It was hard to control himself in the moment; he'd gone a week, sexually-frustrated, without her touch (or any touch), and now that he had her it was difficult to hold back. Her hands in his hair prompted memories from their last rendezvous to come flooding back to the forefront of his mind, and his hands slid easily down to her waist. He wished he could have more of her—something to hold onto while he was trekking through the wilderness, sitting at his desk while trying to solve the crisis at hand, and while sitting on his bed alone each evening.

"One day we'll be able to do this whenever we want," he mumbled against her lips, "—up against a bookshelf, in bed, in our own garden. Every morning, every evening." Their little fantasy—their hypothetical elopement and home they'd come up to cope with their stress and the distance between them—definitely could become a reality, but he wasn't sure how easily it would come.

If the gossip too long to blow over and Minister didn't learn to stay out of his personal business, he'd be forced to face a sticky situation. While his Febs was far from the most proper woman in regards to their private activities, her public reputation was not one of a loose woman by any means; to deny him the opportunity to pursue her (or, more realistically, punish him for doing so) was a complete overstep of his authority.

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