves something more, something better, and even though she’s unsure if she’s that something, she wants him to know that she’s willing to risk it. She wants to let go of this part of her past in order to build a future. She wants to try, at least, to see where this might take them. She feels she owes this to both herself and to Jack.

She finds she wants to tell him, to clear the air between them so that if nothing else were to come of it, at least they could try to be friends again. And even then, she’s unsure whether she will want another man for a long time to come.

It’s as close to a commitment as she’ll ever get, and even though it terrifies her, she needs to say it. Needs him to know it, so he can then proceed to process the information in any way he sees fit. She’s so tired of holding all of her cards close to her chest, of keeping a tight rein on those reins.

Good Lord, what is happening to her?

“You know I can’t change who I am, Jack,” he makes to interrupt her but she effectively smothers his protests with a pointed look, “but I can promise you to be with you, and only you, for as long as we’re in this together. Whatever this is. Forever, however, is something I cannot see myself committing to, Jack. It’s just—”

“It’s just such a long way away,” he finishes her thought for her, and she smiles.

“Exactly,” she breathes a sigh of relief, before continuing. He listens patiently.

“I will be honest with you, as long as you’ll be honest with me. I don’t want to lose you, Jack, regardless of the part you’ll be playing in my life from here on out. So if at any point, this thing between us stops working for you, I need you to tell me, rather than hide away in your castle. Can you do that, for me?”

He nods his consent, “As long as you’ll tell me, as well. You know, if—”

She smiles. He said ‘if’, not ‘when’, and this fills her with hope.

“Of course I will, darling man.”

He is surprisingly okay with this. He doesn’t need forever. He just needs her, and the promise that she will be with him – and only him – for as long as time allows. Phryne Fisher has just, in her own unorthodox, beautiful way, promised him that she’ll be with him, if he’ll have her, in whatever way they see fit. He suddenly feels as though everything is backwards and the wrong way round.

He understands where she’s coming from, though. Forever had once been a meaningful concept to him, something to aspire to, to strive for. When his marriage had started to disintegrate, ‘forever’ had progressively turned into a hollowed-out phrase, until it was nothing more than an unrealistic expectation.

Things changed. People changed.

He’d changed.

For Phryne, he knows forever is a bleak outlook, a horrifyingly shackled picture of a future she has not painted for herself.

He wants to tell her that he understands, that he wants to be with her as well, that he loves her so much his heart sometimes feels as though it’s filled to capacity with it – but the words get stuck halfway, so overwhelmed is he.

“Good. So now that that’s settled, perhaps you would like to do me the honour of kissing me, Jack Robison? After all—”

His lips are upon hers before she can even finish her sentence.

***

Jack’s mouth is hard and insistent upon hers, and she quickly realises by his use of both teeth and tongue that he is no stranger to kissing. She wouldn’t have minded either way – after all, she has dreamed up many wonderful scenarios in which she’d have to teach him all about the physical pleasures of life – but this is just so much more pleasurable from the get-go. Not to mention breathtaking, quite literally. His tongue is sliding along her bottom lip, asking for permission which she willingly grants. But never one to remain submissive, she is soon thrusting her tongue between his lips in a rhythm that resembles a different joining altogether.

He tastes of whiskey and Jack, and it is a taste she can’t seem to get enough of. She’s been fantasising about this for so long (it’s embarrassing, really), and she wants to commit every single detail to memory. There has been that one kiss, shared between them, but it was rather chaste and hardly passionate. But this! This is everything she’d hoped it would be, and more.

She moves to sit on her knees on the chaise as he turns his body sideways, allowing for better access. Her hands are restless, roaming his broad shoulders, his strong back, his neck, his chest, whereas his are constant, stable. One hand at the nape of her neck – holding her to him – the other caressing her cheek as he all but devours her. Her body is loosening and so are his inhibitions. He moans into her mouth, stroking her face as she eats at his lips, and she swears she could come from the sound alone. But underneath the passion and lust there is an underlying current of slow, gentle affection. A love that is beautiful, longing and true.

All too quickly to her liking, he tears her lips away from hers.

“After all, what, Phryne?” he breathes against her mouth, his hands trembling as they cradle her face.

