A Captain's Folly

He was never going back to her.

He'd left in a bit of a blur and told her something about the property he'd inherited from his uncle needing serious repair work. While technically true, he'd sold those buildings nearly a year ago; their filthy, rotting walls were someone else's problem now. Good riddance. Some mouldy old houses, which would take more money to renovate than they could ever dream of making, or enough whisky, opium and women to last a lifetime? Captain Wood knew which he would choose every time – and he had remarkably few regrets.

He was sitting on the balcony of the penthouse he'd been renting for the past three weeks, enjoying the sun setting over the London horizon with a generous glass of Scotch. He'd only been awake for an hour, after a long night drinking, playing cards, and allowing himself to be ravaged by an exquisitely tipsy Miss Weston. (Or was it Walton?)

He'd been invited to dine with his good friend Peter in two hours' time, but was in no state to be thinking about getting ready just yet. The Scotch was just beginning to work its way into his swirling thoughts. There was a low hum of melancholy coming from somewhere around his chest, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

A snapshot of an unsettling memory flickered across his eyes as his mind drifted back to the sex last night. He'd closed his eyes momentarily, forgetting where he was as he bathed in the pleasure of Miss Weston's tongue, only to wake up confused, aching for something he wasn't getting. Miss Weston was an accomplished woman in many ways – she played the piano like a virtuoso, spoke four languages fluently and knew her way perfectly around a cunt – but somehow he couldn't bring himself to want her as much as he felt he should.

There was only one woman he could ever remember feeling at home with.

Miss Brunswick had been something of an awakening for him. He'd been with countless women before, and rather more men than he felt comfortable admitting, but there was something different about her. The way she carried herself, her tenacious spirit, her assets (the land, of course)... She was far more than the sum of her not-unimpressive parts. As much as he'd tried to keep her at a distance, she'd seeped in through his every pore and taken him hostage.

The first night he'd noticed her was at a ball two towns across from his childhood home. She was dancing with her fiancé, but he hadn't noticed that; he noticed the way her red curls fell so effortlessly over her cheeks and the way her smiling eyes reflected the candlelight. He made hundreds of strange, tiny observations about the intricate details of her face, but barely remembered to ask her name. They shared uncountably many shy glances, just enough dances not to seem scandalous, and a fiery embrace in the cloakroom. She gave him an address to write to, but he never dared put pen to paper.

Two months later, they met again at another ball, but this time there was no holding either of them back; Miss Brunswick broke off her engagement that evening after one too many glasses of wine, and the two of them passed most of the night blissfully ignoring the raised eyebrows and disapproving glares as they allowed themselves to truly connect.

At the end of the night, she'd brought him home and blown his naïve little mind.

Sweet memories of that very night still gave him a disconcerting thrill. He found himself on the edge of his seat as he remembered the first time her finger had slipped inside him and dragged its way up to his clit. The phantom sensation of the memory was driving him wild; if only it could be more substantial. He briefly considered sliding his hand under the soft cotton of his underwear just to feel something real, but his table and chair were in full view of the neighbours' balconies. Dreams and ghosts would have to do for now.

He drained his glass of Scotch and poured some more. He couldn't go back now anyway, though, could he? How could a woman he'd slighted so terribly ever want to lay eyes on him again, let alone pick up where they left off? Besides, she wanted to marry, and he didn't trust her not to tie him down.

Oh, but the way she'd fucked him the last night they'd spent together...

A beautiful night of wonder and exploration; fused in harmony, they were an ever-evolving tangle of limbs. Bodies rubbing together, sweaty and dripping, became the joining of souls. When she came, lying beneath him as he sat on her face, there was a hot, salty gush; he stayed between her legs, inhaling her scent and lapping her up, even as he too began to shake and cry out, his voice muffled by her gorgeously wet cunt.

It wasn't just the sex. In fact, they'd spent many afternoons and evenings together without it – but then, the physical act isn't the only part. They'd shared glances which could turn a pile of ashes into a roaring blaze; sometimes, the merest brushing of their arms as they played a duet on the piano was enough to send a jolt of electric longing through both of them. Even their most mundane conversations were dripping with an intense, insatiable hunger for each other.

The Captain looked at his pocket watch, suddenly realising how much time had passed. It was definitely time to start getting ready. Peter Fields was a most particular man when it came to punctuality, probably because that was the only area in which he could be considered remotely trustworthy. With a sigh, he rose from his chair and plodded back inside to get dressed.

Finally dressed in a dashing suit after "just one more" glass of Scotch, the Captain was only just on time for the carriage Peter had sent for him. He hopped in, sighing as he reclined back into the leather seat. Something wasn't right. He opened the window.

"Excuse me – could we make a detour? I believe I left my hat at the Red Lion Inn earlier."

The driver grunted his assent, and Captain Wood's lips relaxed into a satisfied smile. The journey to the station wasn't far, and he was too lost in his thoughts for it to take very long. As the carriage bounced over the uneven cobbled streets, drawing ever nearer to the inn, he forced himself to release the breath he'd been holding for the past minute. He didn't like to be dramatic, but it really did feel like a now or never situation.

As the driver drew to a halt, he fumbled in his purse for a few coins. The door got caught as he tried to make his escape, requiring an inelegant shove to force it open.

"Here," he said as he stumbled out of the carriage. He pressed the coins into the driver's hand. "I'm sorry – please send my sincerest apologies to Peter."

He watched the carriage hurry away until it was safely around the corner, before ducking into the Red Lion, where he would be able to arrange a carriage for a much longer distance.

"Oh, Miss Brunswick – I do hope you haven't forgotten me."