A/N- A wee bit of M content near the end of the chapter. (okay, maybe more than a wee bit) Thanks for reading!

Traction was impossible but she had no choice. Sandals slipping, Ruth ran along the beach, ignoring the tiny grains of sand that scratched at the soles of her feet, heading for the sanctuary of dunes and tall grass. For a fleeting moment, she had sat on the beach, immobilized by the sight of the man. Harry had been out in the surf, and she could not figure out how to call to him without attracting the attention of the man she wanted to elude. It was Eddie, she was certain. The crown of his head had reflected the sun, the dark blue of a tattoo had been visible on his neck. Stunned by the sighting, she had thought it a mirage; there was no possible way the could have followed her, but intuition warned her and she followed her impulse to flee. They had chosen a spot a fair distance from the cottage and she made her way toward it, hidden behind the grass, praying that Harry would realise the situation and follow her. The silhouette of their bungalow came into view, and she picked up her pace only to stop in mid-stride. The sliding door on the deck was open. She was positive that Harry had closed it when they left, giving her a brief lecture on the importance of security, a conversation in which she had feigned interest but not taken seriously. Oh, how she hated it when he was right. Branches pricked at her legs as she pulled her body as far into a bush as humanly possible. Peering through the leaves, she saw no sign of Eddie. Doubt crept in. Perhaps it had only been her overactive imagination, heightened by Harry's paranoia.

Fingers wrapped around her arm. She opened her mouth to scream but a hand was placed over it.

"Why did you leave without telling me?" Harry hissed at her.

Her body collapsed in relief. "I saw Eddie."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Fairly. It looked like him."

Rivulets of water dripped down Harry's neck and chest indicating that he had come straight from the sea without stopping to towel off. He stood with her in the brambles, matching her intense whispers.

"Why didn't you get me?"

"I didn't know how to attract your attention without alerting him."

"Do you know how worried I was? What was going through my head?"

"I'm sorry. I just thought you would figure it out and return to the bungalow." She pointed to the cottage. "Look, the door is open."

"Shit." He let go of her arm and craned his neck to get a better look.

"Have we been compromised again?"

"Stay here," he ordered.

"What are you going to do? You can't go in there!" She grabbed his hand as he moved away. "Don't leave me here."

"Alright, but stay close. Let's go around the front. See if they're still inside. They might have trashed the place and left."

They moved around to the front of the bungalow and edged slowly toward the door. Harry tried the knob, it was unlocked. With one arm placed across her body as a shield, he gently swung the door open. They walked in with silent steps. The faint click of a keyboard greeted them.

Sitting at the little dining table was Malcolm.

"Christ Malcolm, you scared the living daylights out of us. How did you get in here?"

"The usual way," he answered, perplexed that Harry would even ask such a question. "I came in and the air conditioning was on. You realise that your electricity is metered. If you go over the cap they'll charge you."

Malcolm looked up from his screen and ran an eye over the two spooks, an eyebrow raised as he noticed their lack of attire. A puddle of water had pooled around Harry's feet. Ruth pulled at the flimsy shift that covered her bathing suit, covering her legs, attempting to regain her dignity. It was probably too late; Malcolm had no doubt come to his own conclusions.

"I'll change."

"Yes." Harry agreed.

She and Harry stepped forward at the same time, shoulders colliding as they both headed toward the bedroom.

"You first," he gallantly offered.

"No, you're dripping wet."

"I'll get my stuff and change in the washroom."

Old habits die hard, and her hands passed over the newly acquired summer dresses in favour of her standby black garment. They were there for business, and she felt compelled to reassert her professionalism in front of Malcolm; banish the impression that she had Harry were on some sort of holiday. The men's voices filtered to her through the wall as she slipped her arms into the sleeves, acutely aware of their presence. The wind had played havoc with her hair, and she ran a quick brush through it, doing more damage than good. She pulled on her stockings, inwardly acknowledging the absurdity of doing so in the heat. Marginally satisfied with her appearance, she returned to the outer room. Harry, back into his informal island clothes, frowned as he registered her choice of dress. Even Malcolm wore a short-sleeved shirt. The men continued to talk as she walked toward them.

"I did a quick recon of the offices," said Harry. " The senior partner had lunch around two."

"We'll aim for that time then."

"Ruth believes she saw one of her captors," Harry added.

"I've been thinking," Ruth interjected. "They told me that they were from Six. Is it possible they're here because they're part of the team shadowing Gavrik."

"I doubt it. In fact, I don't believe these men are even with Six. It just doesn't sit right."

"Is Gavrik here yet?" Malcolm asked.

"I don't know. He's probably flying in chartered like I did. There's no way to track that." Harry crossed to the open door. "If he is here, chances are he'll show up at one of the finer restaurants. I've got one in mind that we're going to check out."

Ruth's ears perked up at his plan, the trip to a restaurant was news to her.

"You might want to change," Harry casually mentioned as he motioned in her direction.

"Are you joining us?" she asked Malcolm, doing her best to ignore the look of consternation that Harry threw towards her.

Malcolm's eyes darted between her and Harry. Though the nuance of human behaviour sometimes eluded him, he correctly assessed the situation. "I think I'll pass, if you don't mind. Feeling a bit tired from the flight."

Harry closed the glass door, clicking the lock shut, pursing his lips to hide a smile. He spoke over his shoulder to Ruth. "And don't unpack anything."

She frowned, chafing under another one of his seemingly arbitrary security measures. She begrudgingly returned to the bedroom to change her dress.

.

Even in the dim light of the restaurant, she felt exposed, unknown eyes watching her, images of Eddie lurking behind a palm tree playing in her mind. She worried the edges of her napkin with her fingers, nerves displayed for the world to see. A few tables over, another couple arrived, and Ruth peered at them over Harry's shoulder. The woman took her seat revealing an older man behind her. Ruth immediately tensed as she glimpsed the man's balding head. She held her breath until she confirmed that it was not Eddie. Perhaps the man on the beach had not been her captor after all, merely a spectre fueled by stress and exhaustion. Harry studied her over the top of his menu.

"Relax," he whispered. "Or else you will draw attention to yourself."

Taking a deep breath, she forced her shoulders to lower from their rigid state. The menu offered her a place of refuge, and she used it to hide not only from possible surveillance but also from Harry. Her bare arms added to her feeling of exposure; she should have worn a jacket. She had decided on the light blue dress, leaving the white one for her mission. Somehow, in the candlelight, it was far more revealing than it had been under the fluorescent bulbs of the changing room; the scoop of the neckline far lower than she had originally thought. Or perhaps it was the way that Harry's eyes roamed over the fabric, or more to the point, what was revealed by the absence of fabric. Legs without stockings, arms without sleeves, cleavage on display; it was far outside her level of comfort. The waiter arrived and took their orders, stealing away the menu and leaving nothing for Ruth to hide behind. In the absence of anything to pull over her decolletage, she fiddled with the chain at her throat, hoping that her hand would hide the plunging neckline. Harry picked up the bottle that sat on the table.

"More wine?" he asked, the neck of the bottle hovering over her glass.

"It might react with the medications."

He filled her glass anyway. She took a small sip, rationing her drink to draw it out. The last thing she needed was a hangover, she needed to have her wits about her tomorrow. The sip of wine did nothing to quell her nerves, and she scanned the restaurant with a restless eye. Feeling the scrutiny of Harry's gaze, she relented and looked back at him. The top buttons of his shirt undone, the skin on his chest showed a deep pink against the white cotton. She tapped the corresponding area on her throat.

"Looks like you got a bit of a burn."

"You did warn me."

"Yes, I did." She gave him a level look, letting the lesson sink in.

"I'd like to know how you managed to get a tan even though you were covered up."

"It's probably just the lighting in here."

The waiter returned with their entrees, skillfully sliding the plates onto the table. Harry looked down at his choice, a grilled swordfish, seemingly disappointed that a sword had not come with the meal. She had ordered the pan seared snapper. The fish flaked beneath her fork and she wondered if their choices were evocative of their personalities.

"This is nice," she observed. "Almost like being a normal couple."

"Almost," he agreed.

"Do you think we could ever be like that?" she asked wistfully, a touch of humour in her voice. "Normal?"

Harry chewed thoughtfully on his food but did not answer. He closed his eyes as if he were trying to remember something. "Do you know the name of this tune? I've been hearing it everywhere lately."

Until that moment, the ambient music had only been a background hum and she frowned, trying to pick out the strains of the melody through the conversation and tinkling plates.

"Sounds like In the Still of the Night."

"No, I don't think it is," he counted. "That was by some doo-wop group."

"This one is Cole Porter. You're thinking of the song from the fifties. That's probably why you're more familiar with it."

His fork paused on the way to his mouth and his eyes rose to hers. "And why would I be more familiar with a song from the nineteen fifties?"

It had been an offhand remark said without intent, but she had obviously struck a nerve. "I mean, just aware of music from that time, the Cole Porter version is from the thirties and…" She quickly cut off a piece of her fish and plopped it in her mouth. "This snapper is quite good."

He returned to his meal, seemingly dissatisfied with her explanation, but she could see the smile tugging at his lips. He had always taken a perverse pleasure in her discomfort. She searched for another subject.

"Have you thought about what we should do when we get back to England?" She took another sip of her wine, temporarily forgetting her vow of moderation, lulled by the ambience and the company. Once again, her question was left unanswered, his pointed silence serving to encroach on her sense of well being. "Harry?" she prodded.

Unable to meet her gaze, he cleared his throat. "We're not going back."

She put down her glass, the warm glow of the evening fading. "What do you mean?"

"We're both dead."

"Yes, but surely we can have new lives back in England."

"The chances of us living there undetected are pretty marginal."

"But once we've figured out what these people are up to we should be in the clear. That was the purpose of coming here; so I could get my life back."

"You said it yourself - they'll never let us rest. Whether it's the Service, the government or a ghost from my past."

"So you thought we could just become ghosts instead? You could have asked me how I felt about that."

"I thought it was understood."

The food had lost its appeal and she studied the napkin in her lap, looking for a way to articulate the formless emotions that swirled in her. "I used to read about royalty in exile, and I thought how glamorous, how romantic. But having experienced it, I know there is nothing romantic about being in exile. It is cold and lonely and full of debilitating homesickness. I spent my entire time on Cyprus wanting to return."

Life drained from Harry's face, his body completely still, mouth drawn in silence.

"I told George that we didn't need to marry because we were already committed, that it was an archaic custom, but the truth of it was because in my heart I knew that my life with him was temporary. That someday I would return to England. Even though my name wasn't cleared, even though you never came for me, I would somehow get back. Though I didn't think it would happen in such a horrific way."

"I thought you wanted a life together." His voice was low and flat.

"Yes, I do." she quickly assured him. " But you're asking me to sign the contract without even knowing the details."

He leaned across the table, his words an urgent whisper. "I'm asking you to trust me."

"Sometimes, I think that the last decision I was able to make for myself was when I left. I saved you, we thwarted Mace, and as sad as it was, it was also empowering. But after that, everything that has happened to me has been because of someone else's actions. I want to be in charge of my life." Her voice quivered with barely controlled passion. "I hope you can understand why I want to go back. It may be cold and damp and a bloody mess but it's home." Grabbing her glass, she downed the remaining dregs of her wine. She set the empty glass down and pushed it across the table. "I would like some more."

Harry picked up the bottle and spoke softly as he refilled her glass. "For once I would like to not be at cross purposes with you.

"Well, we wouldn't be if you consulted me about matters that concerned my life."

