Author's notes:

Writing SoC has some advantages. If I plot out the story in my head, when I write it, I leave out a lot of the surrounding details. I have a plot to spit out, dammit. SoC ends up with a lot of extraneous details.

Take the flowers. I had no idea what the doorbell portended. I just figured it was a good place to end the chapter (I was tired, worried it was getting too long, etc.)

By the next day, I figured it was a vase of flowers. The day after, it broke. Yesterday, the fragments became a weapon, a way for me to not make Sian a simpering victim, but a flawed and outclassed protagonist. And, today, the fallen flowers became a representation of Marc's presence.

All because I had no clue how to end a conversation.

(Those of you just joining here, start with Callan and Sian 1)



As instructed, Sian dressed, got ready to leave her apartment. She moved mechanically, eyes lowered and distant. Hearing his directions calmed her. Being given this task quieted the storms beneath her breastbone. Each step of progress steadied her heart, her mind, her step.

Part of her mind struggled with this peace, how doing these things, for this man, would calm herself. It tried to hold on to the pain, the hurt. That felt real. This peace was external, was imposed, was fake. It was also gaining, as she put on her boots, her jacket, then stooped to gather her purse and essentials on the floor.

By the time she stepped through the door, that rebellion was but a gnat, and a warmth fog of tranquility blanketed her soul. It lasted until the door down the hall opened.

"That was quite some party you were having earlier today, Sian."

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize --"

"Oh, no, dear. You're taking this the wrong way. I met him as he was leaving a little bit ago. Quite a nice fellow. I had my doubts at first, but talking to him dismissed them all."

"You ... talked with ...?"

"With Marc? Only for a second. He said he had to go, but in a most polite way. They don't make him like that anymore. You'd be a fool to let him go."

She looked at the rose cradled in her hand. "No, I don't intend to."

===

The convertible purred sensuously, inviting Sian in as Marc leaned over the console to open the door for her. She tested the footwell with one heel, then eased onto the cream-coloured seat. His hand eased up the side of her calf, past the knee and across her thighs, tracing the hem of her black satin dress before resting on the transmission knob.

Her heart raced. The air seemed thin, rare. His touch caused a tingle to descend from her neck, down lower and lower. She dared not think where it settled. Instead, she followed his arm up the black silk sleeve, past the billowing shoulder, up to his eyes.

They were utterly devoid of any colour, black as the void. The drew her in, framed as they were between noble cheeks and broad brow. He leaned in, and she mirrored him. They met, they embraced, they kissed, arms wrapped around each other.

Pleasure flowed slowly over her awareness. The curl of his hair, the smooth coolness of his shirt, the scent of his musk and, above all, the texture of his tongue all fought away the foreignness of the recent past.

For heartbeats and seconds, then for minutes and stoplights, they remained locked, her breath light and shallow, her chest pounding. Reluctantly, he broke it off, smiling. "We mustn't be late."

"Which club are we going to?"

"It's a private one. I'm afraid you've never heard of it." The car's purr grows to a low, throaty rumble as it eases its way into the night.

"Try me."

"We don't have a name, little one." A pause. "Why the odd look?"

"What did you just call me?"

"'Little one.' It is a name I reserve only for you."

"Only ... me?"

"Yes, little one. How does that sound?"

It didn't so much sound as feel to Sian. It felt like a down quilt on a winter day, or fine gloves in the rain. It felt comforting, natural and personal.

"Mmm" she could only nod, her eyes closing in daydream.

His hand floated down her arm, shoulder to palm. It touched the flower, and the rose sang to her once more. "Little one," it lowed. Her hands tingled to its words. "Little one."

His hand, message imparted, glided free from hers, and dragged a pinky over the satin expanse of her dress. It found the hem, then slid under.

Sian's eyes shot open as his palm teased her thighs, both lap and deeper. One hand drifted free of the rose to pat his arm, but the wind threatened to steal it from the convertible. She had to cup her hands once more to keep it, and allow his hand to seek her.

"Don... don't ..." her words seem to catch and clog. For whatever reason, his sweet face and gentle "little one" sobriquet soothed her fears and objections.

"Don't what, pet?" His hand found its goal, damn him.

"Don't ... you have to shift with that hand?"

"It's a Tiptronic, little one. It's a fancy automatic transmission. Don't worry, just relax, this will make the trip go by faster." With that, his hand started to make her echo the car's rumbling.