"You were so mean to me tonight!" Sylvie complained petulantly as Raphael took rapid, shallow breaths. In the two weeks since she had taken him as a lover, she had learned that though he no longer had nightmares with regularity, Thomas' death had seemed to have triggered them again. These days, it was almost nightly.

It was why she had taken to staying awhile even after their lovemaking was at an end, she absolutely despised the idea of leaving him to fight his demons all alone. She had accustomed herself to staying alert enough to rise when the clock outside struck six, an hour or so before dawn, to return to her own rooms before the servants started rising. It was not altogether too difficult as she was accustomed to keeping early hours when she had been a tutor.

Some days, it would take him long minutes of forcing himself to breathe in order to finally relax. In those times, Sylvie would hold him and say nothing, stroke him until he stopped trembling. He would utter her name hoarsely and when she answered he would make love to her with such desperate intensity that she would be breathless after.

Then there were times like tonight when he came back to his senses quickly, his sleep would be lost to him entirely because he remained lost to his thoughts. She had found that the best way to break him out of his stupor was to distract him with conversation. Or with kisses. But kisses led to fondling which led to more lovemaking, and quite frankly after the way he had been with her tonight, she did not have another round left in her.

So, talking it would have to be.

"You....were being a.....brat," he grit out between his breathing, his eyes settling on hers, gratitude simmering in them because he knew what she was doing; distracting him. She extended her arms and he took that invitation happily, bearing down on her with half of his weight. She liked it though, the way he went limp in her arms as if he felt safe there. She loved that she could help him feel protected and supported the way he always made her feel. She ran her hands through his hair, along the scars on his back, pressing her mouth to his head.

"I am not bratty at all!" She exclaimed with half-hearted indignation. Truth be told, she had been acting naughty and disobedient just because she had been curious about what he'd do if she didn't listen. She'd discovered that she took a little pleasure in inciting his wrath in the bedroom, of all the strange things. It made him a little wilder, a little more frenzied and Sylvie just relished bringing him to the edge of his composure. When she had tried to make him come with her hands after he told her not to, he had bound her wrists together. When she had tried to touch herself because he refused to, he had spanked her again.

"Liar," he rasped, his stubble scratching her collar as he nuzzled her neck affectionately humming in approval when she ran her fingers along his skin with the right amount of pressure. "I told you not to come without permission, and then what did you do?"

"Well, that was not my fault! I asked you so many times and you refused to let me. I couldn't help it, Rafe," she said haughtily. Her final disobedience really had been entirely unintentional. He had not listened to her pleas for release, had not granted his permission, but he had continued to stimulate her in all the ways that made her body sing. She had very valiantly tried to hold on, but then he rubbed her just the right way and she had been unable to hold back the way her body had shuddered in surrender, nor the hoarse scream that had left her mouth.

"Let's not act like you didn't enjoy the consequences," he grunted, then rolled onto his back, taking her with him so that she was left splayed against his chest, their legs in a tangle.

Well, the aforementioned consequences tended to be rather enjoyable, who could blame her for liking them? Tonight, for example, after she had disobeyed him that last time, he had bound her hands above her and her legs to the bedpost and had declared that if she liked coming so much that she would dare disobey him, then she would come until she could not possibly take it anymore. And he had made good on his promise.

He had used his mouth, his shaft, and his fingers to bring her to her climax so many times that she had lost count. He had pushed her farther than he had ever before and she had been screaming and begging but he did not relent until she had been reduced to an oversensitized, incoherent, sobbing mess. Sylvia had gone into a place deep inside her head where nothing save the pleasure existed, the need to give and receive it, the need to please him and earn his approval. She rather thought that she'd been on the verge of passing out! 

After that he had undone her bindings, lovingly cleaned her up, and held her limp body until she came back to earth. He kissed her face, wiping the tear tracks, telling her how well she had done and how proud she had made him. After that, he rubbed some soothing lotion on her ankles and wrists where the bindings had left marks on her skin. The bindings themselves were not uncomfortable, Rafe had bought some special ropes made of silk that ensured they did not chafe against her skin. Then, he had turned her around and rubbed the same lotion onto her red, stinging backside, all while telling her how delighted he was with his handiwork in that insufferably smug tone of his.  At the very end, he poured her some deliciously cold champagne, which she enjoyed leaning against him, enjoying his embrace. He was so tender, so adoring that she had wanted to cry some more. She craved the gentility he offered her in the aftermath just as much as she craved his relentless enthusiasm during the act. It surprised her to the core how something so base and wild could make her feel so cared for and safe.

Would it be the same way with another? When she and Raphael went back to their lives and this little, exquisite interlude was over, would she ever find anyone who made her feel the same?

Deep in her bones, she knew that she would never find another like him. She suddenly felt a little sympathy for Mrs. Sherman, for Sylvia herself could not promise that she would not turn a little desperate should he cast her aside. After all that he had shown her, how was she supposed to find such perfection with another?