"This isn't the best venue for this discussion."

She did not respond. She felt like a petulant child but she could think of no other way to express her feelings. Her head spun, the effects of bolting back the alcohol. Harry looked at her, his eyes drawn to a spot over her shoulder. His body tensed and his jaw hardened. She shifted in her seat trying to look in the direction of his gaze.

"What is it?" she asked.

"It's Ariadne Kolos."

Ruth blinked processing the information, the direction of the conversation, like their lives, changing on a dime. "What is she doing here?"

"I don't know. The team was supposed to keep an eye on her. I can't believe they would allow her to leave the country." Harry reached into his pocket. "We need to get out of here. She doesn't know who you are. Settle up the bill and I'll head out the back way."

"If we're ghosts, does it matter if we pay?"

Harry ignored her quip and peeled off the estimated amount from his billfold. "Meet me at the car."

Without any further words, he stood and walked away from the table, keeping his head down as he moved to the back of the restaurant. Abandoned, Ruth sat staring at the pile of bills. She couldn't blame him for wanting to leave so quickly. In fact, there was no reason why she too could not leave. What was to stop her from returning to England? She had a new identity. Surely, years of intelligence work had given her the tools to stay off of the radar. The waiter returned, inquiring if she was interested in dessert. She asked for the bill.

Eschewing the route that Harry had used, curiosity getting the better of her, she walked toward the main entrance. At a table in the corner sat a woman, blonde hair arranged in an artfully careless bun. Ruth's feet slowed as she took in the flattering lines of the woman's white dress, the outfit accessorised with expensive jewellery. Her fingers absently brushed the inferior material of her dress, it's previous appeal diminishing. Harry had been to dinner with that woman, sat at an intimate table, and for all she knew, showered her with compliments. Images of Elena Gavrik and her immaculately coiffed hair surfaced. Deep at the base of her spine, a familiar emotion awoke; the green-eyed monster that would not be dismissed. A bald man walked toward the table and Ruth froze. It was not Eddie, though this man looked disturbingly similar. His eyes scanned the room, glancing over Ruth, showing no signs of recognition. He nodded toward the entrance. A man walked in. Gavrik.

Feet moving of their own volition, Ruth spun around and brushed her hair over her cheek to hide her face. She did not stop to double check what her eyes had told her. She would know that man anywhere. Focusing on her breathing, she headed to the back of the restaurant following in Harry's footsteps.

Gravel crunched under her feet as she trotted toward the waiting car. She opened the door and slipped in.

"Gavrik showed up."

Harry's hands froze on the ignition as he stared at her. "Well, that makes things more interesting doesn't it."

"He went to Ariadne's table."

He slapped his hand against the wheel. "I knew it."

"Are they hatching something together?"

"We'll find out tomorrow."

He started the car and they drove away in silence, the conversation at the dinner table still lingering between them.

.

The night breeze crept through her bedroom window, stirring the curtains and dissipating the humidity. It was open purely as an act of protest to Harry's command for it to remain closed. He wasn't the only one who could break the rules. Ruth lay on her bed staring into the darkness, her eyes following a sliver of moonlight as it made its path through the heavens. She refused to look at the bedside clock, it would only tell her how long she had lain awake and how little time she had left to sleep. In the distance, the surf rolled with a calming regularity. At any other time, the soothing white noise would have lulled her to sleep, but her mind teemed with the script for the next day, enacting possible conversations. The still of the night only served to amplify the thoughts in her head.

Still of the night.

