Thank you, my readers, for sticking with me... I appreciate that so much! And I am always grateful for the reviews - I can't tell you how much I light up when I see one! Sam, glad to see you back - and we'll see soon if you get your wish; we are in the home stretch of the story, after all ;)

There are more spicy, saucy moments in this chapter - in fact, it's safe to say that there will be a touch of smut in pretty much every remaining chapter - these two characters are very sensual creatures ;)


The next day, Charles was having his usual early-morning breakfast when Corrine approached his table. She looked around furtively to make sure no one else was watching, then pressed a kiss to his cheek. "Thank you," she whispered in his ear.

His face turned red to the roots of his hair. "What for?" he managed to get out.

"For talking some sense into him," she said.

"How do you know I-"

"I just know," she smiled. She took a small step back, and he studied her. Despite the fact that she couldn't have gotten much sleep the previous night, she was positively radiant, glowing bright as the sun. He had never seen her smile like that before, and it transformed her, turning her already beautiful face ethereal. She blew him another kiss before walking to the next table.

Lucky bastard, he thought, staring after her.


Albert Chaffee watched his newest hire float around the dining room in bemused admiration. He thought he'd be disappointed when her melancholy air lifted, as it had attracted such notice - and so many sympathetic male gazes. But her abrupt change in mood had somehow made her even more appealing to the male customers. Luckily, she was unaware of their attention, he noted with approval. But he was sure that if she kept flashing that dazzling smile at everyone, she would have numerous marriage proposals - including, if he were reading things right, from half of Titanic's surviving officers.


Katie blew into the restaurant at noon.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Corr, where were you last night? I've been worried sick ever since you didn't come home-" She stopped, and looked at Corrine closely. "Why, you... you shagged him, didn't you?" she asked slowly, comprehension dawning on her face.

Corrine blushed, smiled, and studied her shoes.

Katie threw her arms around her friend and squealed, attracting the attention of some nearby patrons, who rolled their eyes condescendingly. Katie couldn't care less.

"How do you know?" Corrine asked her.

"I just know," Katie drawled. "I s'pose you'll be staying with him now?" she asked keenly.

"I... I think- I hope so," Corrine said uncertainly.

"I have no doubt, love. He'd be daft to give you up again. He's head over heels for you, Corr - always has been."


The inquiry continued, much to Corrine's and Harry's delight. He had stopped fighting it altogether; in fact, he welcomed it now, as it allowed them to solidify their reconciliation. They spent every moment that they weren't otherwise occupied with the hearings or work together. As Katie had predicted, Harry insisted that she stay with him night and day, and so for the duration of the inquiry Corrine lived with him in a blissful approximation of married life.

She read the papers every afternoon after her shift, and she noted with a combination of delight, amusement, and pride that Harry's name appeared quite often. He certainly cut a rakish figure at the inquiry. The press was fascinated with him, not only for his blunt, direct, answers and his obvious disdain for protocol, but for his good looks and smart dress. She knew he had a crowd of female admirers in the audience who tittered every time he entered or exited the room. They were particularly vocal during his own testimony, providing a Greek chorus of gasps, cries, and giggles. He acknowledged them with a dashing grin once, but otherwise paid them no mind. As for Corrine, such things no longer bothered her; her insecurities had vanished the moment Harry had declared his love.

Harry's stint as a witness was played for comedy in many of the papers; his swaggering presence and his frequent clashes with Senator Smith livened the procedure, they claimed. There was definitely an undeniable element of theatrics and showmanship to his testimony. It wasn't intentional, though; the reporters didn't realize that what they were seeing was just Harry's usual breezy and impudent nature. But it was so entirely unlike the other officers' precise, careful, controlled responses that it stood out dramatically. In addition, he painted a vibrant picture of the night with his words, his manner of speaking bordering on the poetic.

