Honestly, Phryne could have wept for the feel of his hands on her bare skin. It ached from lack of touch, from lack of his touch. In all her life she'd not waited so long for the caress of one man's hands. "Jack," she whispered against his mouth, affirmation, invitation, welcome, and slipped her hand into the back of his hair.

She could have slipped out of her drawers and onto him without so much as a stroke, but it would be over far too quickly, and Jack Robinson was a man to be savored. Appreciated. So she would. But first, she needed to be closer still, and slid up into his lap, straddling him.