A/N: So, as you may be aware, I'm a fan of 'what-ifs' and 'alternate scenes/endings/decisions.' Therefore, during 'Unnatural Habits,' I wasn't yelling at Aunt Prudence; I was cursing George Sanderson. What if he hadn't walked in at that moment?

This had been beta'd by the incomparable Firebird 9 and the lovely Niki (thanks a million to both of you!)

And this fic is also rated 'M' for a reason, folks. Hope you enjoy.

He really, really needed to start thinking things through before he opened his mouth.

Such was Jack Robinson's pained thought as he hastily waved off Phryne's explanation as to how – and why – she was so knowledgeable about knots. That was more than he needed to know, although – Portuguese? How on earth . . .

No. No, he didn't need to know, he didn't want to know, and for the sake of his sanity, he needed to stop thinking about it now.

To distract himself (and to keep her from noticing his discomfort), he tossed out a possibility that he knew full well was unlikely, but it achieved the desired effect of diverting her. Of course, she promptly derailed his efforts by revealing yet another tidbit about a father Jack had long since come to suspect had been abusive. However, with Phryne being who (and what) she was, he wasn't stupid enough to voice that suspicion. Instead, he tossed out a gentle tease about her (gloriously, joyfully) unbroken spirit and gave a faint grin at her unamused expression (while hiding his true reaction; he had also long since come to realize it was a good thing he was unlikely to meet her father). But when he caught a glimpse of hurt in her eyes, it occurred to him that he might have gone a little too far that time, so he gave her another suggestion to shoot down. Her return reply was snappish and her action a little rough when she shoved his tie back into his hands, and Jack, feeling guilty for inadvertently wounding her feelings, made a soft sound of complaint and plaintively said, "Oh, you – you've creased it now."

Why he was surprised that Phryne promptly came to stand in front of him – between his legs – was anyone's guess, but the objection died on his lips at the soft look in her eyes, which belied her exasperated, "Oh, come here." That had been happening more and more often of late, he mused, absently bending his head to give her access to his neck and the back of his shirt. She'd taken to touching him more, but not as – flirtatiously? No, that wasn't it. She touched him like Rosie used to: casually, surely, with the easy intimacy of long-time lovers.

And he loved it.

Jack felt a little guilty at times that he didn't return the favour, but his natural reticence combined with the never-forgotten knowledge that he and Phryne weren't together like that to create an invisible barrier on his part, and it was one he couldn't seem to overcome. But then, he had a secret that no one else had caught on to, which made the playing field a little more even: he had, for about seven months now, been slowly, deliberately, seducing the heart of Phryne Fisher. Sex with her was most definitely something he wanted, but he could have had that – well, from the beginning, really. Phryne had made no pretense of her physical desire for him, and God knew he'd been fighting his attraction with every fiber of his being. The reason he hadn't made any move to accelerate things after his divorce was . . . well, happened . . . was because he'd started down the path of love. He hadn't wanted to, and he could admit now that he'd been more than a little aggressive about doing a 180° turn, even given the fact that Phryne considered love one of the seven deadly sins.

But Phryne did not take being ignored, brushed aside, or dismissed. It wasn't even that she didn't take them well: she simply did not take them. The more distance he created between them, the more of his space she filled, doing her level best to drive him to insanity – until the first time he told her 'no' just to see what she would try in an effort to change his mind. When he had to turn away lest she see his amusement (and, God help him, his affection), Jack knew it was inevitable: he was going to fall in love with Phryne Fisher.

He refused to fall alone, though, and so began his campaign. And slowly but surely, one stealthy game of draughts (and a ride on the Great Scenic Railway, food that would have made Gaston Lenôtre weep with envy, and enough whiskey to float the Titanic) at a time, he laid claim to her heart. Had a body not dropped less than fifteen minutes after the football game that still made him hot under the collar when he thought about it, he would have made his move that night. But God had intervened, and though he'd railed about it, Gertrude Haynes' murder had driven home the necessity, for he'd seen that Phryne wasn't yet on his page. In fact, he would have wagered that they weren't even in the same book – and Phryne had given him no reason to think that would change. And so, despite the cost to his soul (and peace of mind, sanity, and general quality of life), Jack had stepped back and thought to simply sever his ties to her, both personal and professional. He couldn't fall any further in love, but he was incapable of being around her on a strictly platonic basis and maintaining his equanimity.

And he had too much pride, too much self-respect, to let her use his body while throwing out his heart. They'd both painfully learned a hard lesson from those hellish days: Jack could sooner stop breathing than live happily without Phryne, and it seemed that she felt the same.