Sighing, she rolled over and placed a fist of frustration into the pillow, plumping it up. She had no idea what had possessed her to go off on her rant about England. She must learn to curb her waspish ways. They didn't need to be at odds; all this consternation could be avoided if Harry communicated his thoughts, though it might be easier for him to lop off his right hand than to convey the inner workings of his mind. She tugged at the tee shirt that stood in for her nighttime attire. It was strange not to feel any dressing over her wound, the doctor having recommended that she leave it free when applying the antiseptic cream. In all of her shopping forays, it had completely slipped her mind to buy any sort of pyjamas. An offhand remark about her lack of sleepwear had secured the offer of a tee shirt from Harry. Her initial reaction had been to refuse, but the idea of walking around in her underwear was even less appealing. The shirt carried the scent of an unknown laundry detergent, faintly lemon, mixed with something chemical. She tried to imagine Harry doing such a mundane task as the laundry. No, she was certain he sent everything to the cleaners. She tugged the shirt down over her hips. He had worn that shirt, his skin beneath it, chest touching the fabric that now lay across her breasts. Stop it, she scolded. She would never get to sleep if her thoughts strayed into that territory.

The glasses of wine and the heat had left her dehydrated. She licked her lips, yearning for a cool glass of water. She vacillated whether or not she should venture out to the kitchen. The longer she lay convincing herself that she didn't need water, the more her system demanded it. With a huff of resignation, she threw back the covers and hauled herself out of the bed. She would be as quiet as a mouse.

A peek through the crack in the door revealed a room at rest. No sound, not even the whisper of Harry's breathing. She tiptoed across the space, carefully picking her way through the dimness. Curtains drawn, patio doors closed and locked against intruders, her only guide was the shaft of moonlight that shone through the kitchen window. Misjudging the small passage between the counter and the wall, she banged the side of her hip, breath expelling with alarm. Reflexively, she covered her side, though the corner of the counter had come nowhere near her wound. She used the counter to her advantage, running her hand along its edge until she came to the sink and an empty glass. The faucet squeaked as water gurgled from the tap. Looking out the window, she hurriedly gulped down her drink.

"Everything alright?"

The glass almost fell from her hand as she jumped with fright. She turned around and found Harry standing near the edge of the counter.

"Sorry, I just wanted a drink."

"Can't sleep?"

She nodded. "Thinking about tomorrow."

"I couldn't sleep either."

She stepped away from the window, moonlight streaming in, revealing him in more detail. Her mouth opened and she set down the glass. He was only in his boxer shorts. Disconcerted by his state of undress, she said the obvious.

"You're not wearing a shirt."

"It was chafing against the sunburn."

She swallowed a half laugh, nerves mixed with schadenfreude, joined together with a host of other reactions. Fascination, arousal, a hint of panic - she fought to suppress them all, but they filtered through in the crack of her voice.

"Maybe there's some lotion we can put on it."

"I've already tried."

Strange, only that afternoon he had done his best to cajole her into covering him with sunscreen. Unaccounted disappointment filled her, an opportunity lost. After all, she did not want to see him suffer. It would have helped to relieve his pain. Cool lotion on her hands, his parched skin hot beneath her fingers. She inhaled shakily.

"I should be getting back to bed."

"Me too."

Neither of them moved.

"How is your side?" he asked.

"Much better."

"Good. Good."

The strained attempt at conversation faltered into silence, and sensing that he had nothing else to say, she stepped forward with the intention of heading to the bedroom. Harry, standing in the gap between the counter and the wall, made no effort to move out of the way.

"I just have to…" She made a motion with her hand, indicating that she needed to step by him.

"Of course."

He shifted slightly, barely creating an opening. She stepped into it, brushing against him as she moved, turning to face him as she squeezed through. Without warning, his arm came up, his palm coming to rest on the wall effectively halting her passage. Panic returned, amplified by his proximity, the wings of her heart beating rapidly against the cage of her ribs. She had known him for years, she should have sensed that there was something brewing beneath his behaviour. His face half shadowed in darkness, she could not read his intent. He leaned into her, his mouth hovering near hers. A different thirst arose within her, and she gave an involuntary flick of her tongue over her lips. Silence descended, waiting for him to speak.

"Is that why you said no when I asked you to marry me?" He whispered his words, though there was no one to hear. "Because you knew it would be temporary."

