Disclaimer: Foyle's War was created by Anthony Horowitz, and the characters of Foyle and Samantha jointly created by Mr. Horowitz, Mr. Michael Kitchen and Ms. Honeysuckle Weeks. No infringement intended.
UXB Chapter 14
After Sam had prepared and served a light supper, together they had re-positioned the ottoman in front of the sofa, Foyle mostly directing and she doing most of the pushing. Sam had lit the fire in the hearth and put the wireless on low, and she had cosied in close beside him under his right arm again. There was space on the ottoman for both of them to stretch out their legs.
Sam pretended to watch the hearth as Foyle studied her profile - her pale complexion glowing in the lamplight, lips curved in a contented smile, her eyes reflecting the flicker of the fire, and he could hardly believe they were sitting together like this.
She turned with a look through lowered eyelids that let him know she had been aware of his gaze upon her,
"Penny for your thoughts?"
In answer, he moved closer to claim a slow kiss, then explained,
"That about covers it."
"Hmm..., I'm of the same mind exactly."
He picked up her hand and traced the lines of her palm with an index finger,
"...Was wondering...something, though. Em, why didn't you... return home with your parents ...after the funeral, Sam? Why did you stay in London?"
"Well, I had been staying with the Wainwrights. I... stayed a few weeks more."
"Ah. Andrew... failed to mention that." He commented with a raised eyebrow, watching her sideways from along the length of his shoulder.
"After I left them... well, I knew if I went home to Lyminster, that would be the end of it - Mother and Father would never let me leave. So I ...made up an excuse for not going home." She looked at him directly and he understood there had been a plan in place.
Foyle bit the inside of his cheek,
"I see. And... where did you stay...?"
"Um, here and there..."
He raised his eyes heavenward at her evasiveness, then studied her face closely,
"Not... sleeping in gaol cells again?"
"No." She said with a slight laugh, but offered no further comment, staring at the fire.
Foyle twitched his lips to the side, but his eyes sparkled as he said quietly,
"Why do I get the feeling I've been played...?"
Sam bit her lip, and asked innocently,
"What did Andrew tell you?"
"...Pack of lies, I suspect." He answered agreeably.
She frowned, feeling genuine guilt for the deception,
"I knew we should have coordinated our stories! Please don't be annoyed. He was only trying to help ...us."
"Hmm. So you weren't ...moving from place to place, week to week, like a gypsy?"
She squeezed his fingers, remorseful for causing him any worry,
"No, Christopher. I was quite comfortable, staying in a flat belonging to Andrew's friend, who was out of town. ...Shouldn't you be glad of that?" She appealed.
"I should. And I am. Glad that you were safe. And comfortable."
She made a heartfelt plea,
"Well, it was all Andrew's doing, so he really should be let off the hook."
"Believe I'm the one who was on the hook..."
He smiled ruefully, then gave her a conciliatory kiss on the cheek.
Sam distracted him from further brooding on the matter with a more amorous advance, drawing him towards her with a hand around the back of his head, pressing her mouth on his, teasing her way in with the tip of her tongue. She noted the distraction worked well - his brow smoothed and he became fully engaged in the kiss, his breathing slowing and his hand caressing her hair.
She had a question of her own, murmured by his ear as he moved his lips down her neck.
"You said to me..., earlier, ...that you'd loved me 'a long time.' When did you fall in love with me, Christopher...?"
Drawing his lips between his teeth, he reluctantly suspended his exploration of her clavicle and sat back to give consideration to the query.
"Oh... Well, it wasn't definite... for quite some time."
"Oh. No?" She sounded disappointed, and a little crease furrowed her own brow.
"No, not at all. Suppose, er... thought I might just... be in love with you ...the moment you walked into my office and saluted me so smartly."
That remark cheered her up and she smiled at him as he continued,
"Then...er, believe it became a permanent condition... di-rrectly after the incident with the dustbin lid." He turned to aim the full force of his eyes at her, paused, then added, his nose wrinkling with feigned mild distaste,
"...But for the forty-five minutes in between? Thought you were a damned nuisance, really."
She felt ridiculously pleased at that, grinning broadly, and she curled up against him contentedly, drawing her legs up on the sofa and stretching an arm across his middle.
After a while she offered,
"Well, ...Ssir," she said, deliberately stressing the honorific. "I've been in love with you much longer, it would seem..." Nodding her head as it rested against his chest, she explained,
"Mmm...the look on your face, when I stepped into your office... You see, Sergeant Rivers had wound me up, painted you as the worst sort of martinet. I was really quite nervous. But when you looked up at me from behind the typewriter, ...your expression... was like a boy who couldn't quite take in that he'd gotten a brand new bicycle on Christmas morning."
Foyle's eyebrows climbed halfway up his forehead. He drew in his chin and quietly cleared his throat,
"Well, ...you were entirely unexpected. Never had female representation at the Station before. ...Can assure you I wasn't thinking of bicycles..."