Cautious optimism became his new watchword and he carefully resumed his quest for her heart, her love, while trying to remain a little more detached, maintain a bit more distance, than he had the first time. He cherished every new piece of herself that she gave to him, reveled as she came to understand that he would always protect her, and support her when she allowed it, and gradually let himself begin to hope that she would come to share his feelings and return his love. And now, after months of coaxing and teasing, giving and taking, and watching them both change and grow, Jack dared to think that it could be safe to offer his heart to her.

The feeling of Phryne's hands beginning to knot his tie pulled his attention back to her and he swallowed hard before looking up, trying to prepare himself for the yearning he was going to see etched in every line of her face, knowing it was a mirror of his own desire.

That had been happening more and more often, too.

As their eyes met, Jack absently noticed that her deft fingers were no longer trying to form a knot; instead, they were stroking the soft silk, tugging and sliding it into and out of place, never stilling. Phryne was nervous, he abruptly realized, and edgy from forcing herself to follow his lead, stay at his pace. His realization of this unbelievably obvious fact would have earned a headache-inducing eyeroll from everyone who knew them, but the sudden comprehension made Jack wonder just what he waiting for now. He knew very well that she hadn't had a man since that actor from her friend Raymond's film (a fact that he couldn't really hold against her, despite feeling like he'd been slapped at the time; he'd been the one to back off, to cool things down (to walk away), and as such, he had no right to expect her to keep waiting for him). In retrospect, her lack of lovers since then (and before that, if he could trust his hopeful instincts) was also a rather large clue.

And as he saw the longing in her eyes, and the resignation, Jack Robinson came to another (self-evident) conclusion: he had to take the first step. She didn't altogether trust the situation (or, more likely, him), it seemed, and he had no room to complain. And so, despite (because of?) their locale, Jack decided to grab fate with both hands. He was quite literally aching to kiss her, to have her in his arms – and being in his office would keep things from getting out of hand. Still holding her gaze, he straightened on his desk, which brought his eyes level with her mouth. He permitted himself one shallow breath before letting his mask fall, and inwardly grinned at the astonishment he got in return. Phryne's lips parted in surprise and her eyes went wide with disbelief.

Well, for a whole two seconds, and then she yanked on the trailing ends of his tie, pulling him to her, and captured his mouth in an explosive kiss. His senses on fire, Jack eagerly tangled his tongue with hers as he hungrily ran his hands over her back and hips, while she splayed hers across his chest and fumbled to open his waistcoat and shirt. It took a few buttons for that to actually sink in, but he forced himself to push her away and caught her hands, sucking in a desperate breath and smiling in smug satisfaction as she fought to do the same.

"Not —" he began, startled at the dark, husky sound of his own voice.

"Yes," Phryne interrupted, her voice thick with want and her face flushed with desire. "I'm tired of thinking about you and wanting you and never getting to have you," she continued, her voice dropping into a lower register and nearly driving Jack insane from the effort to hold back, now that he'd unleashed his desires.

"The door isn't locked," he rasped, his fingers tightening on hers in a desperate attempt to keep himself from doing indecent things to her (not that she'd mind, but he couldn't afford to damage her clothes. Or his. Or be caught by one of the myriad of officers outside his office, for that matter.).

Stunned, Phryne actually gaped at him for a good ten seconds before an expression of unholy glee lit her eyes (at which point, he realized what he'd actually said was torn between stopping her or getting a cheering squad) and she darted a quick kiss to his mouth before pulling away and crossing his office the way Hannibal must have crossed the Alps. When she opened the door, he almost fell off the desk in shock, especially when she leaned around the frame and said, "Hugh, the inspector and I aren't to be disturbed. We're examining all the evidence."

"Yes, Miss," he faintly heard his constable reply before she stepped back and shut the door, making sure it was fully closed. The loud 'click' of the lock being set made Jack's pulse jump as he realised that this was really happening, just before panic set in. Oh, God, this was really happening. What in the name of heaven was he thi—

Her hot mouth settling back onto his scattered his thoughts like the wind blowing a dandelion across a field: swiftly, thoroughly, and with no chance of recall. She had shoved his suit jacket off and was tugging at the remaining buttons of his shirt (and muttering dire imprecations against his singlet) when he finally got with the program and reached up to push at her coat, wanting, needing to feel her skin beneath his palms. As ever, she followed his thoughts and let the heavy material slide down her arms, where she tossed it in the general direction of his chair, sending her hat after it, before catching his hands and bringing them to the hem of her blouse.

Trembling, Jack just looked at her for a moment before he rucked it up, his mouth going dry at the displays of luscious curves, clingy material, and pale skin that were revealed to his eager eyes as she pulled it over her head, taking the scarf with it and dropping the lot in his chair, atop the crumpled coat that had miraculously made its destination. He was reaching for her camisole when his belt was pulled open and the sensation caught his full attention. He looked up at her and had to forcibly bite back a groan as she licked her lips and unbuttoned his trousers, brushing against his throbbing cock as she did so. It was a small enough touch given the way things were going, but his body had been clamoring for this since very shortly after he'd made her acquaintance and his blood was on fire with sheer, unadulterated need.