Frowning, she rifled through her memory, realising that he was referring back to their conversation at the restaurant. "I said no because I thought we didn't deserve that kind of life."

"And yet, you put an offer in on a cottage by the sea." Dark eyes drilled into her, daring her to refute her hypocrisy.

She couldn't. She couldn't explain how the debacle with the Gavriks had shifted her priorities. She slumped back against the wall but there was nowhere to hide. He moved in closer, awaiting her answer. When none was forthcoming, he continued.

"We get what we think we deserve."

Heat emanated from his sunburnt skin; her body acutely aware of his chest, his legs. Her fingers flexed at her sides, sensing the nearness of his thigh. The fabric of her tee shirt was far too flimsy to withstand such proximity, her body working of its own accord, his effect on her evident in the peak of her nipples beneath the cotton. She closed her eyes. This had always been his effect on her, even in their early days. Senses heightened, she waited, hoping for escape, but craving capture. He let his hand drop away, returning it to his side.

"You're free to go where ever you want. Back to England, if you wish."

The absence of his heat was immediate. She teetered forward, stepping away from the support of the wall. Dazed, dejected that he had not pursued something more, she stood, confusion playing on her face. The strings that bound them together snapped, and she was back on the bench with him, that day he had told her to go to the Home Office, overturning her expectations. He had set her adrift again. He leaned back against the counter.

"What do you think you deserve, Ruth?"

The question echoed in her head. She wanted a home, she wanted him. Why were the two desires incompatible? She was tired of talking, tired of running and getting nowhere. She stared at his chest, the fine hairs catching the stray beams of light. How many more chances would they be given? She overrode her need for analysis and raised her hand, placing the tips of her fingers on his chest. The muscle near his shoulder flinched, the tender skin sensitive to her touch. She did not remove her finger but let it rest against his skin.

"You're burning up," she whispered.

"I'm not dressed for the heat," he answered, echoing her words from the airport.

They remained motionless, neither pulling away or coming closer, her small gesture binding them. She had lost track of the number of times he had been torn away, her spirit broken by the loss of him. She placed the flat of her hand on his chest, and his breath deepened, the expanse of his torso apparent, free from the strictures of a suit. Heat burned through her palm, penetrating her skin down to muscle and blood. He was a part of her. The thud of his heart increased. Her fingers curled on his pectoral muscle, wanting to reach in and find his heart, grab hold and keep it. She looked up at him.

"Does it hurt much?"

"I'll let you know."

His lips descended on hers with a stunning confidence. She gasped, any further conversation halted, her words silenced by his mouth. She had not voiced her intentions, stated what she deserved; he had made a presumption. His tongue invaded her being and thought grew meaningless. A quick shift of his body and she was pinned against the wall, centre displaced, her hand reaching out to his hip for balance. Swaying against her, his one arm sought the wall for support, his other arm harnessing her waist. The euphoria of cool skin against hot overcame her, the hardness of his thigh, the muscle of his arm. He twisted her around, leaning her against the counter. Her arms moved around him, clinging to him, her senses reeling. She rose on her toes, asking for more, drinking in the potent drug that was him, eclipsing the mess of her life. Refuting any signs of age, he lifted her off of her toes and onto the counter. Her eyes opened as her mind grappled with his wordless suggestion, body not caring where he had her. Mouth on her throat, his hand moved to her breast, cupping the soft flesh, thumb grazing across her nipple. Head back, allowing him access, she succumbed to the abandon that he demanded. He stood between her legs, pulling her in and she let him. Fingers running under her shirt, sliding up her backbone, tugging at the material. A blink of sanity, and her mind returned.

"There's a window here."

"You're right," he conceded.

She smiled. He had listened to her. Slipping a hand beneath her, he lifted her from the counter and took a step back.

"You can't carry me," she protested.

"Yes, I can." His claim filled with imperious ego.

