Disclaimer: Foyle's War was created by Anthony Horowitz, and the characters of Foyle and Sam jointly created by Mr. Horowitz, Michael Kitchen and Honeysuckle Weeks. No infringement is intended.

A/N: This story was written for and is dedicated to the incomparable GiuliettaC.


Setting: The story takes place after the closing scenes of Plan of Attack, April 1944. Foyle had resigned from the Police a year ago, in March '43. Early in the episode is a scene at Foyle's house where Sam is typing up the manuscript for the book he is writing. It is not clear how long they've had this arrangement, but I will assume for some weeks. The episode concludes with Sam resigning from her job at Beverley Lodge, and returning to the Station.

From Foyle and Sam's interview with Jane Hudson:
Jane "He wouldn't even touch me. ...I wanted more than that. I just wanted to be close."
Foyle "And that wasn't enough?"
Jane "I met someone else. It was madness, but I wanted to have some fun! Sam will tell you, Beverley Lodge can be very grey." (Tee-hee!)


And That Wasn't Enough?

The driver firmly gripped the wheel of the police Wolseley as she made the turn onto George Street - rather firmer than necessary. Foyle noticed with only mild curiosity the tan leather of Sam's driving gauntlets stretched taut across her knuckles. His day had gone well, a successful wrapping up of the murder cases (without being shot in the back by a Nazi spy), exposure of the lorries fraud, sorting a corrupt Wing Co... And as the proverbial icing on the cake, a new respect and cooperation, apparently, from the AC, who had unblocked the usual bureaucratic or military obstructions and opened necessary doors. Might make the job a little less frustrating, now that he had been asked back - begged, actually. He'd rather enjoyed that, a minor compensation for these years of being kept out of more important War work.

To temper his uncharacteristic self-satisfaction, he spared a thought, too, for the late DCS Meredith. Bloody tragic for the man, a tragedy for his wife. Widow, he amended.
Women - they just had to take what the War threw at them and carry on, he supposed.
He glanced over at the young woman driving him home, wondering at the perceptible tension in Sam's shoulders. She'd been perfectly cheerful when she'd turned up at the Station twenty minutes ago.
Beaming, in fact.

Samantha inwardly fumed as she hauled the steering wheel around the turn up Steep Lane and roughly jerked the gearshift and clutch, causing her boss to rock forward and back in his seat beside her.
'I don't care if he does get thrown about.' She growled silently to herself, still smarting from her reception at Foyle's office.

In the last half hour she'd been nearly humiliated, almost hurt and then carelessly dismissed out of the circle of men at the Hastings Police Station. It seemed rather unkind, given how pleased, proud and happy - no, delighted - she'd been to surprise them all by walking back into the Station, in uniform again, ready to serve.

And it had taken some rather brazen cheek to resign that very afternoon from her place at the secret Air Ministry base at Beverley Lodge, too. To think she'd told them she was 'rather urgently needed elsewhere.'

'Presumptuous.' He'd really taken the wind out of her sails with that word, though she'd masked her hurt with her own counter assertion that she 'presumed...he couldn't manage without her.'

While waiting by the car in front of the Station, she'd relived Mr. Foyle's little 'joke' and decided it really had been almost cruel. By the time he'd strolled out the door - so pleased with himself he looked almost cocky (adorably so, she had to admit) - and joined her at the car, she had devised a plan to get a little of her own back. Just see if he'd be joking, then.

She pulled up in front of number 31, set the brake and shut off the engine, and before he could question her she offered sweetly,
"Shall I come in and help you with your book for a while, Sir?"
"Well…"
"You won't have as much time for it, now that you're back at the Station, will you?"
"Erm...Suppose not, but…"
"We could do a bit after work, now and then, and at weekends."
"Um…"
"I don't mind. Really I don't, Sir."
He tugged on his ear, and gave a reluctant, crooked smile.
"Ffine. C'mon in then."

