A.N: The beautiful poster is made by the equally beautiful SpiderWoman- , to whom I extend all my appreciation. Thank you, love!
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"You summoned me from a very perilous position, Julian. I may be your friend but..."

            "Sharing half of the Duchy's name does not make us friends, Paul, but mere collaborators." Julian's modulations emulated with those of a stern judge feasting from a culprit. "You knew about him being an abuser and you concealed this knowledge from everyone else around you. Sovereign immunity shall not stop me from punishing both of you."

            "Is that a subtle threat?" Paul's high-pitched voice rose by a couple of octaves.

            "No, it is the most straight-forward threat you will ever come across. Not even your so-called admirers have the guts to spit in your face when you deserve it."

            The entire context of the menacing retorts occurred mostly due to Paul's out of the blue arrival, which unsettled Julian from his personal bussiness – that of taking his wife to a proper, old-fashioned date. Freya was discontent at the sight of the discrediting Duke, but kept her thoughts to herself, much to Julian's relief.

            "I will have you... I will..." The Duke of Westbroke stuttered, feeling humiliated in front of his much more adamant fellow.

            "You will not have me either way. My security outdates the Queen's and I shall not allow anyone, especially both an insolent and indolent peer to put this institution at risk. Especially when my own wife is involved." Julian continued in a rigid voice, not the slimmest inflexion glimpsed throughout his speech.

            Paul needed to regain his status, even though it was rather impossible, or at least unproductive. He was aware that despite his pig-like appearance and unrefined demeanour, his skills of turning the knife surpassed anyone's expectations.

            "You surely resemble your father in his last years of official activity. Ready to impose himself over anyone he believed to be inferior. No wonder your Duchess has not produced an heir by now. Who would want to make love to a serpent?" Paul smirked with superiority, clinging on the hope of overthrowing Julian.

            "Is this the only ace up your sleeve?" Julian may have seemed unimpressed by his addressee's plot, but he did feel as if a dagger were twisted brutally between the cavities of his heart.

            Of curse he wanted to make love to her, but did he honestly have a choice when she stated her neutral position? She was abused and he did not possess the self-control one must own when having an intercourse with a former victim. He was a rough lover, not someone willing to wait at the entrance of a woman's core with his arousal up his neck.

            "I-I..." Paul stammered one more time, aware that his scheme was as pointless as a bench on a <<keep off>> patch of grass.

            Julian approached him, a barbarous look plastered on his face. He gripped Paul's fancy collar and with a swift, heinous motion, he made the tosser kneel down. His fingers never left Paul's recently sweaty back.

            "You know, there is a pressure spot at the back of your neck, a little below the cerebellum and just above the spinal cord. If pressed hard enough, you can go numb in less than five seconds. That gives you three choices: endure a few minutes of paralysis, enjoy the company of my wicked torturing employees or throw that bastard in the most hideous cell and let him rot in there."

            Suddenly, Julian lowered his face inches away from Paul's aghast features. "So, what shall we choose?" He smiled deviously, passing his tongue over his lower lip.

            "The... the latter one."

            Julian smirked again, a satisfied mien radiating from his pores. "You are a wise man, my dearest Paul." He extended an arm to help him stand up, gripping him forcefully as he regained his balance.

            "John, escort the Duke of Westbroke out, please."

            The butler arrived immediately, responding at his master's loud order. While Paul was stepping out of the room, Julian came to his side and whispered: "You will not stop funding us, will you?"

            "N-no, of course not." Those were Paul's last words before exiting the grounds of his menacer's Duchy.

            A very pleased Julian returned to his wife, who was waiting impatiently in the bedroom, as restless as a lost puppy.

            "Did you persuade him?"

            "Yes, you can say that."

            "You threatened him, didn't you?" Freya asked, her arms crossed, the crease between her breasts deepening.

            Please tell me I haven't messed up again. He prayed internally, seeing his wife closing the gap between them. Being a breath away from each other was making his arousal impish and disobeying. He was more than surprised when he felt Freya's embrace poisoning his senses with that natural, floral scent of hers.