It takes her a moment to realise he’s asked her a question, peppering his face with feather-soft kisses. The colour is high on his cheeks, his full lips are swollen and there are traces of her red lipstick on his mouth. He’s never been more beautiful to her and it takes her a second to recall her earlier comment.

“Oh! I was going to say; ‘After all, sealing a deal with a kiss is far more enjoyable than a handshake.’ Wouldn’t you agree, Inspector?” she dares him, her heart palpitating a fast rhythm against her ribcage.

“So you’re telling me I could have simply settled this with the shake of a hand?” he goads her in that gloriously husky timbre, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he looks at her. He looks so young when he’s playful, but his regard is burning with desire, and he takes her breath away.

“Oh, don’t you dare, Jack Robinson. You’re not getting away, this time,” she threatens, grabbing hold of the lapels of his jacket, kicking off her shoes.

“No?” he challenges her – a raised eyebrow that is so like him it makes her want to kiss it – pretending to disentangle himself from her but hardly making any real effort of going anywhere.

As if to demonstrate his precarious position, and to invigorate her statement, she decides to go all in and moves a knee on either side of his, effectively straddling his lap but refraining from sliding down to his groin. She eyes the rather impressive bulge, straining against the buttons of his fly, with appreciation. She longs to rub herself against it, but decides it needs to wait. She has a point to make, after all. She does bite her lower lip, unaware of this subconscious move, but made aware of it when she notices Jack’s eyes are hot on her mouth.

“No. I’ve got you right where I want you, infuriating man,” she says, stroking his strong jaw.

“And where would that be, impossible woman?” he queries, hesitantly placing his hands on her hips as though she is something fragile, something cherished that might break if he isn’t careful.

Her smile goes from feral to soft in an instance, and he basks in the brightness of it.

“Here, with me.”

His heart feels as though it is about to burst – she is so beautiful – and he can’t speak, he can’t think, and therefore he goes with the only other available option left to him; he pulls her down into his lap and kisses her with a passion, a love, that is unparalleled. She returns his kiss with everything she has, knowing that her lips will be able to speak the words she cannot yet say.

***

Right. That tie needs to come off.

She quickly unties the knot, before removing it from his neck and flinging it to some indeterminate part of the parlour.

“I really like that tie,” he grunts in protest, his voice deliciously raspy.

“Believe me; you really don’t,” she warns him, and noticing the disapproving glint in her eyes he decides not to press the matter any further. He has other ties.

She buries her face in the hollow of his throat, placing open-mouthed kisses there, unable to explain her sudden possessive streak. She opens the first few buttons of his shirt to suckle at his pulse point. His hands tighten on her hips, and she somehow feels victorious. She did that. She has persuaded the passionate man in Jack to come out and play, and although he has been a wonderful opponent thus far, she likes him even better now that they’re on the same team. He smells of cologne, and beneath that there are traces of sandalwood, and most deliciously; Jack.

Has he showered?

Darling man.

And devious man, as well. Had he been hoping for this outcome? How positively naughty of him!

Nuzzling his neck, a faint trace of Italian spices invades her senses.

She pulls at the lapels of his jacket.

“Take this off,” she orders, and when he doesn’t immediately comply, she sets about pushing the offending garment off of his shoulders. She needs more of his own scent, his comforting smell, to cancel out the painful memories.

Her impatience at undressing him sends a surge of arousal directly to his groin. He quickly shrugs out of his jacket – crumpling it on the chaise – before her nimble fingers attack the buttons on his waistcoat so she can splay her hands across his chest, feeling the heat of his skin through the cotton of his shirt. He inhales sharply as she rakes her fingernails towards his lower abdomen.

He cannot turn back from this, not even if his life depends on it. The dam has burst, and he is drowning in her, seeing stars. He is reminded, vividly, of their private encounter at the Imperial Club, and suddenly there is something he needs to see to, urgently.

Her sparkling brooch is poking into his abdomen, but this is easily remedied by removing the offending piece of jewellery altogether (carefully placing it on the armrest, earning him a look of approval) so he can move her delicate, intricate black lace blouse out of the way.

