CEE.

"Oh, Penelope," he was groaning, his lips and hands growing more frantic. "Oh, Penelope. Oh, Penelope, oh—" He lifted his head. Very abruptly. "Oh, God."

"What is it?" she asked, trying to lift the back of her head from the cushion.

"We've stopped."

It took her a moment to recognize the import of this. If they'd stopped, that meant they'd most likely reached their destination, which was…her home.

"Oh, God!" She started yanking at the bodice of her gown with frantic motions. "Can't we just ask the driver to keep going?"

These past few weeks have been full of confounding feelings. Feelings like a total inability to stop thinking about you. About that kiss. Feelings like dreaming of you when I'm asleep. And in fact preferring sleep because that is where I might find you. A feeling that is like torture. But one which I cannot, will not, do not want to give up.

Literally one hot carriage hookup and five minutes later: