In these darker of moments, Jack allowed guilt to wash over him and simply fall away. It dripped from his skin until it pooled at the floor, and he stood free of it for a moment, one hand bracing himself against the wall of his shower, his body hunched over as his eyes slid shut. It was better than the alternative, he thought. Better than the hypocrisy and falsity of scarlet women, whose hands he could pretend to be hers much more easily than he could his own.
But as his fingers wrapped around the length of his member, that didn't matter. All that mattered was the image of a painting, a young woman splayed across a chaise, neck arched, and body completely bare but for a thin and open robe. The guilt would return to him later, but for now he had this.
She shifted in his mind's eye; sitting up to look at him, her expression open and loving, and her eyes flashing with mischief. With a single finger she beckoned him closer and he went in an instant, falling to his knees at the foot of the chaise. His hands touched her skin, soft and creamy and pale as porcelain. She smiled at him and gasped. The robe vanished and he worshipped the sight of her.
Breasts pert and full, with nipples of pink a direct contrast against white flesh. Her stomach flat, leading to small hips and a tangle of dark curls emerging from between thighs so sweet his mouth seemed to water.
Jack groaned, leaning more heavily against the wall.
It was deplorable, but how he longed to taste her. Her lips were soft, he knew, bitter with coffee and completely wonderful. But the rest of her made him wonder. Would her skin be as sweet as it smelt? Would she taste of honey or fine bath salts or the coverings of a lustfully induced sheen of sweat?
He thought of her thighs parting for his searching fingers as his kisses explored her from lips and neck, to breasts, stomach and beyond. His nose brushing through those dark curls, until he was surrounded by her scent.
But it was too much. Too little. He knew not what he would find there, and so Jack took in a shaking breath, and let it slowly out again.
The chaise was replaced with a stage, a dark room empty for all but him and the figure standing under spotlights, hidden behind large pink feathers. They fluttered, and deliciously bare legs peaked from beneath them, walking slowly and sensually to music he couldn't quite hear.
He watched entranced as the dance progressed. Feathers teasing skin, the movements teasing him. Eyes flashing and meeting his from across the room, then teasing no more as two arms spread wide and the body of a Spanish goddess was revealed to him.
He cursed at the memory and let it twist into another.
A hand on his pulling him to a secluded corner, a chaise tucked into an alcove, hidden away behind a large curtain... Jack moaned. He was getting close, it wouldn't take much now.
He remembered the press of her body into his as she climbed into his lap, the softness of her breasts against his mouth.
Pulling his hand more firmly over his erection he imagined it was her touch. He knew what it was to have her pressed so intimately against him, but to have her move, to grind her hips into his, along his length, the erection that had been instantaneous the moment she'd hitched up her skirt to sit astride him in that dark little corner; he longed for it.
He wanted then to reach up her skirts and pull away her fine knickers, to enter her and feel her all around, have her whimper into his ear as he mewled against her chest. He thought of her voice, imagined her saying breathless and teasing, that put-on Spanish accent firmly in place.
"Ohh, Inspectorr."
All at once he smiled and shuddered, groaning suddenly as he spent himself against the wall.
As the water of the shower washed the evidence of his sins away, Jack took his time to breath. His muscles relaxed and the guilt trickled in. It was so very wrong to think of her that way, to use his memories of those instances for his own... Jack sighed, feeling shame engulf him as he washed himself –it might make him feel cleaner- and shut off the tap.
After shaving, slicking back his hair with a comb, and dressing in his usual three piece suit Jack found himself walking out the door on an empty stomach. He meant to head to the station, to throw himself into some work, even just busy work or report writing, any distraction he could find, but instead he found himself pulling up outside the fine house of 221B the Esplanade.
Against better judgment Jack got out of the car and crossed the street. He walked up her front path and knocked on the door, and was let in by Mr Butler, who then went up the stairs to where Miss Fisher was no doubt still asleep.
Twenty minutes and a fine breakfast later Jack heard her footsteps coming down the stairs. She walked into the room with a bright smile and Jack sipped his tea as her gaze met his and she exclaimed a delighted, "Hello Jack!"
"Miss Fisher," he set the tea cup down, "I apologise if I intruded on anything, coming by so early in the day."
"No need to apologise Jack. Intrude away." She smiled, and Jack frowned. There was something about that smile that had alarm bells ringing in his ears. It was far too knowing, too mischievous. He narrowed his gaze, suspicious.
"And what have you been occupying yourself with this morning, to make you so chipper at nine o'clock?"
Phryne laughed, "A lady never tells," and Jack felt his face flush at the euphemism of her words. "And what about you, Inspector? What brings you to my abode so bright and early this sunny morning?"
"Perhaps I was just after a good breakfast."
She grinned and he continued, "Or perhaps, Miss Fisher, you were simply on my mind."