His eyes look for hers, and when she meets them halfway, he appears to ask her for some kind of permission to continue. She nods, even though she is unsure of his next move; she trusts Jack, would trust him with her life and she trusts that he will treat her body, mind and soul with the utmost respect. She wouldn’t expect anything else from him.

She can feel her body tense in delighted anticipation, poised near his prominent erection, as he pulls her black camisole down in one brazen, unexpected move, to release a breast and take her nipple into his hot mouth without warning.

“Jack!” she moans, and his bitten-off groan vibrates around her bosom. As he suckles her breast, she slowly starts to draw circles with her hips, moaning low and deep in her throat, which appears to encourage him, spurs him on, as he squeezes her still-covered breast with his large hand. He hardens even further underneath her and she squirms, attempting to grind against his rigid cock, swivelling her hips.

She’d wanted this, had wanted him, when they had been sitting in their private booth at the gentleman’s club. When she had spontaneously slid into his lap to maintain her cover as a dancer, offering particular ‘services’. She has longed for the feel of his mouth on her breast ever since, and evidently, so has he.

Her pressure is tantalizing, his eyes close involuntarily but not before he sets his hands back on her hips, his thumbs splayed across a sliver of exposed abdomen, pressing her down on his length. He curses her black crêpe de Chine pants – an unwanted barrier between them – but figures it’s probably for the best he doesn’t further undress her here, when anyone could walk in at any given moment.

But somehow, that danger, that thrill also excites him.

“Jack, I want, mmm, yes, God—”

“What do you want, Phryne?” he grunts against the damp skin of her neck as he cups her breast, pinches her nipple between his clever fingers. Oh, those long fingers. She needs more from him, but she will not give in this easily.

“I will not beg, Jack, ravenous as I may be,” she pants, head thrown back against his onslaught, the stimulation to her body almost too much and yet not enough.

Oh, she will beg. Later, he promises himself. Later. Dear God, there will be a ‘later’! But right now, his own urge, his need, is too great.

The stark contrast between her words and her actions is almost hilarious, her desire to remain in control adorable. She looks as if she’s about to swoon, her eyelids heavy-lidded and her mouth open slightly, and Jack simply can’t resist any longer.

“Oh, I believe you will find there is absolutely no need for you to beg, Miss Fisher,” he rasps, suddenly reversing their positions to move himself on top of her, pinning her body to the chaise longue with his weight, admiring the way her exposed breasts bounce with his effort. She briefly wonders how he is able to execute this move with such precision and fluidity, but decides not to dwell on it for now. The press of his erection against the apex of her thighs is heavenly and makes her hiss in anticipation and heady arousal as she wraps her legs around his waist. “I’m nourishing a rather large appetite myself,” he speaks in gravelly tones as he thrusts shallowly against her clothed crotch, setting a torturous rhythm that she believes is designed to drive her absolutely insane.

Oh, she most definitely likes this side of Jack.

Her dark horse.

She always suspected he was a passionate man – had seen evidence of his passions on quite a number of occasions – but he was generally so buttoned-up, so correct, so noble. Those passions had to come out somewhere, and she’d secretly hoped his outlet was hidden behind closed doors.

“Really? Then what do you desire, Inspector? Just a dainty nibble?” She moans sinfully in his ear as she lavishes his earlobe. He shudders in her arms. “Or a quick bite?”A tug at his shoulder with her teeth, sinking into his skin, soaking the cotton of his shirt and earning her a lovely tremble. “Or perhaps you’d prefer to devour me whole?” she queries, pressing her hot mouth to his before he can even formulate an answer, and spearing her tongue into his wet cavern, taking his breath away. He groans against her lips and it’s all he can do not to take her right here, right now, consequences be damned. He roughly grabs at her breast, kneading it until she’s keening and writhing underneath him.

He releases her lips, but only because the need for oxygen is too great, and he pants against her mouth, smeared with red lipstick.

“I really don’t care, Miss Fisher, as long as you feed me.”

Chapter Text

‘Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale. Her infinite variety. Other women cloy. The appetites they feed, but she makes hungry. Where most she satisfies, for vilest things. Become themselves in her, that the holy priests. Bless her when she is riggish.’

— William Shakespeare, Antony and Cleopatra

‘Life is uncertain. Eat dessert first.’

