This is a little something that I wrote on the plane when I didn't have access to my story '1 Year'. It was originally a snippet that just wouldn't fit into the flow of that story, and then it took on a life of its own. It's perfect as a standalone, but if you'd like it as an add-on to '1 Year', it fits in very soon after the events of Chapter 8. There are also a couple of teeny tiny references to Chapter 10 of that story (not yet posted - still a work in progress, sorry; being on holiday somehow seems to leave LESS time for writing).

xoxox

Their physical relationship was very new, but even so, Phryne had already lost count of the number of times they HAD already 'been physical'. As a woman of vast experience (she smiled smugly to herself), who knew well her own pleasures, it had not taken her long to realise that there was something... missing from their lovemaking.

All men were different, with differing tastes when it came to the women they bedded. It was usually easy for her to pick up on their preference; the longing looks cast at her slender ankles and shapely calves, the sly sideways glances at her derrière as she turned slightly away, or the outright eyeballing of her small, pert breasts. Once they were actually in her bed (or...anywhere else for that matter), they would tend to hone in and concentrate on the area that appealed most to them.

Jack was different, and had been from the moment they first met. He had proved immune to her flirtation then, and she had been a little disappointed that the dour detective had not even flicked a glance down her expensively-clothed body. She had also been... interested.

It wasn't his marriage that prevented from responding to her charms; many a wedded man relished a little sly flirtation as a reinforcement of his ongoing virility. He WAS married; she had known it instinctively, but she had never been able to pinpoint exactly how. He didn't wear a ring, as had become fashionable for young men during the war, but perhaps he had been married before the world became caught up in that conflagration, or perhaps he was simply too conservative. There were no photographs on display in his office, or in his desk drawers for that matter (which she had raided many times in search of useful objects). He never seemed to have available to him the packed lunches typical of those who had dutiful wives waiting at home, and he rarely seemed to have anywhere to be, other than the station.

As they had come to know each other better he had come out of his shell a little, and he would sometimes play the game, but she saw that it was only in jest; the policeman had no interest in her seduction, imagined or otherwise. Somewhere along the line she had begun to care about this serious, gentle man, and her attentions became her gift to him; a sign that his friendship was important to her, that his return of her affection meant something to her in turn.

He had never spoken of his wife until the afternoon of the exoneration of Miss Leigh, and then only to confirm what she had long suspected; that his bond with her was not a happy one. In Phryne's experience, this usually gave a man every good reason to play up. But, Jack, as she herself had put it, was a man of honour. No matter how broken his marriage, he would always do the right thing. Until he had come to recognise that the right thing, for everyone involved, was to end it. It was only in hindsight that Phryne could see the true change in him that that realisation had wrought. At the time, she had vainly supposed that she was wearing him down, and she was, but not in the way that she thought.

When the flirtation had become more serious, it was, really, serious. It was not the sort that she was used to, the sultry looks and brazen comments that led to a quick tumble, never to look back. No. This was a slow-burning longing that tore at her defences, as he adored her with his beautiful eyes. She had never caught him actually ogling her. No matter how heated their moments became, his eyes remained pinned to her face, occasionally journeying only as far as her lips. In a moment of peril, his hands were always quick to come to her rescue, but just as quick to depart. He was respectful of her person in a way that she had never wished for, but now craved from him.

But it was not just his sense of honour that had kept him at arm's length. He seemed to think he was somehow unworthy of her attentions, ashamed of his own need for them. And that had aroused in her some primal urge to protect him, to mother him, to LOVE him, give him all of herself as she had never given it before. But she had been afraid, deeply afraid, of her own power over him, of herself, of her own ability to self-destruct and take him with her.

She would recover in time; he probably never. She couldn't bear to hurt this man, any more than she could tear herself away from him. So the tables had turned, and she had been the one to keep him at bay. Until they had turned again, and she was left bereft by his absence; she needed him as much as he needed her.

When she had finally taken the ONLY step she could have taken, and declared her love for him, she had somehow thought that, at first, the physical aspect of their relationship would not quite live up to the emotional bond they had built. But it hadn't worried her at all. He would need time; she understood that, and she had been prepared to wait as long as it took, firstly for him to come to her bed, and then for things to, well, come up to her standards. She really couldn't think of any other way to phrase it. To quell his doubts, she had told him of her fears in relation to their first time, and she had been truthful. But she had also thought that she was being just a bit silly, to be so afraid of allowing herself to be vulnerable with him.

In fact, she had been wholly unprepared for the effect that true LOVE would have on lovemaking. She smiled mockingly to herself. How naive she had been! She could not say that her experiences with him so far had been any less than incredible. Jack was no Casanova, no professional seducer who had studied and perfected his technique. But from their first kiss, he had relished every moment as if it might be his last with her, and being with him, loving him back as he loved her was both beautiful and heart-wrenching at the same time.

He worshipped her as some deity who had granted him her love, and might snatch it from him at any moment. Only yesterday he had said something disgustingly romantic, which had seen her looking at herself in a new way for the first time in memory. Now that he was free to take as he wished from her, she had thought that she might finally discover where his preferences lay, so she was both overjoyed, and slightly miffed, that his enjoyment of her encompassed her body in its entirety.

But still, there WAS something that wasn't quite right. Something that he WASN'T doing, which she desperately wanted of him. And no, it wasn't THAT; she knew he wasn't ready for that. She didn't particularly want to think of what he and his former wife had done together, but she simply COULDN'T imagine Rosie with Jack's head between her thighs. It just didn't seem... like something they would have done. She could be wrong, but if not, she would look forward to educating Jack at some future point in time… oh yes...

But for now, it was something slightly more... she couldn't think of a word. 'Mundane' and 'normal' both sprang to mind, but they were each far too harsh; a criticism of his attention to her. And she had nothing to criticize. But there was something that he was holding back from her, something other men seemed to relish...

She had given him her explicit permission to explore her body as he chose, but so far, the kisses that he pressed fervently to her heated skin had never ventured to her breasts. Between them, yes, across her smoothe belly, down the rounds of her hips, even to the tops of her creamy thighs. His reactions to her body during their initial coupling had been exactly what she might have expected of a man who had been through a sexual drought (in fact, she was more than a little proud of his control), but in the times that followed soon after she had thought that perhaps he just wasn't a breast man. She had even found herself briefly envious of those women possessed of a more voluptuous figure. But it wasn't like he was avoiding them, or concentrating his attentions elsewhere; he certainly enjoyed touching them...

She didn't know his reasons, but she was going to test him a little... and it would be fun! She hoped so anyway...

xoxox