A/N: Reminder that the rating is for adult themes, heavy sensuality, and mild language. XD

PART TWO

Take me to church
I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies
I'll tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife
Offer me that deathless death
Good God, let me give you my life

Robin's phone vibrates during a particularly stodgy lecture on Mannerism in the High Renaissance period. The T.A. conducting the class is overly fond of his monotonous voice echoing in the hall, droning on and on in irrelevant tangents while the slide has been stuck on Hendrik Goltzius's The Sleeping Danea Being Prepared to Receive Jupiterfor the last half hour.

Robin doesn't attempt to be discreet as he unlocks his phone.

Drinks at 7. And you can talk me out of having everyone on the board executed for idiocy.

He grins as he sends back a reply in the affirmative. The Boston Harbor Hotel tonight, then. That means skipping study group, but he'd rather be with her than spending three hours rehashing material he already knows. He'll always choose her, no matter the scheduling conflict.

It's been nearly six months since his odd arrangement with Regina began, and a week since their last encounter—the longest they ever go. (The longest he can stand.) His need is perpetually exigent, barely sated with each interlude, multiplying again within minutes of their parting. He's aware of the absurdity of his increasing infatuation, knows she's more of an addiction than a romantic partner, but he doesn't regret that he harbors the twisted hope that he's as much her favorite poison as she is his.

Because he's more alive than he's ever been.

Perhaps it's the thrill of the forbidden, the knowing glances they share across the room at the occasional society function, the way he'll pass her by, fingers grazing against hers. He's in her bed afterward, laughing over the imagined reactions of the gentry should they discover that the Black Widow has taken up with a Harvard undergrad. (She knows the name they whisper behind her back, knows the suspicions regarding her late husband's death.) David, of course, would be apoplectic that his mate is shagging the woman who is apparently making life so intolerable for his lady love. Robin is being terribly disloyal—if he valued his friendship with David above this thing he shares with Regina. He doesn't. Not enough, anyway.

The subject of Mary Margaret has come up when he's alone with her—in the quiet moments following their liaisons where, at times, their post-coitus conversations turn to something deeper than her work or his classes.

"Why not give it to her and be done with it?" he asked when she mentioned that Mary Margaret was again demanding that Regina relinquish her role as executor of her trust.

Regina was silent for so long, he thought she might have fallen asleep. "She's the reason my fiancé died."

He stared at her as she rose from the bed and dressed without another word. He should have been unsettled by her vindictive reasoning, but vendettas and blood feuds were the food and drink of his childhood. He understands that forgiveness doesn't come as easily as the New Age gurus promise. He doesn't broach the subject again.

But it's not merely the excitement stirred by the taboo nature of their relationship that has him happily coming back for more. Neither is it solely the sex, and the sex is unparalleled—never dull or banal. It's not always slow, dark encounters worthy of romance novels. (Well, he assumes anyway; he's never actually read one.) Sometimes it's savage, ravenous with her bent over her desk in her home office while his fingers leave red marks on her hips. And sometimes there's silly banter and laughter as he chases her through her spacious mansion half-dressed. Because as much as he enjoys feeling older, established in her presence, she likes that he makes her feel young.

He's painting again.

At first, tentative lines on canvas as he attempts to rouse skills long dormant. The strokes become broader, more sure as his confidence returns, as he remembers what he learned in Paris at the feet of a master. Mixing not only colors, but creating his own pigments to get the precise hue, the precise texture. He spends hours chasing after perfection, sometimes scrapping a piece altogether and starting anew when it doesn't meet his exacting standards.

He doesn't capture her likeness, though she is, in a strange way, his muse. She is in every swipe of color, every pigment blend. She's the shadow, the light—the drive that keeps him wielding his brush late into the night.