 — Ernestine Ulmer

“Goodnight, Mr. B!” Phryne singsongs as she walks past the dining room door, dragging Jack along and up the first flight of stairs by his decidedly hideous, loose tie that is looped around his neck like a lasso. His waistcoat and shirt are still unbuttoned, and Phryne’s camisole is wrinkled (and probably ruined, he notes with equal parts amusement and pride). His jacket is draped over his arm; he doesn’t even want to imagine Miss Williams’ horrified face if she were to discover an article of his clothing in the parlour the next day.

“Goodnight, Miss, Inspector,” a polite voice calls from the kitchen.

Then again, it appears at least one member of the staff is hardly surprised by his unexpected sleepover.

Jack is – once again – struck by the man’s omnipotent omniscience. Absolutely nothing gets past him, does it? However, the butler’s silent approval of this new development warms his heart.

Phryne attempts to stifle a laugh when she spots the incredulous look on his face, as he pauses in following her up the stairs.

“What can I say? I have a penchant for hiring only the best,” she grins smugly.

***

She closes the door of her bedroom behind her with a soft click, turning the key in the lock. Further ascending the stairs, Jack has grown still and she observes him as he stands in the centre of the dimly-lit room, seemingly unsure.

With the exception of his unsteady breathing, the room is quiet, too quiet.

“Jack?” she whispers, quietly, her voice gentle. His eyes snap up to meet hers and she can see the unbridled passion is still there, his desire ever-present. He is restraining himself and suddenly it dawns on her, the reason for his reserve.

They’re going to make love.

It’s finally happening, and the magnitude of this occurrence dwarfs everything else in this moment.

Nothing is going to stop her from having this wonderful man in every delicious way possible, but she will never venture anywhere he will not be comfortable with. Even if it means he chooses to turn away from all of this to return to the safety of his own home.

She respects him far too much to make him do anything he doesn’t want to, yet they have come so far and she wants him.

Needs him.

Simply.

Now.

He reaches for her with his arm; his strong muscular arm and that beautifully sculpted hand. He doesn’t speak when she places her hand in his, not a whisper of a word or a flutter of a breath when he pulls her close to bury his face in her neck, unable to maintain eye-contact. The slight hitch of her breathing, the skip of her heartbeat, when he softly suckles the sensitive skin he uncovers, his agile fingers almost apologetically brushing over her breasts. She loved his passionate combustion earlier, but this is exquisite. The time he takes to explore every inch of her not only arouses her greatly, but also makes her heart throb in pleasure.

One hand comes up to caress her face as she remains immobile. She allows him his exploration, his own adventure, because she has longed to feel his touch for so long and has wanted for him to take the initiative. Her lips meet his eagerly; his tongue finds its way into her mouth and she suckles on it, causing him to moan softly. She pushes his unbuttoned waistcoat and shirt from his shoulders, joining the jacket he has dropped to the floor earlier, and flings that god-awful tie into the cold fireplace. She takes the opportunity to bend down and suck on one of his nipples through his undershirt. He groans in retaliation, pulling her closer to him with his hands on her arse. She can feel his arousal pressing against her belly and this ignites the slumbering fire within.

Her mouth meets his once more, passionately, frantically, as she divests him of his singlet and he manages to get her out of her blouse. Suddenly, she can’t feel enough of him and she wants him naked, wants to feel her fevered skin press against his, longs to eat him alive.

Her hand snakes down between their heated bodies to brush the bulge straining against the buttons of his fly, and he hisses through his teeth. He snatches her hand, pulling it away from his manhood, and she looks at him in confusion as he pants against her lips, pressing his forehead to hers.

“Don’t, please, I...I have imagined this so many times, Phryne. Far more often than I should have,” he admits almost guiltily, yet his confession makes her squirm in delight, “and now that I’m here, with you, I want to savour it. Every single moment of it,” he finishes, breathing heavily.

His voice is so low, raspy and gorgeous, its velvety texture feeling as though he is stroking her with his timbre, and she has trouble focusing, but realises this is important.

“I know, Jack. I want that, as well. I’m sorry I took that liberty. Shouldn’t I have—”

“No! It’s not you, Phryne. Well, I mean, it’s always you, but I—I just need—” he stutters, feeling like a complete imbecile.

