She could smell his cologne underneath his collar, or perhaps his aftershave. He wriggled underneath her heaving body, pinned like an insect. “You say that he is alive. We've got to get him to care. She refused to eat. The wine was sweetened with cinnamon and cloves and rare edible flowers, which her father had instructed her not to drink excessively of. She loved Florence, wandering the huge markets which bustled day and night. Aware of his father's inflexibility of purpose, he set his wits to work to defeat the design. He made it impossible not to respond, his arms tightening deliciously around hers.
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