Of course, she complains about the smell of turpentine that he can't quite eradicate with showers and cologne. He tells her it's the price she pays for sleeping with an amateur artist. She never sees his work—never asks to—but then, he never sees hers, and he prefers this meticulous divide. In truth, he couldn't suffer her unfavorable judgment should she turn her nose up at his creations.

There's another text at the end of class, this one from David—a summons to hang out with the gang tonight. Beer, movies, and junk food. Robin begs off, uses the study group as an excuse, but chases his rejection with an invitation to get together later in the week. He's become well practiced with this precarious balance of his dichotomous life, though this unusual marriage between the reality he shows the world and the truths he hides away is not an entirely new thing.

His phone alerts him to a third message, and he frowns, worried that Regina might be canceling because of some fire or another she needs to put out at the office, but it isn't her.

In town. When and where? –LJ

Robin grins, glancing at his watch. He has two or three hours to kill before he's needed in Boston. He shoots off a reply with an address, and tosses his satchel in his car—though he'll leave his vehicle at his place in Cambridge. It's too conspicuous for this meeting. Public transportation will have to do.

It's twenty minutes with the pungent bouquet of humanity in its varying stages of hygiene before he's in Dorchester. The derelict neighborhood he traverses is hardly one where a semi-affluent Ivy-leaguer like himself should be caught in, but fortunately, he doesn't look the part in jeans and a t-shirt—and the unkempt beginnings of a beard. He only shaves when he has good reason, and school is no longer a sufficient motivator. (On more than one occasion David has accused him of having a touch of something he calls "senioritis.")

Robin arrives at an antediluvian apartment complex, unsightly with its 1970's Brutalist architecture. A handful of children kick a football—a soccer ball—back and forth in front the building, and one of them waves at him as he crosses the road, beckons him to join the impromptu match. Not this time, he answers, though he has before. Often, in fact. They tease him about his accent; he teaches them how the game is really played, and for an hour here and there he's taken back to his childhood, back to the family—the cousins, the nieces, the nephews—he left behind across an oceanic expanse.

But not today.

Granny Geraldine sits on the stoop in her sun-bleached lawn chair, knitting with gnarled, arthritic fingers. Her face splits into a wide grin when she sees him. She asks how the fancy Englishman has been doing since she last laid eyes on him. He tells her he's enjoying the balmy weather.

"So don't I!" she replies with a cackle and then sobers, leaning forward, lowering her gravelly voice. "There's a fellow inside looking for you. He's shiesty, if you ask me."

Robin laughs. He wonders what she would say about him if she knew he was a Harvard yuppie—or that he isn't actually English despite his private school training. Shiesty, indeed. He thanks her, steps inside and climbs the four flights to his floor.

A man of large girth stands outside his door, sucking deeply on a hand-rolled cigarette while leaning on the wall, and Robin warms at the familiar sight. Jean Pierre Delacroix is several years Robin's senior, and an old friend from Paris—the dearest one he's ever had.

"Those things will kill you," he teases as he closes the distance between them.

Jean blows out a puff of smoke and smiles. "One day, perhaps," he says with the barest slur in his inflections from his native tongue. "If gluttony doesn't take me first, no?" He pats his rotund belly, and Robin huffs a soft laugh, shaking his head. Before he can make a flippant reply, Jean has him in a bonecracking embrace and plants a bise on each of his cheeks.

"It's been too long, mon vieil ami," he declares as he releases Robin. "Now, what have you to show me?"

Robin unlocks the door, shoulders against the wood to unstick it from the jamb. "You could have let yourself in, you know."

Jean shrugs, taking another drag on his cigarette. "Break into the legendary outlaw's home? Never."

Robin looks heavenward in blithe exasperation at the long-standing jest between them. Upon learning his name at their first meeting, Jean asked if Robin had any skill with a bow and arrow. When Robin admitted to, in fact, being rather practiced in archery—he had preferred that over the other sports offered at Eton—Jean took to calling him Robin Hood. In retaliation, Robin named him Little Jean, and a perennial friendship was born.

