He licked the silky groove of her neck, lowering his skillful tongue just above her barely visible collarbone. Biting a mouthful of feminine flesh, he whispered against her skin, his lust-driven fingers gripping the two rotund apples of her buttocks.

"Shall I assume that such compromise is satisfying enough?" She could sense his triumphant smirk plastered across his hustling lips.

She imposed herself to resist his touch, but every dram of reasoning and rational judgment crumbled to the floor, becoming an amorph mass of futility.

With each grazing, fondling, caressing of his fingers, her body renounced its own will and yielded to him – the husband that was so close to confessing, yet so far away. Was the sizzling sensation of her throbbing clit a distraction from her desire to be confided in? Was he plotting to redirect her focus on a sinful, never completely satisfying pleasure?

"Stop." She yanked his shirt and pulled him away. "I know what you are doing. A true worshipper of his wife would love her first, then make love to her. Not the other way around."

Julian licked her cum off his fingers, tasting the salty-sweet product of his exploration. She was more than unnerving, she was the bloody Aphrodite and Ares altogether.

"You are cruel, Freya. You cannot expect me to snap my fingers and admit my love to you. It may have taken you less, but this does not give you the right to criticize my pace." He lost every ounce of the arousal he had.

He could not believe she flattened him out. Was that even possible? Was it possible for the gorgeous, luscious, succulent woman to pluck his nerves like a bloody mother-in-law?

"I want you to touch me because you love me, not because you cannot keep it in your fucking pants! You are talking about my airs, but what about yours? Fuck your hypocrisy, Julian. Fuck everything I feel about you. There is no fucking way I am ever going to expose my love. You will beg me to show it, but I will be made of steel and ice. Fucking congratulations!"

She yelled, an enraged mien engulfing her features like a plague. She spun violently on her heels and left the room, not once doubting her decision to drive to the Angels Caring Center. Maeve was all she needed in that appalling moment.

Her drive was hectic and fairly reckless, but she arrived safely, not bothering to relish at the everlasting splendour of the nature. She sprinted to the reception, eyed the blonde secretary – the same creature insulting her subtly a few months ago – and asked for Maeve. Much to her despair and chagrin, Maeve was having a doctor's appointment at the moment. However, Freya could not care less about the blonde's impatient gestures to brush her off. She needed her friend.

Therefore, the Duchess of Eastbroke, a woman who was presumed to cringe her nose at the sight of impotent elders, stood by their side in the kindest of manners – chuckling when they cracked a joke or crying along with them as they narrated their war experiences.

One of those Santa-worthy elders caught most of her attention when he recounted his falling in love with a nurse during the Second World War. Chris was appealing even at his ninety years of strained life. White locks of hair enframed an oval visage, embellished with wrinkles and battle scars. His rounded cheeks turned more prominent every time he laughed, his slightly quivering mouth stretching so close to his ears that he almost mirrored a sculpture's perfection.

His voice was, notwithstanding, the softest lullaby Freya has ever heard and the warmest breeze that has ever touched her skin. He was fascinating, for his story dripped with emotions so glowing, so rich with ethics, that she felt like a kindergarten child learning how to write for the first time.

"I won't talk about the misery, 'cause we all know it ain't pleasant. However, the moment I saw her, the nurse that was patching up one of my friends, I lost it. Every strategy, scheme, fighting tehnique vanished in an instant, as if she wiped them all away and replaced them with her tender tone and her fluttering eyelashes. I didn't dare to talk to her, but as the days were passing, I found the courage to tell her how beautiful she was. She blushed, her shy face looking at her fingers. She thanked me, of course, and we started talking about things so different and so deep that we were nicknamed <<the next Einsteins>>.

She slowly became the reason I battled. Not because I'd serve a higher purpose, or be a patriot, but for her, to let her see how much I'd sacrifice for that gorgeous smile or that childish laugh. I confessed my love for her a month or two later, but it took her much longer. It was actually the last day of war when she confessed as well, apologizing for being so slow in revelation.

When I asked her what took her so long, she said that she was afraid of losing her identity. Being so used to her previous lifestyle, she felt as if she'd forget the very core of her existence. She feared getting away from her comfort zone. But I strived. And in the year of 1946, we got married. Of course, our marriage wasn't always pink. The silly, idiotic me had a slip-up, but we overcame it. Her heart was mine, and mine was hers and that's what mattered in the end."