But it was his memorable retorts to Smith's questions that really caught the country's attention. His sharp responses resembled that of a hostile witness at times, and his animosity towards Smith's accusatory style and his ignorance of the sea was readily apparent. They sparred over loading versus lowering capacity of lifeboats, the opening of the gangway doors, and the superiority of British seamanship. The press gleefully reported his comments about the composition of an iceberg ('Ice', he replied tersely, to uproarious laughter) and his dramatic reenactment of the warning shots fired during the lowering of boat 14, where he instructed Smith on what the word 'horizontal' meant. And Corrine had laughed out loud when she read that Harry had delivered a soliloquy on the difference between a boatman and a sailor: she knew that was meant not just as a diversion, but as a sly nod to their inside joke. At other times, his responses contained a bewildered mangling of the original question that made interpreting his answers difficult. Corrine knew it for what it really was: a failed attempt to hide his deep disdain for the procedure - and Smith. He wasn't trying to deliberately confuse or mislead, nor was he trying to conceal anything; if anything his candor in most respects, especially when he admitted to not knowing something, was refreshing. But those biting comments distracted the public from his true goal: his reluctance to place blame, and to protect the men who could no longer speak for themselves - chiefly, First Officer Murdoch. In that respect, thought Corrine wryly, he wasn't much different from Charles - although she refrained from sharing that sentiment with Harry. Through evasions, clever distractions, and long-winded sidetracks, he managed to skirt the issue of whether Murdoch had loaded the boats under capacity that night. It wasn't as simple as agreeing or disagreeing with the senior officer's decision, he told Corrine later; rather, it was that there were so many factors to consider that one couldn't even begin to understand unless he was in the situation himself - and he didn't wish that upon anyone, not even Smith. The worst part of the whole process, though, at least to Corrine, was the way that Smith had taken Harry to task for not being able to return sooner with his boat and rescue more survivors. Harry already suffered enough about that, and Corrine, who had been quietly supportive of Senator Smith's investigation up until that point, would never forgive him for putting Harry through such a remorseless grilling on the subject.

Stories from the survivors were emerging from that night as well, and Harry's name loomed large in their descriptions. Although a few were critical of him (his language, Miss Minahan said, was so offensive that she thought him intoxicated, an accusation that enraged him for days afterward), most were glowing in their compliments. They spoke of how he protected them from being capsized by 'roughs', tied up their boats together so they would feel less alone, and kept their spirits up throughout their terrifying ordeal. Rene Harris was particularly verbose in her praise, publishing a lengthy account of her experiences in which Officer Lowe featured prominently. The survivors told of his competence, his skill, and his commanding presence that gave hope to all around that a true leader was among them. And of course, they spoke of his returning to the scene of the disaster after the sinking to pluck survivors from the sea. This, most of all, was what fascinated the public. His fixation - his near-obsession - with going back, no matter the cost, was the subject of many editorials and speculations. What drove this man to risk his life for his fellow man, when all the other crewmembers lay on their oars and listened to the tortured sounds of the dying? Interestingly, no survivors came forward to talk about the emotional scene during the rescue of the occupants of Collapsible A. It was as if, by unspoken agreement, the witnesses of that incident had agreed to keep it a private matter between the officer and the young woman, rather than tarnishing it by talking to the press. But everything else about his behavior that night was discussed, analyzed, and applauded ad nauseam. He had captured the attention of the world, and the papers published every account with breathless praise for the young officer's heroism.

But the world didn't see how he suffered.

He slept poorly, if at all. He drank gallons of tea to avoid falling asleep, because then the nightmares would begin. Many times he awoke screaming, sitting bolt upright in bed. Other times he would thrash in his sleep, kicking the covers off and grasping the air beseechingly. He always woke from these incidents in a cold sweat. And most nights, he wept shamelessly in her arms, sometimes for an hour or more. She soothed him as best she could, stroking his hair and cradling him to her breast, as he poured his heart out, berating himself for not paying more attention to the ice warnings, for leaving her on the slanting boat deck, for not being able to save more lives. He was a haunted man, and not even his deep gratitude for their own salvation provided him the deliverance he needed.

The only time he seemed at peace was when they were making love. That was the only solace she could provide - so she employed it every chance she could.

They were insatiable. Some days he would barely get the door closed and locked before she was upon him. One time, she surprised him by pushing him down onto the settee in the sitting room and straddling him. He reached up under her dress and touched bare skin slick with arousal - she had already removed her undergarments. Her body ground against his, and he quickly pulled down his trousers to avoid getting them wet. With one quick movement, he was inside her. That time, they never did make it to the bedroom - or remove their clothes. Another time, she met him at the door entirely nude. He took her bent over the back of the settee, and then on the plush carpet, and finally on top of the small dining table, which rocked precariously in time with his thrusts.

Once, during her shift in the restaurant, he pulled her aside into a nearby broom closet. They tore at each other's clothing frantically in the dark, ripping fabric and popping buttons. He lifted her up in his arms and pushed her roughly up against the wall, pounding into her, stifling her rapturous cries with his mouth. He left with a smirk, adjusting his tie and hat, while she had to sit on the floor for several minutes to quell her trembling legs and piece together her ruined hair and uniform.