            "Thank you. I know it must be hard for you to endanger your funds for me." She took a small step back and abruptly simpered. "Doesn't this gesture mean that you love me?"

            It was Julian's turn to retreat – more steps that time. She was playing with him, there was no doubt. But two could play that game and he was never a loser, especially when it came to matters of heart.

            "Don't be silly. I did it for a reward on your behalf. You know what I mean." He winked, slapping her rounded, plump buttocks.

            Freya jerked his hand away and uttered, a scolding tone in her voice: "This is not how it works. Until the day you admit to yourself that you love me and give me a trustworthy confession, we will sleep in different bedrooms. By the way, I will make sure you don't touch me during this interval. This cupcake is on lock, chap. Lovely cheers."

            She slapped his face with her bouncy hair as she turned on her heels and left the room. To say that he was in complete awe was the most dishonest understatement anyone could ever express. He was beyond shocked. Was it the first time losing a game he anticipated? No, it couldn't be, could it?

            Despite the nagging feeling tormenting him, Julian had to put his distress aside, for there were many duties to be completed before dusk. The following hours – four, to be precise – were spent in the dreadful company of documents, treaties and amnesties. The Queen called upon every nobleman to unite their forces in case of a potential conflict.

The reasons behind such possibility were numerous and too energy-consuming to recollect. However, Europe was always aimed at, plotted against and, well, despised for the beautiful conglomeration of cultures and preserved values. The United Kingdom had to mobilize citizens to protect principles and not submit to pressures or political interests.

At the end of the four hours, Julian was too fatigued to even savour a glass of whisky. He could not even bother to think about Freya turning him into a martyr of abstinence. All he could manage was undress himself and collapse on the bed just like a flat ball did on a sports field.

Even though he fell asleep rather quickly, he could literally feel his wife's absence. He tried to ignore that unavoidable truth and eventually succumbed to unconsciousness. What he failed to anticipate was that he would wake up in the middle of the night, pat the pillow from his opposite side, notice that it's empty and not be able to fall asleep again.

Julian was angry with her for having such an impact, but somehow felt content with the humane bond he experienced so delightfully. Was he addicted to her or in love with her? See, that is the problem. I cannot recognize one from the other. He admitted to himself, gazing at the ceiling while putting his arm under his head.

How can I make a tie breaker between co-dependence, addiction, routine and love? It seems utterly impossible for a rational man such as myself. He continued his reasoning, scoffing his current situation.

"You cannot sleep either, can you?" The feathery tone of Freya's voice startled him. He rose, his glutes still pressed to the bed. His wife was leaning against the door, wearing the same silk robe, only with a slight perk – her bosoms were free and candidly bouncing as she approached him.

Good Lord, help me.

"I thought you desired no contact until my confession. Isn't this a breach of contract or something along those lines?" Her husband inquired, the playful modulations of his voice echoing in the room.

"Well, I am not a masochist. I need sleep and I cannot do it without you."

"See, that is the problem! You have gotten used to me, this is all a routine! How can you know your love is heartfelt? How can I know what I feel? I am more confused than a man facing seven crossroads!" Julian whined, throwing his hands in the air and growling like a child.

"It's all about the fluid, my love." Her husband looked at her doubtfully, but she continued nonetheless. "When you love someone, there is a fluid vibrating through every pore of your body – it awakens your senses and intoxicates them until there is nothing but an unbreakable stream between you and your loved one. You just need a little more time."

Julian's mouth was agape and most definitely could have let some flies in. She is a lunatic. All he needs to do is find the fluid?! Well, excuse me, unless a fluid is a car brand, a dog breed or a bloody piano recital, I cannot find it!

"Jesus Christ, emotions are so fucking complicated. Bollocks." He did not normally curse, but that moment was more than justifiable.

Freya chuckled, her dimples creasing the spot just above the corners of her mouth. "Yes, they are complicated, but also the most wonderful gifts God has given us. They can kill us and save us all at once."

Julian may have been exhausted, but his wife's luscious curves performed miracles with his senses.

"Well, I cannot kill and save someone all at once. What I can do so far is make you cum and moan all at once. How is that for a compromise?"