"Yes, yes, exactly!" Emilia exclaims. "That is exactly what I meant! That I want us to be... more. And not instead of kink. You phrased it perfectly!"

She mirrors his caress of a few minutes ago: her thumbs on his cheekbones, her fingers curling into the hair behind his ears. It isn't about control. She is - to describe it with the cadence of her best-written scenes, aiming for that narrow space that is both swoon-worthy and sincerely sweet - cradling his face.

"I did?" His eyes widen, that sudden flash of innocence making him look almost boyish.

Well, that would be taking it too far. But definitely earnest. Vulnerable in a way that tugs at her ribs. Stripped back to truth.

'Stripped back to truth.' That's a brilliant turn of phrase, to think of it. She can use it for her protagonist when he is finally ready to open up to his loving wife about the abuse from his Aunt that he sustained as a child. Oops, Emilia properly needs to focus.

"I don't do well with phrasing. That's the first," he draws out pensively.

"And you did so well," Emilia acknowledges deliberately - and he chortles and lightly bumps his nose to hers.

"I don't have a praise kink, love."

There are charming sparks dancing in his cerulean irises. Oh... Emilia is definitely seeing him through love-drunk lenses. Surely, he isn't that lovely!

"I might," she blurts out.

He was definitely going to say something - and now he stops and studies her for a few seconds.

"I can be more verbal," he says.

Oh wow. That's quite a statement - coming from him, especially.

"I'm—" He is quiet for a few seconds, clearly looking for the right words. She's holding her breath. "I am grateful," he finally continues. "For you. I... appreciate you. And I want to do my part. I can... compliment. Praising is hard. It's not my place. But I can try to say more."

He gives her a pointed look, and she nods. She gets it - how praise is usually given by a domme, since it's part of the whole command-and-reward system; plus she's seen how much effort it takes him to properly express himself - and that makes his admissions even more heart-warming.

Flattering. Inspiring.

Arousing. Alright, the latter needs to be put on the backburner, though.

"You are the best domme I've had," he says, while Emilia is distracted trying not to imagine snogging him senseless - and she makes a croaking noise.

The man just hits the bullseye every time!

"And I keep expecting discomfort," he continued. "I don't always like to be touched. But with you, it's nice. Every time. And I'm not sure why, but when I go down on you—"

Emilia presses her fingers across his mouth.

"Alright, stop," she exhales and drops her forehead against his. "That's... too much. You're too good at this. It's distracting!"

"Sorry."

"Blimey, you truly have nothing to apologise for." She wraps her arms around his neck. "You're so, so good to me. God, I can't even—"

Her emotions have been an understandable roller coaster tonight; and she's just plummeted down with a sad yelp.

His nest kiss - light and tender - is not helping her composure. This level of magnetism should be illegal. How is he doing this?!

"I still sometimes think how it's even possible that—" she moans.

And then she stops herself. There's no reason to vent her insecurities, especially considering how irrelevant they feel at the moment. She has a momentary thought that even if nothing goes wrong - please, please, do not let anything go wrong! - and they stay together for a very long time, she'll always have these doubts.

"You are very good to me," she repeats, affirming it for both of them.

"It's easy. You're... perfect," he murmurs and places another kiss, this time a tad off centre, closer to the corner of her lips. "Every bit of you."

"Shh," she jokes, squinting in pleasure."No talking right now."

He lets his lips ghost over hers again - yet another tired cliché - just enough to whisper, "You're soft, but... fresh. You make me feel... safe. I relax. Never had that before."

Oh god. He needs to stop! A bit more - and she'll bawl and spout a flowery, verbose, third act grand confession. Or even worse so, just say the Words.

"You are perfect in every way, but you're overachieving here," she rasps and pulls him closer, hugging his neck tightly. "No more talking, alright?"

He smiles a small, shy smile and nods. Something tells her he might be fibbing - must be his next line.

"But I haven't had a chance to compliment your arse and—"

Emilia implements a Benedick manoeuvre: steadying his head, taking aim, and landing a decisive smooch. Ha! Who knew that a snog is a punctuation mark?

