Panama
Yes, I do love her; but I've never made love to her…
…and he hadn't. At least not on this plane of being. But, beyond that, in the Panamanian darkness he was back with her. What was it Marta had said?
"I have to watch over you, Harry."
His hand cupped her cheek, the scars beneath like parchment. Fuck Osnard and his ill-educated views – no doubt intoned by those elites Andy so desperately wished to be part of.
But Marta, she was truly beautiful – and naturally so, too. God, what he would do to her. She was always telling him he was too soft. Now she would find him to be anything but.
Maybe they would stumble into the cramped dressing room; wound tight around each other, mouths frantic. There he'd have her pinned to the wall, dress hitched up; her knees about his waist. She'd turn to the mirror and watch the pleasure being wrought over her expression as Harry's fingers danced within her.
Or maybe he'd take her hand and drag her into the workshop where he'd lay her down – the fine alpaca be damned! Right now all he cared for was her beneath him, warm and tight, Marta's sweet cries and his ragged gasps as the air between them became as hot and sticky as the tropics themselves.
Although, for all that she looked meek, Marta had daring. She could easily have him pushed down on one of the leather sofas; long de-vested of his jacket and waistcoat. His last conscious thought was that he was thankful that he hadn't opted for his linen suit lest it become rumpled and arouse Louisa's suspicions. Abruptly he'd grasp Marta's bony shoulders and take a staggering breath as she graced him with the hot wetness of her mouth. He'd gasp and gasp until his chest hurt and his lungs would burst, until he felt his spirit corkscrew high above him.
But the truth was Marta was of no more threat to Louisa than the Chinese or Yanks were to the Canal. For all of Harry's thoughts would remain confined to the night-time, just another of his many dreams.