*Raphael*
Why on earth am I doing this to myself? The self torture. I truly have no idea. Tonight, she could have been mine… a kiss, perhaps even more.
There is a part of me, a large part even, that is almost certain of it. But it's this nagging uncertainty, this 'almost', that's keeping me in this torturous state of waiting.
Despite all my promises to her, I know deep down that a mere kiss won't be enough to quench this burning desire inside me.
Damn it all! No woman has ever been this maddening, this tantalizing to me. The moment I led her away from the deck, I was overwhelmed with the urge to follow her into my cabin, to shoo out that infernal maid with her incessantly clacking knitting needles.
But instead, I found myself reaching for Jane Austen. A poor substitute indeed.
I