“A moment to compose yourself, darling?” she supplies, adoration for this darling man filling her heart as he stumbles over his own words in order to express himself. He really must be quite undone, as he is normally rather well-spoken and articulate. It’s one of his traits she admires most.

He blushes as he nods, his head hanging down in embarrassment. He’s quite overcome.

She leans in to kiss him on the cheek, and she can feel his relieved smile on her lips.

“Alright Jack, but you better put on a good show, then. I’m sure my fan feathers are still around here, somewhere,” she purrs, as she gives him one soft, teasing stroke. Upon his horrified expression, she laughs. “Don’t worry darling, I’ll be waiting right here, but I haven’t got all night.” With that, he hears her shuffle towards the bed as he turns his back to her to finish undressing.

God damn tease, she is.

He loves her for it. And for so many other things.

Yet he can’t resist retaliating, getting back at her. It’s what they do best, after all. He bends down to take off his shoes.

“I know you can’t promise me forever, Miss Fisher, and I fail to see why the general public would consider this to be a problem. However, if you’re unwilling to grant me even one night in your boudoir...” he trails off jokingly, knowing this will set her off. He likes this, their familiar banter, a return to safe grounds, to breathe easy. It only solidifies his belief that this – whatever it is – will work out.

“Oh, shut up and get undressed!” she laughs as she throws something at his head.

He chuckles. Upon closer inspection, he realises she has just aimed her black knickers at his person and his cock hardens even further against his fly as he feels the smooth slide of black satin slipping through his callused fingertips. He refrains from bringing them to his nose, knowing that the real thing will be even better. That the real thing is right there, waiting for him.

Taking a deep breath, he lowers his unbuttoned trousers and smalls to the floor and steps out of them, before toeing off his socks. Her sharp intake of breath and following hum of appreciation makes him tense up in sweet anticipation. But when he turns to the bed, all of the air accumulated in his lungs leaves him in one big, stuttering exhale. On the bed is the Honourable Miss Phryne Fisher, and she is definitely up to some dishonourable things.

And she is also most definitely naked. Jack does not know a whole lot about paintings – literature is more his forte – but evidently Sarcelle was a gifted artiste. However, the real thing far surpasses canvas and brush strokes of oil paint. She is all long limbs and ivory skin, soft lines, dips and gentle womanly curves. And she’s all his.

“You wanted to be fed, didn’t you, Inspector?”

“I did. I do,” he swallows, and his throat feels like sandpaper.

“Well then, Jack...come and have your fill,” she commands him in a low, sultry voice, as the pinches her own rosy nipple between her fingers, her other hand spreading herself for him as she boldly maintains eye contact.

He looks at her like a man starving, and he is. Craving her touch, hungry for her taste.

He can’t find his voice – he is so hard his cock is curved towards his stomach and she eyes him appreciatively – but when she dips a finger inside of her quivering body, licking her swollen nude lips and making a sound that can’t possibly be human, he groans. He’ll go to his bloody grave remembering that very sound.

She is a feast. His very own private banquet, and he will make damn sure he’s going to savour every. Last. Bite.

Her head snaps up to meet his eyes as he addresses her, his courage returning to him as he moves a large palm towards his own engorged flesh. She is his courage, his rock, his anchor in the whirlwind she often creates herself.

“Far be it from me to turn down such a tantalizing meal, Miss Fisher.”

***

“You know...Compton asked me about you, Jack,” she calls softly from the bathroom, cleaning up her diaphragm after a rather exquisite bout of lovemaking, before reinserting it. She’s not done with him, yet. Not for a long, long time to come. Their first time together has been a bit of a hurried, desperate fumble in the heat of desire – on both their parts – but it doesn’t matter.

It was Jack, and he’d been utterly delicious. He’d been confident, even found the time to be attentive in their wicked frenzy, and it had just felt so good to finally be with him, truly be with him.

She’d had sex before, and she had enjoyed it many, many times, but with Jack, it had been different. She felt such a strong emotional attachment, a connection to him that she hadn’t felt before with another man. Maybe that was the significant difference; she’d had sex before, but Jack Robinson had made love to her. It had been quite overwhelming, and it still was, but she’d always loved a good adventure. And Jack Robinson proved to be quite the uncharted territory she longed to explore.