'Step One.' Hooking her cap on Foyle's coat rack, Sam strode confidently down the passage, saying over her shoulder, "I'll make us a cup of tea, shall I?"
Equally annoyed and glad at having her in his house again - warring with propriety and his enjoyment of her bright company, as usual - Foyle sighed, hung up his coat and hat and wandered into the sitting room. He frowned in worry, scratching his forehead, knowing she'd soon notice the stack of newly typed pages. He'd no wish to hurt her feelings, but this book was meant to be a serious project, not a complete waste of time, and he'd had to take steps.

Sam soon bustled in with the tray, grinning. "Here we are. Still haven't any biscuits, I suppose?"
Foyle turned towards her to make a quip about her appetite, but instead stared open-mouthed, very disconcerted to see that she had removed her tunic and taken her hair down.
He continued staring, and asked,
"Wwhyy have you, em…?" he waved towards her prettily bouncing golden locks.
"What? Oh, I've rather got used to having it down. It's so much less fuss..."

'Step Two,' Sam thought to herself.
She set the tray on a free space on the dining table and handed him his cup where he stood. In a getting-down-to-business-like manner, she moved around to stand by her chair behind the typewriter. Smiling over his tidy arrangement of papers and notebooks, she slowly pulled off her necktie and unbuttoned her collar as she prepared to get to work. Foyle watched her actions with rising apprehension - on two counts - and when Sam spotted the inch-high stack of fresh manuscript sheets, he pinched the bridge of his nose.

Curiously she picked up a few pages off the top and leafed through them. The self-possessed, sunny smile disappeared, replaced by confusion.
"Oh-! Did you-. Did you do all this, Sir?"
"Er... Nno." Holding the cup and saucer, he nervously stuffed his free hand into his pocket.
Sam turned over the double-sided, neatly typed pages, mouth falling open in dismay,
"...Footnotes, formatted, indented, proper paragraphs, no corrections -. This is professionally typewritten!"
She stared across at him, her artless, honest face showing hurt.
Foyle chewed his cheek, looking decidedly guilty,
"...Wwwell, it became clear you wouldn't have the time, Sam. Wwith your other job...and, errrm, it simply allowed me to see where I am, in the manuscript…"
With cup and saucer still in his left hand, he pulled the other out of his pocket again, and quickly reached to pick up a sheaf of handwritten notes, gesturing with it towards her and the typewriter.
"There's still a great deal more to, er-."
Bowing her head, Sam returned the papers carefully to the top of the neat stack, letting out a resigned sigh,
"No, you're quite right. I'm rather hopeless at typing. Surprised you've put up with me for so long as it is."
They stood in awkward silence on opposite sides of the table, Foyle watching her with lowered head, biting the inside corner of his lip, and Sam recalculating the next move in her revenge. This had rather taken the wind out of her sails - again. The truth was, she didn't really have any practice with getting revenge.
She gave a weak half-smile and concluded with forced nonchalance,
"...Must be some other reason why you have." Then added quietly, "Put up with me."
Foyle wouldn't be drawn, and didn't answer. Setting his notes down, he stared into his tea cup.
"Perhaps there's something else I can help you with, then. -But you've already got a housekeeper, laundry service, ...and now a proper secretary…"
"Wull, you're my driver, Sam."
"Hm. I meant...at home. There must be something else I could do, to be useful to you…"
He had no answer to that, his jaw shifting sideways.

Disheartened, Sam took her cup from the dining table and walked, frowning thoughtfully, into the sitting room. Foyle followed her with his eyes, pivoting a half-circle like a gun turret as she passed him.
Looking up from the settee, faking a blithe spirit, she suggested,
"Well then, since you're quite caught up with the book... We can just relax." She actually patted the seat beside her, invitingly. Foyle cocked a dubious eyebrow at her, and took his own chair by the hearth.
They sipped their tea in blessed silence.
Sam knew that her plan had entirely lost its momentum.
'Step nought.' she said to herself, shutting her eyes in disappointment.
Perhaps it was best just to tell him what she thought of his remark. After all, she didn't want to build up a resentment against him. She admired him too much.