They made love for hours at a time, in every conceivable position. As he promised, his stamina did improve... and he was a self-controlled man, waiting, denying his own pleasure for her. As she climaxed over and over again, apologizing profusely for her wanton behavior, he would just grin and tell her that she should have at least three for every one of his, and that his single-minded goal in life was to see that it happened.

Afterward they would often take baths together that would invariably end in more passionate lovemaking. Sometimes he would carry her dripping to the bed, where they would finish; other times, they remained in the tub, the soapy water allowing their bodies to slide smoothly over one another as he entered her.

He taught her many things, but some things they learned together. One night she began tracing a slow path around his neck and collarbone with her lips, kissing her way down his chest and then to his taut stomach. Then she kissed lower, right above the patch of dark, curly hair, and he gasped in shock and grabbed her head.

"Don't stop me," she whispered huskily. "I want to... I want to taste you."

She gently, tentatively, touched him, first with her tongue, then her lips. The feeling sent shudders of pleasure through his entire body, and he groaned loudly. Growing more bold, she slowly engulfed him in her mouth, swirling her tongue and sucking, first slowly and then more insistently. His fists clenched in the sheets as her rhythm intensified, as she went deeper and faster. The sensations of tongue and lips were so intense, so new... it was so intimate, and he was so sensitive... he couldn't help it, couldn't hold back any longer. He felt himself losing control, spilling his seed into her mouth.

He lay there gasping with the aftereffects of his pleasure for some time. After awhile, he pulled her up beside him. His eyes shining with worshipful adoration, he wrapped her in his arms. "My Corrine... my darling..." he crooned into her hair, as she drifted peacefully off to sleep.

The intensity of their affair frightened both of them. But they were helpless to stop, because they knew that the relentless tides of time would soon sweep them away from one another. And so they made the most of every stolen moment, desperately avoiding the past, and dreading the future.


"Harder," she moaned into the pillow.

He was behind her, sheathed deep inside her body, and she still wanted - needed - more. He sunk his fingers into her hips and pulled her toward him, while simultaneously changing the angle of his own body. Then he waited, dragging out her anticipation.

"Please... please," she panted. She squirmed against him, desperate for movement, for friction.

Harold grinned. He loved it when she begged. She only did it when she was damn near out of her mind with desire, when her need for him overcame her pride.

Steady, old man, he thought. She's almost there.

Finally he obliged, thrusting deep into her while still gripping her hips. His strokes were long and unhurried; he knew he could endure a little while that way, but she wouldn't be able to hold up much longer.

Sure enough, he could feel her begin to tighten around him. Ah, he knew her so well now... every inch of her body, every want and need, every favorite position, every way to arouse, tease, and satisfy her.

And he knew how she liked to finish in this position. He pulled out slightly, delivering a few quick, short swirling strokes near her slick entrance, rubbing her swollen clitoris with the tip of himself, and then followed with deep, penetrative thrusts that filled her fully...

And sure enough, after a few strokes like this, she came, convulsing around him and screaming his name. The feel of her losing control... the satisfaction in knowing that he could please her so well... it pushed him over the edge too. He allowed his own orgasm to wash over him, rendering him insentient for some time.

When he could think again, he looked over to find her lying on her belly, arm stretched above her, head turned toward him.

"That's three times this evening, Miss Donnelly," he said lazily. "Are you going to try for four, or are you going to let a man sleep for once?"

"Hmmm," she said, pretending to think. She propped herself up on her side. "I think I'll leave it up to the man in question - who has just as much difficulty resisting me as I do him."

He laughed. "Well, if we do, you're going to have to learn to be quiet," he admonished teasingly.

She raised an eyebrow. "Why on earth would I want to do that?"

"Because every morning when I walk past my former shipmates in the dining room, I have to hear: 'Mr. Lowe, there are some rather indecent noises coming from your room after hours'. 'You have quite the colorful vocabulary at night, Mr. Lowe'. 'In my day, people tended to be discreet, Mr. Lowe'." The last was delivered in a very good impression of Lightoller's voice.

She giggled. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt to be a little more subtle," she said.

"Honestly, I don't give a damn," he laughed. "I just wanted to see how you would react. But you are utterly shameless, aren't you?" He reached out and tweaked her nose.

She shrugged. "They already know about us; it's not like it's some great secret anymore. Besides, they'd be doing the same with their wives or girls if they had the chance."

He doubted that. He honestly didn't think anyone made love the way the two of them did. Certainly he hadn't before. But he had finally learned to keep his mouth shut when it came to observations like that, so he just nodded in agreement.

"Although I think I may have some competition for your affections," she said coyly. "Half of America is in love with you, you know." She traced the tattoo on his forearm with the tip of her finger.