It hadn’t been a slow seduction between her sheets, but a year of foreplay had apparently rid them both of any patience once they had gotten naked.

But now, they had time, all the time in the world, and she was definitely up for a second serving.

He has no idea how she can sound so perfectly collected at three in the morning; he feels absolutely shattered.

“He did?” He attempts to mask the surprise in his voice – his interest piqued instantly – and misses the mark by a mile. He’s also quite surprised his voice is still functioning after the evening they’ve had.

Poor Miss Williams.

She walks back in, still as naked as the day she was born – unabashed in her nudity – and he’s pretty sure he’s just lost his voice altogether, along with the feeling in his legs. For a moment, she just admires his nude body, approaching the bed, the sheets riding indecently low on his hips. With the exception of a few other women; was the entire female population of Australia blind?

The man is a vision, an appetizing male specimen she wants to taste over and over again.

His hair is mussed from her running her hands through it, his normally pomaded curls unrestrained. His chest is muscular, his shoulders wide, and there is a tantalizing trail of hair below his belly-button that just calls out to be lavished by her tongue in order to determine a final destination. He hasn’t allowed her the pleasure just yet, but judging from the lustful look in his eyes, the future is looking very promising indeed.

He looks so unlike the stern Detective Inspector and so much like Jack.

Her Jack.

“Hmmm. Yes. I suppose he suspected some positively indecent goings-on between us,” she informs him, as she gets back underneath the covers to curl up next to him. She places her head upon his chest, her breasts pressed against his pectorals, and the gesture is so intimate it makes his throat tighten. 

“I’ll have to give him some grudging credit for that one,” he grumbles as she entwines their legs.

She gasps in mock surprise and laughs, but then falls remarkably quiet.

He can practically hear the gears turning in her head as he feels her heart, beating in tandem with his.

“Just ask me, Phryne,” he sighs, smiling softly towards the ceiling.

She lifts her head to peer at him through slitted eyes from underneath her dark fringe, struggling to find her voice for once. He knows her so well, it scares her sometimes.

“Were you jealous of Compton, Jack?”

A pregnant pause in which she wonders if she has overstepped.

“I was, of him. As well,” he answers her truthfully as he strokes her hair, letting it run through his fingers. No more secrets.

“Oh, Jack...” There’s a distinct sadness in her voice that is mirrored in her eyes as she raises herself up on her elbows to gaze lovingly into his eyes. Gently stroking his shoulder, his chest, any part that she can get to, as if to make up for his past aches. She never meant to hurt him (well, most of the time) and she sincerely feels sorry she has.

“It’s alright, Phryne. Well, I mean, it wasn’t, before. But it is now,” he insists, before taking a steadying breath, “Jealousy just happens, I suppose. I obviously never meant for it to happen, but it did.” She nods, understanding exactly what he means.

“I’m sure you’re familiar with the process?” he asks playfully, nudging her, even though she can tell he’s being serious, stripped bare in more ways than one, hanging by a thread.

“I am,” she confesses, no longer afraid but grateful he will not make her spell it out.

He kisses her forehead, the soft pressure of his lips sending a myriad of butterflies to scatter across her nervous system. He looks into her eyes and the love and devotion she finds in them causes words to spill from her lips uncensored.

“I didn’t sleep with Compton, Jack. Nor with any other man, for quite some time now,” she confesses, and she tightens her hands on his biceps as his gaze softens even more. “It just didn’t seem right when we, when I, it just—well...”

“I know,” he rumbles, and she can feel his chest move against her cheek as he speaks. She wants to feel this forever and ever, be this close to him until she can’t distinguish where she ends and he begins.

He just smiles, then kisses her softly, tenderly, his lips telling her all she needs to know, all she wants to hear from him.

“Concetta did, as well. Mention you, I mean. Not in so many words, though.”

“Clever woman.”

“Indeed. Although I do believe she suspected something was up when you cornered her, that night at the restaurant, firing questions at her,” he pokes at her, eliciting a response.

“I did not corner anyone! I was merely acquiring some much required information for the sake of the—”

“Shush, woman.” If he had known the best way to silence her was to kiss her, he would have done it ages ago.