"Is she still alive?" Freya's voice was strangled by the few tears hanging loose from her eyelashes. Her heart was twitching violently against her chest.

"Of course, she just had a doctor's appointment." Freya's pupils dilated. "Oh, there she is!"

Turning around, ever so slowly, Freya's mouth dropped on the floor. A thousand flies could have conquered her agape mouth, but she was still as a corpse. Maeve was his wife. Chris was her husband.

"Why didn't you tell me?!" More tears glided down her valleys of skin. She felt rather betrayed.

Maeve smiled, taking a seat next to Chris. Resting her cheek on her husband's shoulder, she uttered, her voice basted with honey and gold:

"It was not the proper time. I somehow intuited your love for Julian and thought the perfect time for my confession was right before the almighty Duke confessed as well." The elder chuckled, an amused glint brightening her crusty brown eyes.

"How, how would you even know? Was this all planned?" Freya must have lived one of those gruesome nightmares, for it all seemed like a bloody conspiracy.

"I had an inside man, so to speak. John, your butler."

Freya's knees could not sustain her much longer. Her limbs were unresponsive and, consequently, she collapsed on one of the couches.

"I was his daughter's teacher. I quit being a nurse and entered the teaching field. He still sends Sophia here from time to time. He was the one that told me about your current situation, so Chris and I..." She made a pause and gazed at her husband earnestly. "... planned the perfect timing."

Freya pinched the bridge of her nose, a nauseous feeling creeping in her already troubled soul. It all seemed like a bloody soap opera, but it wasn't. None of it was fiction. What was the lesson supposed to be? That Chris was her metaphor and Maeve was Julian's? That Julian needed to step out of his comfort zone?

"Pardon me, but you made me more confused than liberated. You are all evil, for Christ's sake. Plus, I have been patient enough and cannot stand one more minute in this state of mind."

Maeve stood up and came to her friend's aid, embracing her firmly while speaking in the same melodious tone:

"Oh, darling, it took me two years to confess, but I am damn sure it won't take Julian so long. He is not as stupid as I am. He is aware of your worth and the tingles he gets everytime you show up."

"No, he is not." Freya's voice was a mere whisper, for her energy subsided entirely. What was really the point of fighting so hard for his confession? It may have been the 21st century, but there have been royal families that were not in love. They could be just the same, but with a small difference – she did love him, but it was an unrequited love, much worse than a mutual lack of affection.

She felt lost.

"Oh, sweetheart, God takes care of all. He never leaves a single one out. Go back to him, Freya. I am more than certain of him missing you."

"As if..." Freya muttered under her breath, forcing a smile while kissing Maeve and greeting the other elders. "Thank you so much for having me here. I-it was a pleasure."

"Cheers!" They exclaimed in unison, waving tenderly as she turned around and left the Center.

Her drive back home – was it really her home? – was filled with unanswered questions. The uncertainty of the future was bruising her. How could she resist much longer when her aching heart was about to die out?

When the outline of the Duchy's gate flashed before her eyes, she slowed down her pace and entered the grounds of her home. After all, it was her home – the first one she has ever had as an actual building. She stepped out of the car, neated her attire and walked past several statues on each side of the main aisle.

God must have plotted another excellent timing, for the moment she turned the door handle, Julian appeared in front of her, his puffy, recently-crying cheeks being the most obvious feature.

"What... w-were you crying?" Freya asked in a feeble, stuttering manner, her own features being obviously laced with concern.

Julian expressed nothing but silence, the kind of absence of words that actually meant everything. He launched himself at her, embracing her so tightly that she gasped for a fresh breath of air. His muscle-tainted arms were so protective around her, so gentle and robust all at once, that Freya felt ashamed of ever doubting him.

"Don't you ever, even in your most lucid mind, leave like that! If you honestly want to give me a heart-attack, at least kiss me until I cede rather than this mad inertness. Promise me!" He choked in his own tears, plump droplets of misery signaling Freya that she was unfair after all.

Of course he loves me, but I still need that one more step! She internally whined.

"I promise."

Julian instantly relaxed, a victorious smile caking his swollen lips. "And I thought my father would make me an emotional wreck. I guess he has been outrun."

She smiled in return, inviting him to have a late cup of tea and then go to bed. While breathing in the entrancing perfume of vanilla-scented linen, she told him about her encounter with Maeve and Chris. She fell asleep right after the story ended, curling in the manly shelter of Julian's arms. He yearningly cuddled against her, whispering to himself before falling asleep as well.

Maeve was right...