"What?" he asked, incredulous.

"You don't read the papers, do you?" she teased. "The press adores you, makes a great fuss over everything you say. You're very quotable, you know."

He cocked his head, curious. "I don't know what you're talking about, Corrine."

"Ice, Harry? Really? An iceberg is composed of ice?" she asked, a mischievous gleam in her eyes. "You had to know how that would be received."

He smirked. "That wanker Smith deserved it," he declared. "He doesn't know his arsehole from a porthole."

"And what about the Ismay incident? I can't believe you never told me about that - Harry, you cussed out the managing director of the White Star Line the night of the sinking, for goodness sake! You're lucky you're still employed."

Actually, none of the officers were sure if they were still employed. That would have to wait for the British inquiry. He sighed inwardly, already dreading it. If they took his certificates, he was would instantly lose his livelihood. But he wasn't going to bring that subject up, either. Forcing himself back to topic, he said, "Well, in my defense, at the time I didn't know who he was."

She raised an eyebrow. "Honestly, would that have changed anything?" she asked playfully.

"Probably not," he admitted with a rueful smile. "He was still in my way, and I had a job to do."

Her laugh echoed delightfully through the room. "That's what I thought. You know, he's become a villain to the American people - a scapegoat, if you will, for the entire disaster. And so when it came out that you stood up to him... well, Americans love that sort of thing - they call it moxie, I believe. You've become their new hero."

He sighed, his eyes growing distant. "I'm no hero," he said, flopping on his back.

Instantly, she knew she had said the wrong thing. "I'm sorry, Harry," she said apologetically. "I shouldn't have used that word. I know how you feel about it." She took hold of his face and turned it until he was looking in her eyes once again. "But you are a hero to me," she said, soft and insistent. "And to many others as well, even if you won't acknowledge it."

He sighed again. "People are too generous. I didn't do enough - didn't do anything, really. All I did was look for you - and holler a lot," he admitted.

"One of your many talents," she said, giving him a crooked grin. She snuggled into his arms, and neither spoke for awhile.

Returning to their earlier conversation, he said, "Anyway, I don't give a damn if the recently widowed Mrs. Astor herself begged me to be her new husband. You are the only one for me, Corrine - now and forever."

"And you will always be my one and only," she replied, her voice husky. Then she chuckled. "Even if Mr. Ismay himself propositions me... again."

"What?!" He sat up so suddenly that she nearly rolled off of the bed. He caught her quickly and pulled her toward him. "I think I had better hear this story," he warned. He felt suddenly possessive and very, very angry.

She saw the swift change in his mood and hastened to reassure him. "It was while I was working at my uncle's shop. He showed up there a few times, talked to me... and eventually offered me a... job. But it felt strange - he never said what the job would be, and the way he was looking at me..." She paused for a moment. "I didn't understand at the time, but I think I do now. And I didn't know who he was until I saw him on Titanic, and all the pieces fell together."

Rage rose in his throat, choking his words, and he growled deep in his chest. "That son of a bitch," he spat finally, face white, eyes blazing. "I should-"

"Easy, Harry," she soothed, alarmed as his vehement reaction. "I'm sorry I mentioned it. I should've known it would... upset you. And besides, it hardly matters now. Obviously, he didn't succeed. He clearly wasn't man enough." She grinned wickedly at the implication, trying to distract him.

It worked. Slowly, he relaxed again. "All right, Corrine, but I'll neither forget it, nor forgive him," he said firmly.

"Oh, but Harry you must," she insisted. "He holds your future in his hands, after all."

There it was again, the reminder that neither knew what the future had in store for them. He sighed. Please, Corrine, let me just live in this moment with you, forever...

But she couldn't - wouldn't - let it go. "Harry..." she began hesitantly, looking up at him. "What happens... next? After the inquiry is over, I mean?"

His heart softened. He knew she was desperately seeking reassurance, needing to know that all would be well. And he didn't have any answers for her - but he did know one thing. "I'm not sure," he said contemplatively, staring into the distance as if trying to glimpse their future. He reached out and began idly stroking her nipple with his thumb, feeling it harden under his touch. "But whatever it is, we'll figure it out together."

At the slight hitch in her breathing, and the suppressed noise in her throat, he looked down at her. She was gazing up at him, eyes molten.

And they were off again.


I wrote the first half of this chapter with a lot of wiggle room for a reason. I wanted to leave ample opportunity to write sexy one-shots of this time period later - and sure enough, several have emerged since I've finished this section. There's more - much more - to the broom closet scene, for example ;)