WARNING: This chapter is M-ish in content, though I'm striving for a tamed and suggestive style. If you're easily offended just leap on to the next one. If you enjoy juicy detailed descriptions, just leap to the next one too (you'll probably be disappointed).

July, 27th

John:

We kiss and laugh and hug and kiss some more, spinning in a strange waltz to which only the plaques of long dead people are witness. I pull away a little to look down at Margaret, my Margaret, into her dark smiling eyes, her plump pink lips, her soft pale skin now flushed. Her sadness seems to have evaporated and to have taken away mine with it.

The sun is going down and it's quite late, really, but I'd like to stay a little longer here - in this place and time. I run my fingers through her hair, shiny jet black and heavy, while her hands explore my face, ears, head and neck, and it's chaste and erotic at the same time.

Margaret laughs and says "spongy!", which is not exactly a word that was on my mind, and she says my beard is spongy, and yes, that she likes it very much but later confesses she would love just anything on me. This is a novelty, I'm not used to receiving compliments on my looks. We kiss more, and more, gasping and laughing and touching, while time just seems to sprint by.

A while later I really think it's time to take this lady back home, obviously against my wishes and hopefully against hers too. But it's late, I'm fully aroused and... well, the proper thing to do is to stop right here. Rushing things is stupid and I don't want to ruin anything. Not without some effort I disentangle myself and let the voice of reason speak. "It's late and you must be tired, blah blah blah", hoping she won't feel I'm standing her up or regretting anything.

Her face is mock serious, frowning and nodding as if she was making a very cerebral decision. She raises from the seat, tidies her clothes and hair, and clears her throat, theatrically regaining composure as if she had just stumbled on a cracked tile. She's really funny, I didn't know this about her.

- "You're right, it's quite late," and looks up at me, assessing, "I, yes, I'm a little tired. Maybe I should go home. Where are you staying?"

-"My brother-in-law owns a little apartment he uses when he comes to London for business", I reply.

She nods and heads for the street. "Let's get going", she says taking hold of my hand, "I'll take a taxi" and then faces me, wrapping me with her arms, crushing me lightly, burrowing her face in my chest, not letting me go.

A little later I hail a cab and open the door for her. As she climbs into it she whispers on my ear, "Come with me", and sits and looks up and bites her lip and it's so irresistible that I need to restrain myself from diving over her. I sit composedly as any two pair of people would in a cab but the moment it pulls out the curbside she turns over me and kisses me wildly. I try not to get ahead of myself here but it's difficult.

She goes back to her seat and covers a very girlish giggle with her hand.

-"I've always wanted to kiss someone in a cab", she says.

-"Was it good?" I ask, a wide grin taking over my face.

She laughs while shrugging a little and bending her head lower, probably a little embarrassed, but then looks up at me again and this time it's me, my mouth the one seeking, hungry and thirsty for hers, the skin of my face just needing the touch of hers, my hands learning the silky and solid curves of her shoulders, her arms, her back.

We arrive to our destination, her destination, her home, and I wonder if I should stay in the taxi and go to my place, but to my hesitation she simply points to the sidewalk with her head and I get out with her, to Margaret's home.

This is all so crazy.

Margaret:

This is crazy but somehow feels right. This cannot possibly be wrong. I know, it's strange... I've offered this man my money, my trust and my heart. If I lose, I'll lose everything, my pride included. But tonight, winner takes all.

I hold John's hand and he kisses my temple tenderly as we ride the elevator up to my flat, while I mentally thank Henry. He once said one must always have condoms in one's house to attract passion (he put it in very feng shui terms but I think he was pulling my leg), and left a few in the bathroom cabinet. I'm not sure we'll need them tonight; we could keep talking all night long and it would be, surely, just right.

It's as if from the moment we stepped out of the restaurant early afternoon we've been going with the flow. On and on and on.

John:

We arrive to Margaret's apartment and I don't want to stare and appraise but it seems to be gorgeous and have a great view. "Like its inhabitant", I chuckle inwardly.

Margaret kicks off her sandals and rubs her heels. "Would you like to eat something?", she asks while going to an adjoining kitchen where everything is steely and new. "I'm starving, how about a sandwich?" and she starts opening doors and taking things out. She washes her hands and I hand her a towel, and then inspect the contents of the fridge and pull out two little bottles of Stella Artois.

-"Just for you, I don't drink", she says over her shoulder while slicing tomatoes. I remember the orange juice and the non-champagne, and the fact that I've never seen her actually drinking any alcoholic beverage.

-"Why not?"

-"I don't like it", she shrugs. "But Edith and Ian do and I always have some for them", her nimble hands keep putting together our sandwiches. "I'd like some apple juice, please".

I've yearned for so long for this politeness addressed to me that it almost pained me, and now I have it. Something seems to expand within my chest, near my throat, but I don't dwell on it. The present is far too interesting and I'll think of it later.