Inside, Robin flicks on a light switch and Jean grunts as he takes in the nearly empty studio apartment. It's really quite shabby with the original wood paneling, yellowed curtains, and olive green appliances, but the locale, the North-facing windows, the rent, the anonymity make up for the homely décor. Jean puts out his fag in the sink, and Robin directs him to the easel at the center of the room. There are other paintings leaning against the walls Jean will want to look over as well, but he may as well begin with the pièce de résistance.

"You painted this?" Jean asks with no small amount of reverence as he examines it.

Robin smirks to cover the swell of pride in his chest. "Don't be so surprised."

"Not at all," Jean counters. "I knew you had the talent, but I thought you gave up the craft to pursue a more…conventional career, yes?"

Heat creeps over the nape of Robin's neck to his ears. "I suppose you could say that I've had a change of heart," he says. "Besides, I can have both the career and this."

Jean peers at him through a narrowed gaze as if trying to ferret out the cause of the turnaround. Fortunately, he doesn't pose the question written in his brow, but says instead, "This is true. May I?" He gestures to the magnifying glass lying on a table near the easel.

Robin nods for him to go on. He tries not to hold his breath as Jean scrutinizes the painting, centimeter by centimeter, in stretched silence. As the minutes tick by, Robin begins to doubt his work. The color, which had been perfect the day before, seems sallow now, his brush strokes too bold and indelicate when they should have been gentle, fluid.

"This is magnificent, Robin. Your attention to detail is without equal." Jean straightens and returns the loupe to table. He gives the other pieces a cursory glance. "You will make a name for yourself in no time."

Jean's candid praise siphons the tension from Robin's shoulders. "That is the hope," he says. "With a little help, that is."

"But of course!" Jean exclaims. "I would be offended if you asked another. We will be as thick as thieves."

Robin groans at the unfortunate pun, but it's unsurprising. These are Jean's specialty.

"Come," Jean says, clapping Robin's back with a beefy hand. "Let us go and celebrate our new venture."

"I would happily, but—," Robin gives him an apologetic smile, "—I have a prior engagement."

"Ah, I see." Jean raises a brow, expression turning shrewd. "A woman, no?"

"A lady." Robin offers no more than that as he ushers his friend out of the apartment, and Jean doesn't inquire further. "Tomorrow, then?"

"Tomorrow," Jean agrees.

She's sitting in the corner when Robin arrives, and in the warm, dusky lighting of the establishment, she's a vision of soft curves and flowing lines—deceptively edentulous, though he's intimately familiar with her bite. He wonders if there will ever come a time when the sight of her doesn't make his lungs and heart forget how to function. What fine witchcraft is this? And how can he make certain she will never stop using it on him?

He orders a drink—whiskey, neat—before joining her, and observes her unawares as he waits for the barkeep. Another man approaches her. The line he gives her is beyond Robin's hearing. He's not jealous of that harmless interaction; it's never been his nature, and there is the plain fact that she is not his. It's more than the ambiguity of their understanding. She's not a possession, some prize to polish and put on display in service to his or any man's vaulted ego.

He supposes, though, if she should ever give another the same smile she reserves only for him, it might awaken the green-eyed monster. But he can't imagine that coming to pass—not tonight, anyway. Not with how she purses her lips at the would-be suitor. Robin grins as she deftly shoots down whatever overture the hapless fellow made. No, she's no swooning damsel in need of rescue.

After the other man retreats, Robin takes the overstuffed leather chair next to hers. "You heartbreaker," he accuses in a lighthearted tone.

She smiles that extraordinary smile, the one born from unfettered pleasure, as she assesses him with a dark-eyed gaze. "You look like the cat that ate the canary."

"Funny," he says, returning her grin with one of his own, "I was going say that you look like a cat who's about to eat a canary."

Her laugh is dry, quiet. Perfection. "If the canary plays his cards right."