Foyle thought there was something decidedly...wrong about her sitting there, half out of uniform, with her fair hair flowing down, curling attractively at her shoulders. It hadn't bothered him when she'd worn it that way while in civilian clothes, looking fresh-faced and girlish, but now she looked older, more mature somehow and -. And this was very non-regulation, and it didn't sit well with him - almost put him on edge, frankly.

Gathering her courage with each swallow Sam finished her cup of tea, set it down and looked at him very directly,
"Sir?"
"Yes, Sam." He murmured unhappily.
"It was jolly rotten of you to frighten me like that, you know."
Foyle's cup clanked into the saucer, but he spoke quietly,
"What? Wwhat're you on about, Sam?"
"In front of the others - 'A bit presumptuous'?! For a moment... I really thought you were going to chuck me out." Her throat constricted on the last word.
He scowled, but said nothing, unused to defending his little jokes at her expense. She'd always just accepted them in the spirit they were made.
"But you wouldn't, would you." A statement.
"W'oh, don't tempt me." He'd meant it to sound mildly flippant, as he'd said it to Brooke yesterday, but his words came out with an edge that disconcerted him.
Sam paused a beat, noting his annoyance, and oddly, it gave her confidence.
"You can't manage without me. ...Can you?" Almost a statement again, but she wanted reassurance from him.
"Lllook, Sam, what's this about? This isn't like you to..." He put aside his cup, agitated.
Her voice now gained a slight edge to it, nearly unprecedented in her relationship with her boss,
"Why else would you have invited me in, all these weeks, on the pretext of helping you with your book?"
"Pretense." He muttered, ungraciously.
"What?" She frowned in confusion.
"The word you want is 'p-pretense.'" As it left his lips he stuttered, knowing he'd trapped himself. He rolled his bottom lip between his teeth and looked away.
Sam's eyebrows rose slowly, "Is it? ...Is that a confession?"
His tongue burrowed into the bottom of his cheek. He felt decidedly caught out. And he couldn't possibly answer her question.

"Hmh." Sensing she had the upper hand, Sam recalculated again - and she admitted to herself she wasn't really a calculating sort of person. "Don't need a cook, or a housekeeper. Clearly you don't need me to type for you..." She went on conversationally, "Yet you find a- a 'pretense' to have me over, nearly every day, for weeks..."
"I'd hoped your typing would improve." He tried a small smile and stretched his eyes a bit.
"Well, it didn't."
"No."
"You'd probably figured that out some time ago, yet you still..."
"Sam." He shut his eyes, and rrreally wished she'd just stop.
She did stop, but only for a moment to further muster her resolve.
"Well I may as well tell you that I invited myself in this evening...as a 'pretense' to try to get back at you for your remark. But I- Well," She dropped her eyes, "It seems I can't do it."
Foyle tilted his head with a look of pained regret,
"Look, I'm...very sorry, Sam. Wasn't my intention to, er..."
She blurted out, "Wouldn't you like to know how I planned to get my revenge...?"
He stared at her,
"Nnno. No revenge needed, is there? I've apologised. ...Feel badly that, um..."
"That I was hurt?"
Wincing, he inclined his head in acknowledgement, "Yess. Wwon't happen again."
After a brief silence she gave another little sigh,
"This work is important to me, you know, even if it isn't much, in the grand scheme of things."
Foyle's expression softened, but he steered himself back onto the professional track, straightening up in his chair,
"...Yyour contribution is valued by us all, Sam. I've told you, you're an ...invaluable member of the team."
Samantha met his eyes with a disappointed half-smile that told him she knew when she was being placated.