Jack lost his mind.

With every intention of taking her against the nearest flat surface, he tried to surge to his feet, but Phryne stopped him with a fierce, ravenous kiss as she yanked his zipper down and swallowed his groan. A few more tugs and he was free, so hard he was actually bobbing against his stomach. Phryne broke their kiss and gave him a sultry smile before tangling her fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck and drawing him to her breast. Despite not having so much as an ounce of blood in his brain, Jack wasn't an idiot and he suckled her hungrily through the thin material of her camisole, smirking when she gave her own choked gasp.

Of course, Phryne being Phryne, she promptly derailed his half-formed train of thought (not that it was any great loss) by tightening her fingers and pulling him away from her delightfully luscious breast, her lips curving in pure feminine delight at the soft noise of protest he was unable to bite back. Panting, he stared up at her in wordless want, unable to articulate what he craved and not caring what he got, so long as she did something, anything. She gave him a tender smile before nipping lightly at his bottom lip and drawing back before he could deepen the kiss. He was able to withstand that exquisite torture for another tease, but on her third try, he clamped his hands around her waist and yanked her to him, claiming her mouth with a ferocity that shouldn't have surprised him. She gave an approving hum and melted against him, matching the intensity of his kiss until Jack felt like he was drowning . . . and gave not a damn about the death that would follow.

Her hand suddenly wrapping around his cock made him jerk and groan, and she had to actually bite his tongue to keep the noise contained. Her first stroke had him whimpering into her mouth, and the second used the last of his air in a gasp of pure pleasure as he tore himself away from her lips. Resting his forehead against her stomach, Jack watched Phryne play with him, her fingers nimble as she caressed, stroked, twisted, and feathered, and he almost wasn't able to hold back the cry when she released him after a clever 'stroke-twist' that nearly finished him on the spot.

A gentle hand on his jaw made him look up, his eyes wide (and probably wild, and maybe a little (lot) crazy with lust). He had opened his mouth to — beg, or say her name, or quote Shakespeare to her, something, but before he could get his voice to work, she held the palm of her hand just in front of his lips. It took his blood-starved brain a minute to catch up, but when he understood, he did groan, muffling the sound in her hand, before running his tongue across her incredibly soft skin and mentally cheering when she shivered against him, her breath hitching in her throat.

Feeling just how affected Phryne was helped him regain a bit of control and Jack tenderly caught her wrist, holding her hand still as he met her eyes and slowly drew her index finger into the hot cavern of his mouth, smirking when she closed her eyes and shivered again. Once he'd thoroughly wet her hand (and every finger, which they both enjoyed far too much), he released her wrist and skimmed his hands up her sides, his eyes glittering with desire (and male satisfaction, no doubt) when his touch made her head fall back, showcasing the lovely lines of her throat. She gave him a quiet moan when he palmed her breasts, rubbing his thumbs across her nipples through the soft material of her camisole and playing his fingers all around her sensitive skin.

"Jack," she rasped in a tone that heated his blood to molten lava, her eyes locking on to his as she wrapped her now-wet hand back around him. The sensation was exquisite, electrifying, and his hips bucked as he fought for control. The sight made her smile and she stroked him again, setting a slow, languorous pace that was going (going? he thought with mild hysteria) to drive him mad. Of their own accord, his hands skated back down her sides and around to her shapely, equally divine buttocks, and she actually purred when he lovingly squeezed, enjoying the sublime feel of her. He'd wanted her for so long and it was everything he'd imagined (because naturally Phryne would live up to his expectations; why on earth would he think otherwise?).

After a few minutes (or hours, or maybe days) of that delightful play, he gave her one last caress before bringing his hands up to the small of her back to draw her closer, craving the feel and taste of her. But just as he pulled her other nipple into his mouth, she went one further (of course, his mind dazedly pointed out), settled herself on his right thigh, and began to rock against him in time with her strokes. A sunburst exploded behind Jack's eyes when he understood her intentions and his hands tightened on her hips to help guide her rhythm while he suckled her strongly, enjoying those choked, moist little whimpers and gasps that she wasn't able to control.

He was teetering on the brink, needing release more than his next breath, when Phryne suddenly went still above him. Her breast popped out of his mouth with a slightly-wet pop as he looked up at her in awe. She was stunning, magnificent, with wild eyes, wet lips, and a beatific smile that was all for him as her hips stuttered against his thigh and her breath cresendoed into soft, helpless gasps of his name interspersed with incoherent pleas.