"The canary is becoming rather good at this game." He sips his whiskey, rolling it over his tongue. "But yes, I've had a banner day. I survived classes, was reunited with an old friend, and now, I'm to spend the evening in the company of a woman whose feet I'm not worthy to kiss—which, if I may be so bold, will be the highlight of my week."

Rose hints in the apples of her cheeks as she looks away. He likes when he has this effect on her—that he has any effect at all. She's beautifully exposed in these rare moments, and he's glad she allows him to witness the complicated creature beneath the veneer of cold, ball-busting businesswoman and high society widow.

"And you?" he says, nudging against her leg with his knee. "You've managed to avoid committing mass murder, I take it?"

She sighs heavily. "Barely."

His brows furrow in sympathy, though he can't imagine what it would be like to run an empire— especially one inherited from a late spouse. "Do you want to talk about it?"

She picks up her dirty martini and takes a slow pull. "Not particularly." She does. Now or later, she will. There is always a conflict churning inside of her—whether or not to open herself up to him, to let him experience all of her facets—and she thinks she hides the internal struggle well, but he knows her better.

He suffers from the same battling desires.

"You're certain?" He plucks the olives from her drink, and slides one off the pick between his teeth before returning it to her glass.

"You know I hate it when you do that." Her expression turns dour, and the pinched look would easily wither a lesser man, but he's unmoved.

"No, you don't," he replies with an insolent smile.

She raises an eyebrow in repudiation. "Oh? And what makes you so sure?"

He chews the olive, savoring the sour brine and liquor. Extra vermouth, like always. "Because," he says, "against your better judgment, you're quite taken with me. Otherwise, you would have eviscerated me long ago."

She shakes her head, sighs with a muted laugh. "True."

"If it helps," he says, leaning into her, nose nearly touching her cheek, "the feeling is mutual."

"Yes," she agrees. "Your schoolboy crush."

He keeps from clenching his teeth, only just. This, he despises. Her compulsive need to remind them both of the years between them—to keep him (or her) at arm's length. Their age gap isn't important, though. Not to him. It never has been. And he's bothered that it seems to matter to her. As if he's somehow less because he's not greying at the temples. As if he cannot offer her everything she wants or needs—even though he is the one she turns to for companionship. He keeps his brewing frustration in check, however; he's not ready to risk losing everything in an overdue confrontation. Not yet.

"I can hardly be blamed," he says in a playful tone as he sits back in his chair, "when presented with such a stunning specimen."

She rolls her eyes, but she's smiling again. She reaches toward him, fingertips gliding over the scanty stubble on his chin, his cheeks. He shaved his neck in order to be fashionably disheveled rather than slovenly.

"This is new," she says.

He makes no reply but waits in silence for the verdict that will shortly be coming. She's never been reticent to vocalize her opinion on anything.

"It suits you," she announces after exploring each bristly hair, and he grins.

"I'm glad to hear it." He doesn't need her approval, but he likes having it. He turns his head, kissing her willowy fingers before she withdraws her hand. She doesn't comment on the flimsy display as she usually does—public affection is against the unspoken rules of engagement—and emboldened, he admits that he's missed her.

She stares at him, crimson lips parting to form a sardonic rebuttal, but one never comes. Her mouth closes, her gaze falls to her drink, and then: "Me, too."

He's beset with the sudden need to know how much she's missed him, if she thinks of him daily, if she checks her phone more often than necessary, if she tallies the hours between each encounter. He doesn't give voice to any of these fervid, juvenile questions, however. The two words she uttered are confession enough. He's more to her than a vessel she uses to quench an occasional thirst. He matters—even if she regrets his relative youth. With enough time, he could overcome that as well.

These thoughts are tiptoeing dangerously close to a prosaic wish he cannot allow to take root. He's not naïve; he knows they aren't soul mates on the cusp of becoming one in heart and mind, in body. (Sometimes it feels like it.)