He then proceeds to shut her up and make her scream in the most effective and enjoyable ways he now knows how.

***

“So now that Strano’s is closed, where will you be going for a nice, hot meal, Jack?” she asks the hairs on his chest, absentmindedly stroking his bare, damp skin in nonsensical patterns. She’s still slightly breathless, he notes with a small modicum of male pride.

She is fishing, but this comes as no surprise to him; her habits are even implied in her name. She’ll have to try harder than that.

“Oh, I don’t know as of yet. I may have to call upon the favours of some friends,” he smirks, enjoying teasing her far too much, now that he’s at full liberty to do so.

“‘Old friends’?” she goads him, teases him with a look on her face that spells utter mischief as she wiggles her cold toes against his calves.

“Infuriating woman,” he admonishes her, before kissing her soundly and pulling her to lay on top of him, but the playful character of his embrace quickly turns into something more. Something sensual, heady, a kiss that is meant to seduce. She feels her control slip away from her, but there is still a nagging thought at the back of her mind. She doesn’t want to ponder on why this bothers her so much. She pulls her lips away from his, pressing their foreheads together as they regain their breathing.

“And Concetta?” she asks him, as his hands cup her behind, stroking lazily. As if they’ve been here many times before. She supposes, in a way, they have.

“What about her, Miss Fisher?”

“You care for her.” It isn’t a question.

“I do,” he simply states, then turns to his side, laying face to face with her.

“Were you in love with her?” she queries, her gaze burning holes where his eyes used to be.

He smirks.

“Were you in love with Compton?”

She pouts.

“Alright, alright, point taken. No more talk of ‘old friends’ then,” she capitulates, snuggling closer.

“You may want to reconsider that statement, Miss Fisher; you might run out of other friends to talk about,” he teases, running fingertips across her belly to gently cup her breast.

“Jack! You insufferable tease!” Her attempt at indignation is streaked with sudden arousal, as she gives him a playful shove before he pulls her to him again, revelling in the skin-on-skin contact that feels so familiar, yet is excitingly new.

“What about new friends, Jack, can we discuss those?” she purrs against his neck, burying her nose there, and he knows damn well she is referring to a different use of her mouth altogether. His interest begins to swell.

“I think I might be inclined to acquiesce to that request, Miss Fisher,” he rumbles, taking a nipple into his mouth.

“Oh, mmm, yes, that’s good. Quite elaborate discussions too, wouldn’t you say so?” she pants, squirming against him, his cock hardening between their entwined bodies.

“Definitely, Miss Fisher, the most widespread discussions possible,” he rasps against her breast, his morning-stubble tickling her skin as his long fingers at her mons demonstrate exactly just how widespread his elaborations will be. He marvels at her wetness, her desire for him.

“God, Jack, and will they be long, too? Tell me,” she urges him on – moving her hips against his fingers at the incredibly stimulating sound of his deep, hoarse voice. Her double entendre is not lost on him, but he decides to sidestep.

This is important, and he needs her to know. Needs her to hear it without distractions.

“For as long as you’ll have me,” he confesses, looking into her eyes that are clouded with both admiration and arousal. She stills, and he carefully removes his fingers from her trembling core as she places a tender hand upon his cheek.

“And you, Jack, for how long will you have me?” she whispers, breathing heavily, suddenly feeling terribly insecure.

“For as long as I shall love you, Phryne,” he tells her, and it is the truth. He kisses her forehead, longing to stay in her warm and safe embrace but soon realising he’s fighting a losing battle as her hands come up to wrap around his shoulders, pushing him onto his back.

“That had better be a damn long time, Jack Robinson,” she all but growls at him as she wraps a possessive thigh over his hip, straddling him.

He chuckles. Always trying to come out on top, his wicked woman.

“Forever hungry for more, aren’t you, Miss Fisher?” he quips – putting specific emphasis on the first word of his sentence, challenging her – his question ending on a low groan as she puts her hand around the hard length of him and guides him to her moist entrance.

She looks at him, and the love that radiates from her wraps around his heart on his next inhale, as he holds his breath.

“Positively insatiable, Inspector,” she sighs, as she takes him inside of her.