was stuck with you in a crate full of wood wool inside a steel warship on the way to God only knows where!
And he was so close… so terribly close! If he came even closer to me now, pressed to the very centre of my body, I did not know what would happen. I was afraid a lot might happen. I was even more afraid that nothing would happen at all.
‘Mr Linton? I am waiting.’
Slowly, tortuously slowly, I slid my legs apart. I could feel his hard thighs pressing against the insides of mine, forcing their way into the opening until they rested solidly there, in my midst.
‘That feels better,’ Mr Ambrose said contentedly. ‘Now we should be able to get going.’
Switch off your imagination, Lilly! Switch off your imagination now!
A moment later, I heard a dull thud as his shoulders collided with the lid of the crate with the force of a rampaging bull. Again and again, he struck out, upward and forward, making the crate rock violently, and needless to say, myself along with it.
There followed a few moments of panting and hammering in the dark. Finally, his attacks ceased, and he collapsed on top of me, breathing hard.
‘This is quite vexing, Mr Linton. I cannot get the infernal thing to budge.’
I had trouble finding my voice to answer him. My mind was in a hot, foggy place very far away.
‘Err… thing? Thing? What thing, Sir?’
‘The lid of course, Mr Linton. Stay focused.’
His hard muscles digging into me… his laboured breathing right above me, only inches away…
‘Focused… Focused, of course, Sir!’
‘What is the matter with you? You’re sweating, and shivering all over. Are you ill?’
His hips bucking into me… his breath hot on my overheated skin…
‘N-no, Sir. I simply find it rather hot in here. Don’t you, Sir?’
‘To be absolutely accurate, I could not care less about the climatic conditions in here, Mr Linton. We have to get that lid open.’
‘Why are you in such a hurry?’ My voice sounded rather dreamy. I felt rather dreamy all around. The last few minutes had been a… well, let us call it an ‘interesting experience’.
‘Don’t you see? Mr Linton, if we do not get the crate open, the ship might sail with us on board, and we would be stuck in here together until we reach our destination!’
I gazed up at the dark shape of the man above me. My eyes had grown used to the gloom by now, and I could make out his classical Greek profile, his strong arms and his dark, dark, sea-coloured eyes.
‘And that would be bad because…?’
There was a pause.
‘Mr Linton?’
‘Yes, Sir?’
‘I order you to focus!’
‘Yes, Sir!’
‘We must leave this crate before the ship leaves the harbour.’
‘Yes, Sir! As you say, Sir!’
It was in this moment that the ship shuddered, and we heard the steam engine start with a deep, menacing rumble. Slowly, very slowly, the ship started moving forward.
*~*~**~*~*
It was as if Mr Ambrose were a puppet, and somebody had cut his strings. The last tension that had held his panting body upright went out of him, and he collapsed on top of me, a hundred and seventy pounds of solid bone and muscle slamming me back into the wood wool. His heart was hammering like a deranged woodpecker against my chest, and his weight was almost keeping me from breathing.
But he wasn’t too heavy. Oh no. The words too heavy would have implied I wanted him to get off me. And I didn’t want that. How could I? How could I wish him farther away, now that his cheek rested against mine, and his mouth was so close, almost close enough to kiss…
Except that you don't want to kiss him, right? Because you’re a suffragette, and he’s a chauvinist, and you would never want anything to do with him! You would, for instance, not want to lift your head the few inches that separate you and softly press your lips on his, caressing, comforting…
No. I definitely didn’t want to do that. I would never even think of it.
Oh well, maybe I would think of it a little.
Unbidden, images attacked me out of the dark. And because of the dark, I had no other images to dispel them. They were images of Mr Ambrose and me in his office, clutched in a passionate embrace. They were images of me practically tackling him and throwing him over backwards. They were images of me wanting. Wanting him. Not just his stern lips, or his granite face,