He traces a line up the outside of her thigh, following the seam of her dress from the hem to just below her hip. He puts a different unasked question in his gaze—one that would be too clichéd if spoken out loud, but wants an answer all the same. She tips her head in a bare nod, sets down her glass, and leaves the safety of their corner. He pays her tab as well as his and finds her again inside the hotel, at the elevators.

A geriatric couple joins them on the lift, keeping him separated from Regina for the ride. She tosses salacious glances in his direction behind the pair, her tongue grazing across her bottom lip, and with effort, he keeps his expression pleasantly neutral. The white-haired grandmother has engaged him in a cordial discussion. How long will he be staying in Boston? Just for the night, he answers, swallowing back a smirk. Other inquiries follow. Where is he from? Has he been in the States long? He nearly chokes on his reply when, in his periphery, Regina slides her index finger deep between parted lips.

He's relieved when the stooped husband and wife get off on the next floor. The doors are barely closed before he has Regina trapped against the wall. "You," he murmurs with a voice rasping with acute want, "are very naughty."

She gives him an unapologetic smile. "Careful," she warns, fingers gliding down the buttons of his shirt, stopping at his belt. "There's a camera in here."

"I'm more than willing to give the poor, bored security guards a show," he murmurs as he presses into her.

Her eyelids flutter, breaths coming in hitched sighs. "Patience is a virtue."

"I'm not a virtuous man." Not for her. Not with the fevered air steeping between them. The moment becomes charged, thick as she seems to be on the threshold of relenting. He leans forward, down, and—

Ding.

She slips out from under his arm with a laugh that promises no good, tows him out of the elevator and down the hall by his belt loop. She doesn't let go as she pulls a keycard from somewhere on her person (he can guess where) and unlocks the door. Inside, he grasps her by the hips, yanks her into him—or attempts to, but she prevents him with a hand splayed against his chest.

She clucks her tongue, wags a finger at him. "Patience, eager boy."

The woman is ridiculous. It's been a week—seven dolorous days—and she's telling him to be patient? She's cruel, brutal. Unreasonable.

And she's leading him again by his belt toward the bed in the dark room. She shoves him back onto the mattress, and he thinks, perhaps—yes, he likes this kind of brutality. He lets out a low, arid laugh as she turns on a lamp. Just one—enough to illuminate her in muted sunset tones, but leaving the rest of the suite in shadows. She's so beautiful as she languidly unzips her dress, letting it drop to the floor, so enticing that he wants to reach for her, gather her into his lap and kiss her until they suffocate on his hunger, on hers.

"The things you do to me, Regina Mills." Glorious things. Superlative things. Things he never wants to end.

He loves this.

He loves her.

But that, too, is against their tacit rules of engagement, and he smothers the ripple of tenderness and yearning pooling around his heart as he pulls her down against him, covers her mouth with his.

Hours later, as they face each other in bed in the moonlit room, his fingers winding through her showerdamp hair, she tells him about the board meeting (as he knew she would). She recounts the subversive tactics of the members, the race to buy up stocks to keep her status of majority shareholder.

"They'll never be loyal to me," she says. The defeat in her tone is uncharacteristic, wrong, and he's indignant on her behalf.

He caresses her cheek with his thumb. "I'll be glad to have a conversation with all of them." He means every word, though he's well aware how pointless his offer is. (Not so pointless if he hadn't cut ties with his father.)

"You're sweet," she replies with a wistful smile as she threads her fingers in his. "But that won't change anything."

He sighs, but doesn't argue. Instead, he considers how he might exact his own brand of vengeance against her enemies. She's right. Even what he has in mind won't change a thing, but it will ease his sense of helplessness; it'll give him a measure of vindication.

He draws her into him, gives her a kiss, soft with his assurance that however the rest of the world views her, he is loyal.

She's not alone

A/N: Thanks for taking a gander! Drop me a line and let me know what you thought! XD