Mercy couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t.

There had been the shame of her incorrect presumption, then the shock of Andromeda’s hand on her arm, and after that there was only the earthy scent of tea-warmed breath and the slide of a luscious mouth over hers.

Her death wouldn’t be an honorable one; her tombstone would read Here lies Mercy Alston, asphyxiated in the throes of lust. Not honorable, but she’d imagined many ways to die and this seemed like the best way to do it—and one she hadn’t ever thought possible.

She’d been trying to remain calm, to hold off panicking because the woman who had undone her resolve after so many years was in her bed. Her body hadn’t complied, really—she’d burned with both embarrassment and need as she stared up into the darkness trying to gather her wits. She’d felt a bit of relief mixed in with her regret when she learned that Andromeda seemed to have her sights on some man. That was how love worked for women like her, or perhaps just for her in particular.

The painful words of her last, and most resounding, heartbreak still rang in her ears.

“And how did you suppose we would spend a life together? You think some pretty words will provide for me? You think no one will gossip?”

She wanted to press her hands to her ears, to bite her cheek at the awful memory; she could still hear the ripping of the packet of letters, smell the flames that had engulfed her years of words.

This was why she didn’t want to feel. This was why she’d been relieved, in a way, to be mistaken about Andromeda’s attentions. She’d thought that she’d made an early escape from that inevitability. But then Andromeda’s hands…her mouth…

Andromeda’s lips moved over hers gently, so featherlight that the brush of them shouldn’t have made Mercy’s thighs press together and her nipples grow taut. But each little brush dredged up hidden feeling in her, like the lobstermen hauling up their cages from the briny deep. In the darkness, there was just the solid presence of Andromeda above her and the warm sweetness of her mouth.

Mercy took a deep breath through her nose, then pushed up into the kiss. It was the wrong decision, she knew it even as her elbows pressed down into the scratchy ticking of the mattress and her tongue tangled with Andromeda’s.

There was a moan in the darkness, and then Andromeda’s other hand was at Mercy’s shoulder, pressing her down into the pillow. Her mouth clung to Mercy’s as she gave in to the pressure and sank down into the bed. Andromeda made low, hungry groans as she kissed her, noises that sent unspeakable pleasure thrumming through Mercy’s veins.

“I want to see you, but I don’t trust you not to change your mind while I search about for the flint,” she said against Mercy’s mouth.

Arousal flared anew, higher and hotter than Mercy had thought imaginable.

“You’ll just have to use those hands you’re always boasting of,” Mercy replied, and was pleased to hear Andromeda’s scandalized laughter.

“So you’re one of those,” Andromeda said, sitting back so she straddled Mercy’s thighs. Mercy froze for a moment, remembering their first encounter.

“One of what?” she asked in a worried voice, and heard Andromeda huff in annoyance.

“A missish little thing who was just waiting to be caught in the dark with an ardent admirer to show her naughty side,” Andromeda said. Her weight shifted, and she nudged her knee between Mercy’s thighs. Her hands were moving, cupping Mercy’s face, then sliding down her neck. Andromeda’s fingertips traced Mercy’s collarbones, then tugged at the neck of the loose chemise she’d worn to bed. She pulled slowly, slowly, and Mercy could feel every fiber of the rough material graze the taut tips of her breasts before the cool air of the room hit them. The textured material was replaced by the warm pads of Andromeda’s thumbs, brushing back and forth over the sensitive skin. Her thumbs were rough, surely resistant to pinpricks, but so gentle.

Mercy trembled and tried to hold her hips still as sensation spread through her, both from Andromeda’s touch and the echo of her words.

Ardent admirer.

Andromeda’s thumbs slowed but didn’t still, a torturous tempo that inexplicably seemed to increase the pleasure she was receiving.

“Wait,” Andromeda said. Stroke. Pause. Stroke. Pause. “Did you really think I would insult you? In the midst of this?”