A frisson of panic skittered through her.

The trouble with developing a taste for expensive French wine was that it was not so readily available, but the local tap room ale would never measure up. Would she spend the rest of her life trying to find something as elegant and refined only to be disappointed at every turn? For the first time in two weeks, Sylvia Heartwood almost regretted taking Raphael St. Alexander, venerated libertine, as her lover.

But......wasn't it better to have had a taste of the finest while it was available, instead of living a life completely ignorant of the sheer decadence that could exist between man and woman? Wasn't it better that she knew what her body was capable of? The pleasure it was able to give and receive?

"I won't act like I dislike what you do to me," she agreed, trying to dispel her sudden melancholy. "Today was a little intense, though."

"You didn't say your code, pet," she detected a hint of panic in his voice and hurried to reassure him.

"I didn't want you to stop! It was just so new to me that I felt a little afraid, but then I thought to myself that it was you and that you would never let anything happen to me and I was perfectly alright after that."

Since her first time, Sylvia had come to learn that there was much fun to be had in being the obedient one. She could lay herself completely in the keeping of someone else, knowing full well that they would take care of her, her safety, her pleasure, her comfort.

That was not to say she didn't also enjoy being the one in charge, thankfully her lover was a very indulgent man and often let her do whatever she liked. 

"Good," he kissed the top of her head and relaxed again.

"Raphael, might I ask you something?"

"Yes, pet?"

"Well, I was wondering....Is there any alternate method to prevent conception? Aside from French letters?"

"You don't like them?"

"I like feeling you inside me without a barrier between us."

"God," he let out a pained groan. "You are a man's wildest fantasy. Don't say things like that unless you want to end up on your hands and knees again."

"I shall thank you to keep your hands to yourself after tonight! I think I might need a day or two to recover after what you did to me!" 

He let out a pleased sound.

"There are sponges women can use to prevent contraception," he confirmed. "You need to soak them in some vinegar. I'll procure some for us and we'll see if you like them better than the French Letters." 

"Thank you, Raphael. Is it truly alright if I don't come to you tomorrow? I really do think I need a break."

"Of course, my darling," he held her close, giving her shoulder a squeeze. "And thank you. For getting me out of my head."

"I will always take care of you," she said simply. "Is there anything that else helps? Anything your other ladies did that worked for you?"

Though the thought of him with other women did turn her mouth a little sore, she fought through the twinge of jealousy for his sake. Her feelings did not matter if she could help him feel better.

He was silent for several long moments before he spoke.

"I don't typically make it a habit to fall asleep with my partner after we've both gotten what we need," he buried his face in her hair, but she heard the slight mortification in his tone anyway. She could not help but grin in possessive delight.

"So you mean to say.... I am special," she teased gently, looking up at him.

"I'm not saying I never did it," he replied testily. "Just that I didn't do it often."

"And yet you ask me to stay every time, do you not?"

"God, I've created a smug little demon," he groaned, pressing a smiling kiss to her mouth. "Now who is it that needs reassurance?"

"Pretty words never hurt," she shrugged, making an attempt at copying his typical nonchalance.

"You are you, Sylvie," he sighed, his gaze turning solemn. "It was always going to be different between us. It was always going to be special."

"Oh," she said breathlessly, her heart taking a hard beat as they stared at each other silently. A thousand sensations bubbled up, rising to the surface. Something new made itself known to Sylvia in that moment- the knowledge that it would be so very easy to fall in love with him. Harder, deeper, more intensely than she had when she was thirteen or when she had been eighteen. This man, who was her best friend in the world, this man who was the most tender, thoughtful lover she could have ever imagined. This man who cared for his daughter, this man who would avenge her brother and keep her safe. It would be so very easy to let go and love him again, and in that moment she dared hope that he could possibly feel the same for her. He showed her in so many ways that she mattered to him in ways that he had not felt for another.

The loud clock in the hallway chimed six times, breaking the fragile spell that had been woven over her. Her mind took over from her foolish heart.

She was no idiot, he had been clear about what he wanted, what this arrangement between them was. She was turning thirty in less than a week; she was no girl with wild dreams, she was no debutant who secretly wished to be swept off her feet. She was a woman who had bodily needs, needs that he had agreed to meet. And that was all. Sylvia Heartwood was an intelligent woman who would never be so foolish as to fall in love with someone who would not give himself to her wholly and without restraint.

She slid out of bed and began to dress.

She would never let herself become like Mrs. Sherman, when the time came for them to part, she would do it with grace and dignity; and for that, it was imperative that she did not love him. She rallied the defenses around her heart, securing each lock firmly in its place, and only then did she turn back to look at him. He lay lazily in bed, giving her a teasing, Cheshire smile and a small wave of his hand. Her heart did not beat faster, her cheeks did not blush, her breath did not catch.

She was safe.