Stupid man, he would wrench his back or something worse. She wriggled free from his grasp, her body sliding against his, his arms pulling her back in, a moan leaving his mouth as his lips found hers. He backed her up, or as she wanted to believe, she led him through the room, a slow dance of twisting and turning past corners, crossing the threshold of the bedroom. They paused by the bed, his confidence checked as his fingers played with the hem of her shirt. A breeze sighed through the window moving the curtain, the sounds of the sea filtering through.

"You left the window open," he softly chided.

"I wanted some air."

Her hands moved alongside his on her shirt, urging him to lift the material, distracting him from her breach in security. Any excuse for hesitation and the moment would be lost. He shimmied the fabric up and over her head, a low groan of appreciation escaping at the revelation of her body. Flaws were forgiven in the darkness, but she squirmed beneath his gaze, batting away twinges of self-consciousness, resisting the urge for modesty. He had shown no qualms in revealing himself, though his inner heart was yet to be mined. He lowered her onto the bed with surprising gentleness, a dramatic departure from his earlier urgency. Laying beside her, one leg over hers, he propped himself up on his elbow, keeping his full weight off of her.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm on painkillers."

"That's not exactly what a man wants to hear."

She smiled in the darkness, her hand on his cheek, a caress asking for indulgence. There was no time for thinking, that led to analysis and doubt. She pulled him back down. His hand delved between her thighs, fingers sliding under the material, hooking around and pulling it down, her eagerness for him apparent as his hands returned to explore. She did not want it to be over so soon. She pushed against him, rolling him over onto his back.

"Wait for it," she whispered.

His body stilled, his breath a ragged huff. "I dreamt of this." His words were laced with wonder. "In the darkest nights when there was no hope, you came to me in my dreams and you said that."

She looked down at him, the fringe of her hair brushing his throat, the confession of hopelessness allowing her a window into his grief. She wanted to erase it all. She pressed her lips against his chest, over his heart, easing the pain of absence, taking delicate consideration for his sunburn.

"Tell me if I hurt you," she whispered playfully.

"You already have."

Her throat constricted at his words, the vulnerability of his admission piercing her core; she had the power to hobble this titan of a man. She harboured her own scars from his careless words, inaction, neglect. They would do better. Banishing thoughts of sadness, she covered him with her body, searching for the elixir that would dull their pain. He grew hard beneath her hand, and his lips found her ear.

"Let me have you now."

She would give herself over to him on her own terms. Straddling him, her fingers guided his way, a bolt of ecstasy shooting through her as he penetrated her depths, nerves dancing in delight. With slow undulation, she rocked on top of him, his hips rising to meet her. Inhibitions abandoned, the promise of freedom so enticing; a life on the run might be worth it, if the reward was a pleasure such as this. His hands rested on her hips, stilling her movements. He nudged her, and understanding his desire, she rolled over onto her back. Minding wounds, delivered by fate and self-inflicted, he hovered above her, drinking her in. Tender fingers charted a final trail over her breasts, mouth following, tongue flicking over sensitive flesh. It was his turn to linger; satisfaction made more potent by delay. Hunger rising, he eased into her, fighting release with slow control. They fell into a mutual rhythm, punctuated by his staccato breaths and her moans of encouragement. The muscles of her side relaxed, all pain forgotten, drunk on the endorphins that he aroused within her. Unable to support himself any longer, he dropped to his elbows, his weight pressing against her, the heat of his chest burning her breasts. She clung to him, absorbing his essence; she need never be cold again. Nerves rose to the surface, opening up to the sun, expanding as the friction between them increased. The sound of the surf rose in her ears and she cried out as she crested with it, floating down. He thrust into her, sustaining the sensation, diving in and catching her as their bodies shook with surrender. Arms weak, his body collapsed on top of her, perspiration slick against her skin.

"Stay with me," he whispered.

Her limbs sunk into the mattress, sleepy corners of her mind recognising the familiar sound of his words.

"I dreamt of this too."

Consciousness slipped away as he wrapped around her. Two dreams, now one.