He turned, took her by the shoulders and gently lowered her to lie across his lap, her head on the cushioned armrest,
"...Think perhaps it's time... I unwrapped that Christmas present...hmm?"
Still amused by her recollection, Sam looked up at him with curiosity, then her eyes widened as he began unbuttoning her blouse. With a sudden blush she bit her lip, and watched in fascination as his fingers carefully and slowly made their way down her front, then spread open the first layer of clothing.
One side of Foyle's mouth quirked up in satisfaction as he found that the short peach-coloured camisole revealed below her blouse also had a front closure, of small iridescent shell buttons. His fingers were surprisingly adept at working the thin disks through the tiny buttonholes, especially given that Sam's chest was now rising and falling measurably. Lips parted, she now fixed on his eyes unwaveringly, and he seemed entirely focussed on his task. With the second layer breached and laid open, the last remaining barrier was a matching, soft cup, French cotton lace brassiere, which conveniently had detachable shoulder straps.
Christopher tilted his head slightly as he unhooked the left strap, gently smiling, then his eyes glided up to Sam's.
He lifted an eyebrow, and when she slowly blinked her approval, he folded down the lace and gazed at her creamy breast. He ran his tongue over his lower lip in anticipation, then with one hand underneath her back, raised up her otherwise limp form as he bent his head to take nearly her entire breast, small and pert as it was, into his mouth. Sam's eyes rolled back at the sensation as he slid his warm, wet and supple tongue up the rapidly rising peak of her nipple. He circled it, teased it, drew it gently up against the roof of his mouth, and Sam sighed an inarticulate moan. Christopher hummed his appreciative pleasure against her flesh, then with a last kiss of her hardened nipple, he lowered her onto his lap again, sat up, sat back, and covered her breast with the cotton lace, resting his hand over it. He shut his eyes a moment to savour the experience, then proudly surveyed the effect his attentions had had on Samantha.
Sam was blissfully incapacitated, and only realized he had no further designs on her when she felt his fingers refastening the brassiere strap and drawing her camisole closed. She dragged her eyes open and frowned in mute protest. Her right breast ached to feel the same sensation that her left had enjoyed, yet he was closing the buttons of her cami, pulling the sides of her blouse together, and buttoning that, too. All this despite the hard evidence of his keen interest pushing up insistently from below against her ribcage. She only managed to put an arresting hand over his when he was doing up the last few buttons.
He smiled down at her, a mischievous gleam in his eye,
"We're on short rations, darling. Mustn't get carried away."
"Wha-? But, it wouldn't matter if we-. Couldn't we just...?" But he was shaking his head,
"Nnot recommended. Don't want to incite a riot. Nor a breach of the peace."
She stared up at him, cheeks aflame, her mouth open, but now half-pleading, half-indignant,
"You- you can't... do that. Get me all hot and bothered. And then stop!"
With a crooked smile, he countered,
"Just did. Want to make sure I'm not the only one anxious for those answers. Very anxious."
"I- I hope you don't think I'm not."
He ran his hand provocatively up her thigh and hip to her waist, and her stomach did a swoop.
"We're still on our best behaviour, Miss Stewart."
She frowned petulantly, and threw the honorific at him,
"Yes, Ssir."
Sam crossed her wrists on her front and blatantly massaged her breasts to assuage the ache he'd created. Christopher almost grinned, and turned away, eyes scanning towards the dining room chandelier, tongue in cheek, pretending not to notice.
Studying him in some perplexity, she realized it was nearly the same expression he'd adopted when the waiter, Tony, had cut short their first, very pleasant, dinner out together. The boy had followed them out of the restaurant onto the pavement and asked her to a dance at the Palais. She had been puzzled and torn, then, that Christopher had shown no sign of being affronted or embarrassed, but had seemed to find the situation risible, at his own expense.
Was this, now, some sort of mild revenge for all those times when other, younger men had approached her, assuming he was not in contention for her favour, and she had done nothing to correct that assumption?
Or was it for a more recent slight, and he was getting his own back for the deception she and Andrew had played on him?
What he had just done - or rather, that he had stopped doing it - had felt rather like an act of revenge... Hmm, 'still waters...,' she thought to herself.
As acts of revenge went, she hadn't minded it at all...
In fact, it had been rather wonderful, beyond anything in her previous experience. Again she swooned a little at the thought of it, then suppressed a smile.
"...Cup of tea, darling, before bed?" Christopher suggested innocently, patting her knee.
Sam looked up at him in mock resentment,
"Separate beds, I suppose?"
He gave a quick nod,
"Absolutely. Separate rooms. Mmight even lock you in."
She sat up, with a hidden smile, swung her feet to the floor, and put a hand on his shoulder to push away from him. Then she stood and muttered,
"You'll jolly well have to, after that."
Sam picked up the little jeweller's box from the low table and set it conspicuously on the centre of the mantlepiece. She gave him a pointed look, and Foyle saw her eyes were sparkling as she walked a little unsteadily towards the kitchen.
tbc...