We bring the sandwiches and drinks on trays onto the seating area. Margaret sits and tucks her right foot under and her left foot toes barely touch the floor. She has only removed her shoes, her summery sandals, yet it's a step toward nakedness my mind registers as huge. It is incredible how much longer a leg looks when it includes a view of the heel, and the instep, and the toes.

The marvel is that now I can openly look, admire, enjoy. That's what a kiss, or two, or many, allow you to do.

We haven't kissed in about ten minutes, the longest we've gone since our mouths met each other in the park, and the mood has changed a little. I finish my sandwich and stand up.

-"Mind if I take a look?", I state an obvious intention.

-"Be my guest", she's still eating her sandwich. "Are you still hungry? Would you like a piece of fruit or another sandwich?" my perfect hostess asks.

Matter of fact I could eat an elephant but there are other priorities right now. "I'm alright, thank you" I reply.

There's a nice painting on the wall and I approach to it. It's of two girls wearing striped bath suits near a swimming pool in a summer day. I look at it closely; it's not the work of an amateur painter, that's evident, and it's quite pleasing. The girls look a lot like each other, maybe they're sisters, and to my untrained eye the style seems timeless... it could have been painted in the forties or sixties or last year.

Margaret is standing by my side now. I inspect the face of the girl on the left, the one with darker hair, more closely.

-"Is this you?" It sounds a little ridiculous when said aloud but the girl really looks like a rounder faced Margaret.

Margaret nods.

-"You're the first one to notice", she says quietly and lightly touching my arm. "Well done", she adds but sounds a little wistful.

-"Who's the other one?" It's nosy but I hope she won't mind.

-"My birth mother. It's a long story I'd rather not tell tonight", she smiles and cocks her head but there's sadness lingering in her eyes.

My left hand goes to her back and let my right hand's forefinger start on the bridge of her nose and slide across the little crevices and plains and ridges of her cheeks, jaw, neck, shoulders and and the rest of the hand joins it for the arms. Her skin erupts in goosebumps under my hands and her own hands start an exploration of their own around my waist and up my ribs and back, but stops and lowers her hands to her sides.

She looks me intently, her dark and mysterious eyes searching into mine questioningly. I imagine which question is that, the same I knew that would come up anytime and it's here, it's one of three and a half million pounds and honor and trust and pride, but mostly, of love. And I'm ready to voice it.

-"Margaret", her name is the most precious word of my vocabulary, "I love you. I've loved you for so long", to my surprise my eyes flood and I throw my head back and blink so tears won't escape while I hold her tighter, "Please tell me, do I have to leave now?"

Margaret shakes her head as she leans her face softly to me, and I think she'll kiss me but instead closes her eyes and the tip of her nose slightly touches my chest, where she inhales with all her might.

-"Your smell", she pauses and inspires again, "has driven me crazy from the first time it came to me", her eyelids are heavy as she opens her eyes to peer up at me, "at your party, so long ago. It was intoxicating me while you were talking about I don't know what, and I was afraid you'd notice", she says and is back to my chest, where my heart is pounding with such force that I can barely process this unexpected confession. Her fingers start unbuttoning my shirt, for nose exploration I suppose while a little smile dances in her lips, but waits for my consent.

Which I willingly bestow, of course, and then I do some unbuttoning of my own, and my nose and my mouth and my ears and eyes and my whole skin, blood, muscles and bones, heart and mind and soul join all together in the exploration of the woman - nymph - woman before me. A little later most of our clothes lay discarded on the seats and floor and Margaret takes me by the hand to her bedroom, lights a little lamp shedding soft minimal light, and seats on the bed. She takes off the rest of her clothes and unhooks her bra (not one with a front clasp, I hazily notice) and tosses it aside exclaiming "That bra was killing me!" and I would reply in jest but I can't.

She is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. Every particle of me is in awe, in marvel of her voluptuousness, of her being rounder and wider and more solid and more real than any tenacious attempt of my imagination could conjure. The ivory tone of her skin make the curves of her body stand out against the dimness of the room like a mysterious water flower floating on a dark stream.

I'm naked too, my nakedness rougher and earthlier and darker than her own luminous one. I extend one hand and pull her up to her feet and to me; the wondrous volumes of her chest softly graze my own, my hands slide down her slim waist and wide hips, and her, oh Lord, her ass fills my hands just perfectly. Her hands explore my body, intent on learning it by heart I suddenly think, and stirring me into a higher level of alertness. We start a dance, a soundless rhythm that flows from us both, a delicate harmony it took us so long to discover.

Her arms round my neck and her fingers playfully caress the space between my shoulder blades, a spot in my own body I can feel but I cannot reach. Her foot slides up my calf and her inner thigh grazes the side of my upper leg, a wordless invitation to a place of heat and moist and wonder that has been on my mind for far too long (too reckless, too unwise).

