She gave him a warm smile - and then leaned in and kissed his cheek.

"You are helping," she whispered. "I don't know how - it's not like you're particularly well-versed in emotional support," she added a good-natured joke. "But you are. I eat with you. I feel better about my body. I– I feel good near you."

He wrapped his healthy arm around her shoulder, and she leaned into him. She pushed her nose into his neck and inhaled his smell - this time intentionally.

"I still don't get it," he said pensively, and Viola peeked at his face. "You do know you're fit, right? So why would you worry what you look like in bed?" he asked in a confused tone. "I'm not arguing, I reckon if you say that's the aggro, then that's the aggro. But why would you need to 'monitor' yourself?"

Viola sighed and tucked a runaway curl behind her ear.

"Because that's just the nature of my disorder. Intellectually, I know I can eat whatever I want and I don't need to lose weight, or that you won't care if I have folds on my waist if I bend sideways - but I just can't stop thinking about it."

"What folds?!" he asked, his eyebrows jumping up in bewilderment - and then he glanced down her body. "You do realise if you're bending in any way, I won't be looking at your waist!" Viola snorted. "No, Vi, seriously," he continued, "you properly have nothing to worry about here!"

"You're missing the point, love," she said. "The reality doesn't matter in this case. It's all in my head."

He was quiet again, and Viola slowly lifted her hand and splayed it on his chest. He'd gotten significantly 'furrier' with years, and suddenly the temptation was just too strong. It was an odd experience: as if some sort of tingling warmth was spreading through her body, from where her palm lay over his heartbeat, and then into her forearm, and then upper arm. With the warmth, came awareness: of the sleeve of his tee, soft against her skin; of where their bodies connected, his side and her stomach; his hard hip, half of it separated from her body by his pants, and half of it pressed into the bare skin of her thigh; his leg, warm and hairy against hers. Something sweetly pulled in her stomach, under her navel, and then the achy tension spilled between her legs.

You just told the man having sex is an issue for you, Viola. And now you're squeezing your knees because suddenly it doesn't seem like an issue at all. Talk about wishy-washy. Or willy-nilly. Or a cocktease.

"We should try to sleep," he said and yawned - and Viola jolted.

The contrast between her lustful thoughts and his complete ignorance of them was so jarring that she gave out a small shocked laugh.

"And honestly, Vi, I know you said it didn't matter, but I properly don't care what lingerie you're wearing," he said with another yawn. "That pink thing you had the first day was ace, of course, but I fancy you like this too." He looked down at her. "And yes, your hair kind of looks like a mop." He smirked. "A properly sexy mop."

"Well, thank you," Viola muttered.

"But seriously," he said and slid down the bed, pulling her after him. "Maybe we should just share a bottle of Jameson, and see where it gets us."

Viola rose on one elbow and stared at him sarcastically.

"Obviously, if you feel like it. I'm not trying to ruffie you, or something," he added nonchalantly.

"Darling," she said, "it's you I'd worry for after that bottle of Jameson. Remember I had two beers with John, was feeling dicky, and I still almost shagged you in your truck. Imagine if I had a bed at my disposal in that state."

He chuckled, but then gave her a thoughtful look. "But isn't it sort of– I don't know... but if you're drunk, it's not exactly like you're fully agreeing on it."

"That's wonderfully progressive of you, love," Viola said and brushed her hand to his jaw. "And sweet. And yes, it's not the same as doing it sober. It sometimes feels a bit odd in the morning."

"Then we aren't doing it," he said, and rubbed his cheek to her palm. "We'll just figure something else out. Maybe on Monday, after dinner. If you're in the mood."

Viola curled her fingers into his beard - and dragged them along his jawline. His eyes closed, and he grinned.

"This feels nice," he murmured.

"I like the beard," she said, and he peeked at her with one eye.

"Yeah?"

She nodded.

"Good," he said. "I hate shaving."

"I'm aware," she said - and then on some sort of impulse, she leaned in and kissed his jaw.

And then she placed a small bite on it - and then another one.

"Vi..."

She felt him inhale sharply. A delicious shudder ran through her body - and then, of course, she felt guilty.

"Sorry, I–" she started - a bloody cocktease, Viola, that is exactly what you are - but choked on her words because his right arm, which she was half lying on, wrapped around her waist, and he pulled her in forcefully. She gasped.

"Listen, Vi, let's just get something clear here, alright?" he said in a sharp tense voice. "How about you stop apologising if you do something you enjoy?"

"But–"

"What?" His tone was unpleasant. "But you won't shag me after this, is that what you were going to say? I know that. You've just explained to me how difficult sex is for you. I'm not going to lose my shit just because I don't get my end away. I dare to hope I have more decency than that. OK?"

"OK," she answered in a small voice.

"I might not experiment with this sort of thing, like your previous husband," he continued sneering, "and I might be just a normal bloke who just does what comes naturally, like you said, but I'd rather a woman in my bed enjoyed some copping off without an actual shag, than perform for me, yeah?"

So, he did listen - and absorbed and processed information. It was easy to forget how clever he actually was.