Two frantic heartbeats later, they're kissing with an easy, wonderfully familiar, teasing intensity; his beard occasionally grazing her cheek and jaw in a perfectly distracting way. She presses closer, feeling his warmth seeping into her; his open-mouthed kiss on her throat, greedier now. She swoons - another not-just-an-empty-cliché! - and she grabs his shoulder for balance. Her nails sink into the smooth fabric of his shirt, and he lets out a cosy affectionate rumble.

And then he hits the breaks, figuratively speaking. It's not a subtle change; it's full blown jerk, possibly capable of giving Emilia an emotional whiplash.

"Em, I—"

Oh, that sounds familiar!

"I want you, Em," he purposefully intonates. "But—"

Hell's bells. She's on point! That's exactly the somewhat indecisive, hesitant, and almost guilty expression that he had in her kitchen; as indecisive, hesitant, and guilty as the stone-faced Daniel Oates can look.

Except, this time she's not going to freak out - exactly because she can understand him much better now. Apparently, repetition is indeed the mother of learning - and the aunt of keeping Emilia from jumping to the wrong conclusions.

"But you don't want to have sex right now," she offers, finishing his sentence for him. "It's totally fine!" She gives his upper arm a light, reassuring squeeze. "We can continue later!"

"Could we, please?" he confirms diligently. "We need to get going soon. And you get groggy after an orgasm."

Emilia giggles and drops her head onto his shoulder.

"I do," she agrees. "But aren't you a tad too confident? What if I don't get one?"

He's silent. Emilia jerks her head up, worried she's offended him. After all, he hasn't failed her even once. For a moment, she's not sure what expression is lurking under his blank facade - and then his hand smoothly slides under the strap of her bra on her back.

"You're making me want to prove you wrong," he purrs.

His thumb flicks; and she feels the unmistakable drafty, relieved sensation of her tits liberated from their full-cup, elasticated-jacquard, extra-shaping-and-control prison.

Emilia gives out a shocked gasp. That was utterly too smooth, clever, and impressively well-executed for Daniel Oates!

And now he's stroking her bosom, palms slightly cupped, in tantalising circles, with just the right amount of pressure - and she moans, falling forward to press into him.

"Yeah, you're right," she mutters. "If you continue, I'll cum, and then I'll just want a nap. And if we're going to the exhibition, I still need to go home and panic and hyperventilate over having nothing to wear."

"It's a cocktail dress code," Oates says casually, almost in passing.

He must be distracted by properly fondling her twin mounds.

But even the gentle nudges of his thumbs, teasing her nipples, can't stop her from letting out a terrified "What?!" as she sits up straight.

"I don't have a single item that can be worn to a cocktail party!" she exclaims, blood draining from her cheeks. "If I even understand what it means, that is. Bollocks! I can't go, Daniel, I'm sorry! I haven't got a single dress that fits me, to say nothing of it being formal enough!"

His movements stop, and after a second or two he frowns and removes his hands off her skin.

"Could you—" He stops himself mid-sentence.

Emilia waits, feeling a creeping chill in some places and tension all over. Daniel pauses, then asks in his careful, almost mechanical monotone, "Would you consider accepting a present from me?"

Emilia blinks. Her brain does a very undignified tumble over, like assorted washing in a dryer, and she realises he means a dress. A cocktail dress, of all things.

She thinks about it. In her mind, there can't be a high-street fashion brand in the country - or probably Europe - that makes cocktail dresses in her size without resorting to shapeless sacks or suspiciously shiny fabrics. What if he takes her to a pretentious boutique where he normally shops, overpays through the nose - and she ends up looking like a stuffed sausage in satin?

And what is exactly the protocol in this situation? Is that something all rich blokes do - buy dresses for their... women? That is an odd term, but a girlfriend or a mistress just don't feel right. He's definitely no one's boyfriend. And - not that she's complaining, far from it - mistresses, in her admittedly limited understanding, are generally young, skinny, blonde, and long-legged. Meaning, the opposite of Emilia.

She opens her mouth, without even the foggiest idea of what she's going to say.