Chapter Seven
She stood, and walked barefoot around the bed to stand before him. Raising her eyes only just far enough, she loosened the knot of his tie and drew it through his collar, pausing only to pull him forwards for a swift, almost clinical kiss – a mere brush of the lips – before removing the tie altogether. It was neatly and gently folded before being flung over her shoulder, to land in decorative disarray over the rubber plant. It would, he reflected, be very creased.
She then knelt to undo his shoelaces, easing off each second-best brogue carefully before firing them in turn towards her own shoes. They found one brogue later. The other was thought to have landed in the sea through the open window. The socks, a legacy of a day's walk around Marseilles, were gingerly peeled away with fingertips and dropped with delicately wrinkled nose at arm's length. She then paused, on her knees before him, apparently lost in thought.
While he still could, he hastily caught her upper arms and drew her to her feet. He was in enough trouble already, and her pensive perusal was liable to tip his self control over the edge. As she came to her feet, her eyes met his and his gaze fell to her lower lip. It occurred to him to wonder whether its flavour had changed. It would be as well to be sure. He leaned in.
Then she was in his arms, long legs wrapped around his waist. Clothes in the way, then miraculously not (or rather, no longer available for service as clothing, as it later transpired). The months of restraint and flirtation took remarkably little time to resolve for either of them. He caught her cry in his kiss. Forced onto his face by her imperious shove, he closed his eyes and allowed her to explore his back thoroughly; then turned over, to permit a rather less rigorous (as it turned out) exploration. In his turn, he professed himself relieved to discover that her prolonged ordeal at the controls of the Tiger Moth had not in any way caused her delightfully toned stomach muscles to soften; though again, his professional training in the disciplines of detection would not allow anything less than minute examination with eyes, lips and (in a venture which cost him a playfully boxed ear) teeth. He complained: how else would he have located the deliciously sensitive spot below her ribcage that could make her shudder involuntarily?
Phryne was voracious and unrelenting. She was also as inquisitive as a child on Christmas morning. It was as though her serried ranks of lovers had never been: there was only Jack, with his dark gaze and his gentle words. She was utterly undone, and vulnerable in a way that was quite unfamiliar; unfamiliar because she welcomed it to a degree she hadn't thought possible. Jack, her Jack, would always have her back; but she had many defenders. When she dozed for a while, she awoke to find his eyes steadily on her face. Was it worship? No, that would have earned him no more than a rank and file position in her army of inamorata. Adoration there was, certainly; but also challenge. And above all, friendship. This was the ultimate reward – a best friend for whom there were no barriers at all. Counting her blessings, she made a mental note to continue to ensure that they were outnumbered by his kisses.
Fortunately, Phryne's Jack was as committed to the endeavour as Jack's Phryne.
They ran out of steam temporarily just as the ship built its own; Marseilles was left astern and their neighbours dressed for dinner. Phryne and Jack awoke to silence, interspersed with distant laughter and chatter. Drawn out of doors to look at the moon, they discovered that the balcony was not overlooked, and decided to make good use of the opportunity to try something new; the noisy return of their neighbours chasing them back to bed later, giggling like teenagers.
Who knew, thought Phryne, that her solemn Jack could giggle? She wrapped the sound in her heart, to be examined later when they happened not to be together, naked and joyously wicked. She stored it next to her vulnerability; and the pieces made a jigsaw match.
At around two a.m., a sleepy steward brought them scrambled eggs after a whispered call. Jack met him at the door, thanking him and assuring him that his wife was sleeping, but would wake soon and be very grateful. The incongruity of the bottle of chilled Dom Perignon '21 within this scenario was not, apparently, worthy of remark; but the effect of the bubbles, the food and her earlier restorative nap meant that the dining table, once their food was consumed, was pressed into unorthodox service.
Phryne reflected that Mr Chippendale would undoubtedly have been pleased at the resilience of his tongue and groove.