July 6, 1902

Robert and Rosalind are entwined on the sofa, as is their habit, reading. Rain falls outside, almost drowning out the shouts and cheering from the citizens of Columbia, but not quite.

"I can't believe they're out in this weather," Rosalind says.

"It's not every day one secedes from the United States, you know. Don't you think a little celebration is in order?"

"Was ordered, you mean."

"Six of one, half-dozen of the other."

Rosalind shrugs and returns to her book, though in doing so her weight shifts in a way that threatens to break Robert's concentration. He squirms and whispers in her ear, "I think there's a good chance of someone coming by to see us, or take us to some ceremony or the other."

Rosalind's face is innocent. "I was only making myself more comfortable, Robert. Do exercise some self-control."

He brushes his lips against her ear again. Her composure wavers, but she appears for all purposes to be engrossed in her reading again. Robert sighs and returns to his book, though his attempts to take that delicious pressure off of his groin are met with failure. He closes his eyes, inhales, exhales.

A knock resounds through the hallway. Robert's look at Rosalind has a certain triumph to it.

"Aren't you going to get up and answer it, brother?"

"You're sitting on me. It's easier for you to get up."

They eye each other, Rosalind leaning more of her weight where he both does and does not want it. He knows that this is not a contest of wills that he is going to win, but he waits at least one more knock on the door before he arches up against her, knowing that she feels his arousal. She smiles and goes to answer the door. He hears her speaking to a man, an unfamiliar, official voice.

The door closes and she returns to the sitting room. "As you anticipated, we are expected at a dinner this evening to celebrate this blessed occasion. We're to bring any and all documentation regarding our current citizenship."

"I don't actually have anything, I didn't think to bring it when I came here."

"I do. I never became an American citizen, though I don't imagine Comstock is going to concern himself with the details on that."

"What time is the dinner?"

"Six."

"We have time, then."

"For what, brother?"

Robert beckons her back to the couch, and she sits down primly next to him. He pulls her toward him, and it pleases her to act surprised. "Time for what?"

"To do this." He kisses her, slow and gentle. It never fails to thrill him, that moment when she starts giving in to him. As soon as he feels it happen, though, she pulls back. He lunges for her, but she has backed off and started to climb the stairs. "I should dress for the evening."

He knows she wants him to pursue her. He measures his lust against his desire to not give in to her and finds the former outweighing the latter, this time at least. He meets her at the top of the stairs and pushes her against the wall, holding her shoulders so that she cannot escape, his tongue deep in her mouth.

She had managed to unbutton her shirt in the time that it took her to get up the stairs, and he nips hard at her neck. She gasps. "Robert, that hurts!"

"Good," he rasps.

She kisses him again, takes his ear in her mouth, and bites down hard.

"Fuck! Rosalind!"

"Turnabout is fair play, brother."

The pain, to his surprise, inflames him even more, and he cannot wait any longer. He pushes her back toward the bed, pulling up her skirt, and fumbling at his own clothes at the same time. He manages to set himself free and plunges into her.

The world dissolves into a pinpoint, a humming around him as he hammers away at her. She is making sweet noises that almost undo him with their smallness, their intensity. By the time he reaches his peak he has no idea where he is, what day it is, what time it is. From what seems like far away he hears her saying his name in an increasingly agitated voice, then it subsumes into bliss and she is kissing his neck.

He rolls off of her, looks at her neck. He has left a dark purple bruise, but her collar will cover it. His ear, however, is tender and warm, and Rosalind looks at it with a critical eye.

"It's red, but I don't think there'll be anything worse than a bit of swelling."

"Not like this." He kisses the bite mark gently. "But I'm not sorry. At all."

"Nor did I expect you to be. Let's dress, though."