He didn’t believe her. His smirk said it as much as the lingering question; and she didn’t have an answer to counter it, not when it took all she had to bite her tongue as he touched her. She didn’t want to lose herself too quickly, or to lose anything she had left to lose – so she looked at him disdainfully as he aided in undoing his buttons. If she had her weaknesses, at least he was evidently not impervious to her – once she had undone his trousers and his drawers, she took him in hand, and it only took a few strokes to have him as ready as she was. She shifted on top of him to guide them together herself, pressing past that brief first sting of discomfort until he was inside her, and the discomfort turned pleasurable.

“Yes,” she murmured, half in answer, half to steel herself to it. And if this was the last time, she was keen to stay in control of it, to be deliberate about it and draw out her pleasure as long as she liked – so she set a rough pace against him, and suddenly turned excruciatingly slow. She could feel the coin purse weighing down her skirts, could almost hear the muffled clinking as she moved. Estelle breathed out and did her best to block it out, trying to find the enjoyment she wanted instead. “Yes. Because you know I despise you,” she breathed, sure that words were wasted on him but wishing he could hurt, wishing he were even remotely capable of that. “Of course I won’t miss you. I think you’re pathetic, really – you’re repugnant – and you aren’t good for anything else but this.” (Something, whether the activity or the invective, was making her feel better.)

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