Mercy knew it was foolish, but she also couldn’t lie, not with Andromeda making her feel so much that she could barely think straight.

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” she said. Her hands went up to finally smooth over those curves she had fantasized about since she’d first come upon Andromeda bathed in sunlight. An angel, she’d thought then. An angel who was at that very moment driving her mad with lust. That was all well and good, for Mercy was already fallen.

Mercy cupped Andromeda’s waist, slid her hands up so that the weight of Andromeda’s perfect breasts rested against the backs of her hands. “It’s all right.”

Andromeda stopped moving for a moment, then one of her hands slid back up to Mercy’s neck, tugging her up toward her. Mercy knew the kiss was coming, but was surprised by the ferocity of it, and the tenderness.

“I will never hurt you, Mercy,” Andromeda whispered fiercely. Then her knee notched up between Mercy’s thighs, until it was pressing into that throbbing flesh. After that, it all happened so quickly. The sweet friction between her legs, Andromeda’s mouth at her neck, then lower, as she drew Mercy’s nipple between her teeth and teased at it with her tongue.

“Oh Lord,” Mercy whispered, then pleasure arced through her, piercing her like the rays of morning sun bursting through the clouds to spread over the Hudson. It went on and on, spreading joy through her body, joy so intense she was certain that she must be illuminating the dark room with her pleasure. She collapsed back onto the bed, but Andromeda’s caresses didn’t stop.

“Andromeda,” she panted, backing up and away from what had become too much pressure—too much pleasure.

Andromeda moved beside her, pulled her close, and they lay in sated silence for a moment.

“So, what was it you wanted to tell me in this letter?” Andromeda whispered.

In the darkness, Mercy felt like anything was possible, but she was too raw to discuss the poem just then. “I—I’ve started writing again,” she said.

“‘Again’ implies you stopped. What’s that about?”

She sounded so curious. So interested. Mercy wouldn’t tell her everything, but something was a start.

“Many years ago, I thought I was in love. No, I was most definitely in love. I thought I was loved back. That was the part I was misinformed about.”

“And what happened?” Andromeda asked. “Is there someone I should take my sewing shears to?”

Mercy was surprised to find herself laughing. Laughing while talking about the things that had wounded her so dearly.

“She didn’t love me, or if she did, she stopped. And then it happened again. And again. And the last time was so terrible I decided I was done.”

She didn’t describe the burnt letters or Jane passing her in the street with her husband, pretending she didn’t know her.

“With…her?”

“No, with it. With love.”

It seemed silly when stated like that, the pain that had been her driving motivation for years.

Andromeda took a deep breath and Mercy steeled herself. “Hm, a bit of a hasty conclusion I’d say, but I’ve made some hasty decisions myself.” Andromeda’s words were slow, measured. She was taking her time in responding and Mercy knew that was something that didn’t come naturally to her. It was that consideration that did Mercy in. She loved Andromeda. Simple as that.

Can you really be so brainless as to fall for this again?

Mercy felt two arms wrap around her, and then a hand smoothing over her hair, and the anxious thoughts fell away. “Tell me about this writing.”

Mercy didn’t know what she had expected, but she found herself relaxing in Andromeda’s embrace. “A poem. That’s what the letter was. A poem, for you.”

She turned her head in toward Andromeda’s neck, hiding although it was too dark for her face to be seen.

“Brilliant,” Andromeda breathed, stroking a hand over Mercy’s shoulder. “I knew you were brilliant.”

“You haven’t read it yet,” Mercy said. Her lips brushed against Andromeda’s collarbone and she was surprised and pleased to feel Andromeda tremble against her.

“I’ve read your letters, and you weren’t even trying in those.” Andromeda’s mouth was near Mercy’s ear. She nipped at the lobe and it was Mercy who trembled then. “So yes, a poem, which is trying by its very nature, is going to be brilliant.”

Mercy couldn’t argue with that—her mouth was suddenly occupied with a much more pressing matter.