“What is it that you wish to do to me, crécerelle?” he asks softly.

“Everything.” I blurt the word and then feel my cheeks heat.

He gives a husky growl of a laugh. “I do like the sound of that. May I make a suggestion?”

“Please.”

“We have all the time you’d like. Time tonight. Time tomorrow night, if you do not tire of me so quickly. You said you wished to proceed slowly. May I suggest that is where you begin?” He takes my hand and traces it down his jaw before kissing my fingertips. “Take your time and get to know me. Would you like that?”

“I would very much like that.”

“As would I.”

I have never slept with a man before. My experiences were not the sort that ended with a night in bed, and I was glad of that, having no desire to share my bed with anyone. Now I sleep on a thin blanket atop cold rock, and I would not trade it for the most luxurious bed in London.

I did as Nicolas suggested, and my simple—if comprehensive—explorations were all that was required to satisfy him, which leaves plenty of options for later. When I finished, he conducted a little exploration of his own, which I very much appreciated, having discovered there is great pleasure to be found in pleasing another.

After that, we fell into exhausted sleep as the sun began to rise beyond the cave opening. Now it is full daylight, and I am drowsily entwined with him as he sleeps. I use the opportunity to gaze upon him and enjoy the sight of him and to grieve, just a little.

Is it possible to grieve for someone you have not yet left? Before now, I would have rejected such a silly notion. But I am looking at him, and I am feeling more than it is safe to feel, and I am already seeing into the not-too-distant future when he will kiss my cheek and tell me how much he has enjoyed my company, and then we will part ways, never to meet again.

I am trying to focus on the moment. He is here, and I am here, and he is in no hurry to leave. I should not be borrowing grief and regret from the future. And yet, perhaps there is a purpose to such melancholy thoughts. I know an end is coming, and so I will enjoy every moment between now and then. Enjoy it and emblazon it upon my memory.

There is no future between us. It is odd for me to even consider such a possibility, as I never have with a man before. A true partner? A lover of long acquaintance? That is not Nicolas. It cannot be Nicolas. He is a wanted man, repaying a debt before he returns halfway around the world to the island he calls home, where he has family and a future. I am as much a visitor here, out of my time, separated from my world, and I must return there, where I have family and my own future.