-"First time?" I ask just in case. She shakes her head as her white, long, beautiful leg wraps over my buttocks. "Up!" I say softly and her other leg joins it, ankles crossing behind me, encircling me and I'm holding her up, the weight I remember so well, finally, again in my arms.

She rests her forehead against mine and closes her eyes and a very timid smile pulls up the corners of her lips.

-"Just first time in a long time" she answers and looks at me, as I don't think anyone's ever looked at me before, with trust, and warmth, and God, yes, love.

There are times in one's personal sexual history, milestones in which one is inclined to believe everything one has lived so far, every year filled with the good and the bad, with pain and joy, every failure and success experienced, actually meant a build up to one prime sexual encounter. When everything I've lived and learned was meant to make me the man I am tonight, a man worthy of Margaret Hale's love.

The whole night is an interweaving of foreplay, orgasmic ecstasy and afterglow to which beginning and ending are not really distinguishable points. Our bodies continue the conversation we've held during the day in their own language, one of understanding and agreement, celebration and exploration. Of textures of skin: smooth, taut, soft, callused, hidden in secret folds, warm and moist and expectant. Of textures of hair: smooth, spongy, curly, wiry. Of muscle bunching, turning and stretching. The finger pad's memory of jutting bones and joints and cartilages. The tasting route from the visible to the invisible, the dry and wet and silky secret places of a sweet delicate body that welcomes and engloves mine perfectly, so perfectly that I know that there is not going to be anybody else, ever.

I lived thirty-six years and a month to this night, this definite night. Whatever comes next in my life is being decided now, and it's with Margaret.

Margaret:

John tries sweetly but pointlessly to let me sleep, just to awake me five minutes later with his strokes and kisses. I don't want to sleep so I join him or I start on my own... it's just... wonderful, amazing, but true. This is real. This is right.

To my surprise we keep talking, sparingly, but we do. Of my gay ex boyfriend, of his unfaithful ex wife. Of my studies and diploma, of his knowledge of engines repair. We talk about ourselves, of our misunderstandings and of falling in love with each other.

I feel I could keep talking and making love to John for ever and always.

The sun's rays leak through the curtains and awake me. My head is on John's strong shoulder, my face on the crook of his neck, my arm crossing his chest, my leg possessively trapping his. His breathing is very quiet and I guess he's awaken too. I raise my head slowly and meet his eyes, gray and brilliant and wide open.

-"So, it wasn't a dream", my voice is thick with sleep, or lack thereof.

His free hand cradles my jaw and he kisses my forehead.

-"I have to get up", he says quietly.

He obviously must go, but my heart sinks at the prospect of his absence. I raise and sit on the bed hugging my knees and he sits too. In the morning light his body is even more glorious, or is it, perhaps, that I judge it by the things that body did (does) to mine?

He flexes one leg and dangles the other to the floor, his chest facing me. I think we're going to have a conversation and suddenly I'm a bit wary, just a little tad insecure. Not that I would admit it, of course.

-"Margaret, there are a few things I want to do now, in no particular order", he says softly while taking my hand and his thumb massages my knuckles. "One", and his thumb goes to my thumb's knuckle, "I would like to have a shower. Two", his thumb moves onto the next knuckle, "I'd like to go save my business. Third," I'm suspecting there are five items in this list, "I want to make love to you again. Fourth, I'd like to make breakfast to you, and last, but not least," the thumb rubs circles on my pinky's little knuckle, "I want to ask you to marry me."

This last one comes as a surprise even after all the events of the past twenty-four hours, I admit. My eyes widen and I smile, more like a giggle.

-"Unfortunately," he pats the front of his chest and legs as if he were wearing clothes instead of being completely naked, "I don't have a ring with me so it's more of a statement of intentions", my giggle is open laughter now and his white teeth contrast magically and beautifully against the dark mass of his beard, "Breakfast and shower can be done straight away", and his smile embodies the charm I fought off so stubbornly when we first met.

We get up and have a quick shower (admittedly difficult but time is pressing), and then get dressed (I would steal his shirt but he doesn't have anything else to wear), and go to the kitchen to make breakfast. Toasts, coffee, yoghurt, fruits, freshly squeezed juice, I'm starving! I could eat it all.

John eats efficiently. Matter of fact I don't think I've ever seen anyone eating so fast. He pauses a moment when he notices my gaze and smiles boyishly.

-"I love you, Margaret, I love you so much. I am tempted not to accept the loan" my stomach drops at this, "because that would keep me in Milton and you're here. And I don't care about your money, I care about you. But at the same time" he continues, "I would be pretty much useless bankrupt, so I'll make sure the Mills are up and running fast so I can repay you, to the last penny."

The practical questions start popping up in my head. How are we going to manage, where are we going to live? What life is like when there's a big loan of money in between? Will I stay here and he'll be there? I must be frowning while I think this because John tilts up my chin with his forefinger.

-"We'll sort things out, you'll see", and his broad, huge smile is so confident and contagious that my face just mirrors it.