Still there is something that keeps him a few steps behind her, something beyond the fact that, with no ship needing him, he is at loose ends. It is, perhaps, the easy way she smiles. She offers a smile to most anyone, though it is often shy and tentative, unsure of its welcome. Sometimes he is certain that it the strange grace she possesses that defies her figure and features, but is there nonetheless, lighting on her face as if she were lit from within.

He cannot name it and does not truly wish to know its name. To know would be to quantify this strange passion and he has no wish to do that. He wishes only to slake it and be done, to rid himself of this vision of her and go about his life and will Hornblower to do the same. Instead, he opens the door to the rooming house for her, the silence and oppressive smell a clear sign that her mother is away. She thanks him and offers to fix him something, to cater to him, and he can do no more than shake his head and reach for her, urging her toward the lounge and the threadbare sofa therein.

She is soft and pliant, built like a woman, and his hands find the lush swells of her body easily, tugging at the old material of her dress to taste the skin of her neck and shoulder. She tastes like soap and powder and sweat, the sign of a woman who spends her days doing instead of sitting, instead of waiting. It intoxicates him the way spirits cannot, and his tongue takes it from her flesh as his hands unfasten her dress, dragging the fabric downward to expose her to the faint afternoon light and his eyes.

Maria makes noises, soft and pliant and supple like her skin, half-hearted protests coupled with pleas and hungry gasps. She arches into him, her breasts bared to his mouth, nipples rosy and pink and inviting him to taste. They are like sugar-sweets, melting against his tongue as he licks and sucks at them, turning from one to the other with lips and tongue and teeth. She gasps again as he catches one with between his jaws, teasing it with a slow scraping motion. Her body writhes beneath him, bowing like a sail to the wind.

He is aware that they may not be alone for long, but that doesn't nothing to keep him from stripping her clothes from her. He wants to see all of her, wants to see every inch of flesh flushed from arousal and want. Her eyes are closed, but her lips are parted and her legs spread just enough for him to see the hint of pink at the base of the dark hairs that serve to protect her. He angles her foot over his shoulder and separates her legs, moving in to taste her again, this time his tongue dipping into hot wetness that tastes like nothing and everything, tastes simply like Maria.

Her voice strains as she tries to stay silent, lest anyone walk in or return home. He knows there is danger in this and it heightens his pleasures, no doubt heightens her own. She is vocal in her way, stumbling words and uncertainty, and he knows that, if she has done this before, it has been quick and perfunctory and a slaking of need, nothing of this, of pleasure. He resolves himself, his tongue quick and deep, wanting to bring her to higher and higher until she comes crashing down around him.

The flood of her arousal comes at him, and he laps at her like a cat, his tongue stealing the taste of her and swallowing her down. She is mewling, a cat herself, purring and stretching in that confusion between desire and sensitivity, to get closer and pull away. He gives her no time to decide which way she will go as he climbs up her body, shedding his trousers easily, shoving them down to expose himself to the too warm air before sinking into depths warmer still.

She groans, all sense of propriety long gone, her voice harsh and thick. He hears the echoes of pain and need in equal measure and slows his own body, his demanding thrusts calming until she is used to his girth, his depth. It seems forever, though he knows it is hardly any time at all before she is moving against him, her earlier resistance gone, changed to a stronger sense of desperation. She grinds against him, lost and abandoned, as he thrusts into her. The sofa trembles beneath them and his muscles strain from supporting himself, quivering as she touches his arms, tugs at his shirt and feels his skin beneath. She speaks his name, his given name, in whispered gasps, begging for more, begging him to completion, begging for everything and nothing as he spills himself deeper still.

He eases free of her body and stands, righting himself quickly. She lies there, dazed and blinking up at him, still lost in the moment. He hands her dress to her, noting that she will have to repair the seams at the shoulders, the threads pulled loose by his big hands. "You should go to your room. Hornblower will return soon."