She had it all planned, really. Well, perhaps, not planned, but thoroughly imagined and fantasised about. On Monday they would be formally dressed, perhaps he'd wear that black suit she'd seen him in on the day of their previous, unsuccessful first date. And she'd kept changing her mind: she could wear her favourite black sheath dress, or she had those silk cuffed culottes she could wear with her lace, open back top. And she could just see them coming back to his cottage after dinner, or perhaps, even before they went, they suddenly just couldn't wait anymore - and she imagined he'd pick her up and drop her backside on his dining room table, and– Yes, she'd had it all planned: the positions, the tricks to enhance his experience, and how impressed he'd be, and ask her, gasping for breath, "Blimey, Vi, what was that, right after I flipped you over?! That was brilliant!"

Except, she suddenly realised, nowhere in those lovely plans of hers had she thought what she would actually feel on that dining room table.

Viola moved closer to him - and then, pushing through hesitation, and a millisecond of painful, anxious doubt - she picked up his duvet, pulled it over her shoulders, and straddled him. His eyes widened, in pure shock, and Viola exhaled through her rounded lips, steadying herself. She leaned forward, splaying both her hands on his chest, her arms straight. He was sprawled under her - large, hot, alive - and she raked her curled fingers down his torso, onto his stomach. His body was heavy, toned, but not sculpted - from physical labour, and swimming, and his rowing. There was no six-pack, no vanity muscles. A normal bloke, indeed. The thick line of his black hair went from his sternum down, and Viola trailed her fingers along it. Under her pelvis, she could feel his arousal, it always took him no time at all - and she looked up and met his eyes.

"Don't move," she whispered.

His chest rose in a sharp inhale, and she felt his whole body quake under her. His eyes shone feverishly, and she could see him lick his bottom lip.

"You'll jerk your shoulder," she added. As if either of them would buy into this explanation.

She then leaned slowly - savouring the anticipation - and kissed his jaw. He turned his head slightly, giving her more access. She kissed more, along his neck, over the pulse beating frantically on his throat. She opened her mouth, greedy for more of his taste and his heat, and the tip of her tongue brushed at a long tendon of his strong neck.

"Vi..."

His right palm lay on her thigh, on the outside, just above her knee - and slid higher, painstakingly slowly. She shuddered, and moaned into the muscle between his neck and his shoulder. She ground her hips into him, and he made a low hoarse sound in his throat. The tips of his fingers slid under the hem of her - his - pants, Viola moaned again - and then his palm was gone from her skin. Viola froze, somehow so muddled that she couldn't tell what changed, but painfully aware of missing something terribly. And then his hand lay on the side of her neck, and he tenderly brushed his thumb to her throat. Her eyes had been closed, she realised, and she slowly opened them and looked down at him.

"Vi, I–"

She suddenly wasn't at all interested in what he had to say. She carefully moved her hands on the pillow on two sides of his head and kissed him firmly.

Kissing Rhys was just so very easy.

And of course, it only took about fifteen seconds for him to get carried away and to forget about his shoulder. She felt him jerk, probably to lift his left hand, and then he twisted his face away from her, and hissed through his gritted teeth. Professional and personal empathy kicked in right away, and Viola sat up straighter, studying his face.

"We really should stop," she said, and he grabbed her left thigh roughly.

"No!" he barked, his face still twisted in pain. "No, let's just–" He softened his tone. "Maybe, we can do something that won't hurt. Maybe, if I–"

"Maybe, we should tie you to the bed," Viola offered nonchalantly, and he stopped and gawked at her.

"Are you serious?" There was a tinge of hope in his tone, she didn't fail to notice. He gave her a doubtful look. "Did I kill the mood?"

His mood was obviously very much intact - Viola's backside could vouch for it - and his disgruntled, slightly mad expression somehow made her feel only more excited. She was feeling so lush, she noticed with surprise: unquestionably randy, like a teen, and also cheeky, and greedy. And she didn't give a damn about what she wore and what she looked like! Her whole body felt both languished and strong - and hot, so hot! As if she'd taken a scorching bath, or had the best warm-up before a dance routine ever!

"I'll do everything," she said - and his eyebrows jumped up. "You just stay where you are," she added and tilted her head, busy strategising what to kiss next.

"What?" he asked with the most flabbergasted expression on his face she'd ever seen.

And then Viola dove under the duvet, backing up, shifting lower on the bed.

"Vi!"

He, no doubt, was going to move, first to see what she was doing, and of course to participate - and she stretched her hand and pressed it firmly into his sternum, pushing him down to bed, while kissing his stomach. He spat out a few jumbled words, which she didn't understand - or cared much about - because suddenly all that mattered was the feeling of his body under her, and his taste, and... Rhys. Just Rhys.

"We– I don't– have any condoms here," he rasped out, and Viola licked his left hip bone.

"We won't need them today," she said, suddenly absolutely sure that it was for the best.

No condoms meant more deliberation, which would work perfectly, she thought - not that she could think particularly clearly. He needed to just give in and stop trying to move - and she knew exactly how she wanted to get him to that state.