Loveless silenced him with a kiss, grabbing him by the hair with one hand, the other soft against his cheek. She mashed her lips against his, hot, fierce, furious, her tongue already pressing against him, licking at his teeth, pushing inside his mouth. She reeked of brandy, tasted of liquid flame. He was against the wall before he realized, light-headed, reeling, its thump against the back of his head an odd and unwelcome intrusion from the rest of the world. A small voice somewhere in his head was comparing the kiss to Rasha, the cool softness of her lips in the rain, her gentle embrace. Loveless was a firestorm, her body rammed against his, her chest flattened against him, her thigh already rising between his. Her heat astonished him.

I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t believe this is happening.

She broke the kiss. ‘Room.’

Half-dragged by the hair, she pulled him down the hallway, trying each door until one opened. The chamber within was dark, cool blue moonlight creeping through a lattice window in the corner. She hauled him inside, the door barely swung closed before she was on him again, hands on his belt, one hand already past it, inside, reaching. He gasped, shuddered, aware his own hands were waving empty and useless in the air. Another kiss knocked him back against the wall while she worked on him, hands expert, while his befuddled brain tried to suggest actions beyond pawing at her back and moaning.

This is happening. This is really happening.

Her kiss faltered, then broke. She staggered back from him, one hand to her mouth, eyes wide, searching. Then she lurched for the chamber pot, dropped to her knees and vomited. Chel watched, stunned, still laid against the wall like meat, feeling his lips cooling in the room’s fireless air. It took him three attempts to speak.

‘Are you … all right?’

Her response was another heave, wet splashes from the pot.

Was it me? Did I do this?

He said nothing.

She retched and puked twice more, then it subsided, and she fell back, one hand wiping at her mouth. Even in the bleached moonlight, she looked pale, sweating, shaking.

‘God’s cock,’ she croaked, ‘what’s wrong with me?’

***

‘Y’see …’ Lemon said, then trailed off. ‘Fuckballs.’

Foss started, belched, then sat back in the booth. ‘Yup.’

Chel was supporting Loveless under one arm, edging back to the booth in a desperate attempt to avoid attention. It appeared to be working; they were two paces away, and Lemon and Foss had yet to notice them.

‘The thing about that wee Nort, right, she’s not … She hasn’t … She’s a wanker, that’s what.’

‘Nothing wrong with that, right, friend?’

‘No, right, exactly. That’s my point. She’s not a wanker. But she should be. Might fix her fucken … attitude. There any brandy left?’

Foss belched again.