She rested her head against his shoulder as she came down and Jack ignored his body's demands in favour of holding her close and mouthing kisses along her throat as he mumbled nonsense against her deliciously-sweaty skin. After just a few minutes, though, she shifted back a little on his leg and they both looked down as she began to work him again, her strokes sure as she picked up the pace. Jack's breathing immediately quickened and he swallowed hard, tearing his eyes away from her possessive touch so he could look at her as he came, his hands loosely resting on her hips.

They tightened quickly as she brought him back to the edge and her lips claimed his as he felt himself start to come. The (miniscule) part of his brain still capable of thought shouted a warning and he managed to get one hand wrapped around hers, angling his cock away from both of them (in a desperate attempt to keep their clothing unstained) and showing her how he liked to be finished. She caught his cry of pleasure with her tongue as he fell over the edge into whiteout and coaxed him through his orgasm, slowing the last few strokes to prolong his pleasure while drawing out every last drop he was able to give her as he surrendered to the ecstasy of her touch.

When he could think again, Jack found that he'd been wiped off and tucked back in his trousers, his shirt and waistcoat were buttoned, and Phryne had re-donned her blouse and scarf; other than the lack of lipstick, she looked astonishingly (and aggravatingly) put together. The room smelled like sex, but the now partially-open window was helping to eliminate that problem and to be honest, he was too relaxed to care (though the fresh air was clearing his head as well, so that would probably change). He felt a bit sticky, but that was to be expected and, quite frankly, he was going to enjoy every second of it. He hadn't been expecting a handjob in his office, but he sure as hell wasn't complaining. And watching Phryne climax had been one of the most beautiful things he'd ever seen.

"I must reiterate, Inspector," Phryne murmured, startling him. He looked at her, an eyebrow cocked in inquiry, and she gave him a self-satisfied, sated smile (which he took great pride in. He'd actually reduced Phryne Fisher to a state of wordless appreciation; he rather felt he deserved a medal.). "Lately, you're full of surprises."

Memory of the last time she'd told him that flitted through his mind and he grinned, running a hand through his hair to resettle it. "I didn't hear you complaining," he observed, watching in utter delight as she blushed. Yes, this was definitely a gold medal day. She avoided his knowing look by donning her coat and hat before going to the door to unlock it, and Jack had mercy, saying nothing as he pulled his suit jacket back on. Phryne had regained her composure by then and as she came back to him, she gave him that wicked smile that always made him want to do unspeakable things to her.

"You realize, of course," she purred as she drew even with his desk, "that I simply must know what other surprises you have waiting."

For some inane reason, her forwardness took him by surprise, but he rallied quickly.

"Never let it be said that I left Phryne Fisher wanting," he drawled, laughing softly when she gave a knowing smile at his unintended double entendre.

"I don't think that will be a problem, Detective Inspector," she said with utter assurance, her eyes gleaming with mischief.

"We burn daylight," he quoted, enjoying her surprise at hearing him reference Romeo and Juliet.

"Seek happy nights to happy days," she riposted, always up for the challenge, picking up his tie from where it lay forlornly on the corner of the desk.

"But not tonight, Jack," she finished softly as she came to stand in front of him, looping the silk around his neck and staring deeply into his eyes. "As delightful as this was, we can't afford any distractions on this case. When it's over and solved . . ."

She trailed off suggestively, and Jack could only blink in slightly shocked agreement. He would never have imagined that Phryne Fisher would be the one to advocate patience. Or caution, come to think of it. But she was right, and he nodded reluctantly.

"What must be shall be," he murmured as he drew her to him for a final soft kiss, and she whispered, "And together we must be," against his lips before she stepped back and began to work on knotting his tie. Thankfully for his career (and possibly his sanity), George Sanderson came through the door, effectively ending their interlude by bringing the world with him. And as Phryne left his office, giving him a faintly longing look, he wondered about the Pandora's Box he'd just opened. Was it possible to tame a whirlwind?

Well, who knew? The ride was definitely going to be life-changing, and Jack was looking forward to the journey, but he also had to admit to concern: theirs was a passion that people wrote sonnets (and poems, plays, and the occasional opera) about, and very few things could burn so brightly for long, and never without something to sustain it. And another quote from Shakespeare's satirical 'love story' suddenly came to his mind.

"These violent delights have violent ends
And in their triumph die, like fire and powder
Which, as they kiss, consume."

No. No, Phryne wasn't Juliet and he sure as hell wasn't Romeo, and before George set them all on a path of the unthinkable, Jack nodded to himself. He and Phryne were just that: Jack Robinson and Phryne Fisher. They didn't need The Bard to speak for them, for they were their own legend.

They would write their own story.

~~~~
finis