And Foyle understood then, it wasn't just the uniform that made her look more mature - she was older. Over the past four years Sam had met some very difficult experiences head on, and had come through them changed, less innocent, yet still dedicated to the cause.
Not unlike his son, who kept brushing off his words of concern and telling him he didn't understand what he was going through. Unfortunately he understood only too well what this war was doing to the younger generation. But it seemed he often didn't have the right words to help.
...Aand here was Sam letting him know it was much the same case with her.
Well, if he couldn't be his son's friend, maybe he could be hers.

He lowered his head with a twist of his lips signalling an admission of fault,
"Sorry."
After a pause he looked up apologetically but with a hopeful, inquiring eyebrow, "Drink?"
A cautious smile, "If you're having one."
Glancing away and then back at her, he muttered,
"Wull, been a hell of a week, hasn't it?"
Her eyes lit and her smile grew,
"Yes, it has."
Foyle got up and went to the drinks tray, remarking as he poured two whiskies,
"I nearly got shot. How about you?"
"Oh, threatened, bullied, warned off." She was still smiling.
He added water to both glasses, handed her one, then took his chair as he loosened his necktie and unbuttoned his collar.
"D'you want to tell me about it?"
"Not particularly. Do you?"
He grimaced a 'no,' and they sipped their drinks. After a moment he asked,
"Well, how's this going to work?"
She smiled to herself, pleased, then beamed across at him,
"Treat me like one of the men."
"Rreally don't think I could do that."
Sam's grin slid sideways at his wide-eyed acknowledgement of her gender.
"Colleagues by day..." She began lightly, then stopped and reddened, realising it would be inappropriate to suggest they'd have regular contact 'by night.' Her cheeks blushed a deeper hue when Foyle met her look directly and held it.
He seemed to be waiting with some interest for her to finish the thought. When he raised an eyebrow fractionally her heart leapt into her throat.

Sam dropped her cheerful gaze and took a fast gulp of her whisky, half of which went down her windpipe and set her choking. When she didn't recover straight away, Foyle left his drink, crossed the carpet, sat down beside her and patted her back helpfully. She cleared her throat and drew in a ragged gasp.
"Not meant to breathe it in, y'know." He said, still patting.
"...Yes. ...I know." She replied, coughing and wheezing, and put down her glass.
Foyle rubbed her back in soothing circular motions, watching her profile closely until she had calmed.
Blinking from the tears in her eyes she turned to him with an embarrassed smile,
"Th-thanks." As she'd turned, her khaki-skirted knee touched his. He didn't react, outwardly, though they were mere inches apart, regarding each other at close range.
"Better?" He removed his hand but there was nowhere he could easily, or innocently, rest it, and it hovered uncertainly behind her.
Unused to quite this proximity to him - his end-of-the-day masculine scent, his compact yet commanding physicality, and those piercing blue eyes - Samantha's heart thudded in her breast and she found herself unable to look away. She lowered her eyes as she felt herself drawn by magnetism towards his expressive mouth, was alarmed as she felt herself drift closer, and thrilled when their lips actually met.
Foyle's hand settled with a heavy warmth between her shoulder blades, pressing her nearer, then he gently broke the kiss.
"...Certainly not 'one of the men.' He mumbled, a bit stunned.

But Sam was past talking and only wanted to repeat the experience. He met her halfway with a restrained willingness that only inflamed her passion, spurring her blindly forward. Her hand rose to caress his whisker-shadowed cheek, her lips parted for him, and then she was lost in the sensations of their mutual exploration.
When a pleading little sound escaped her, he broke away again, startled, saying gruffly,
"Er...Over the speed limit, Sam."
"I didn't see a sign..." She countered in plaintive breathlessness.
"Nnot posted. Expected to know." To avoid her next onslaught he guided her head to rest on his shoulder. She didn't see him squeeze his eyes shut in an agony of emotional and moral torment. He pronounced quietly,
"Wwe should leave this. It's wrong."
"Doesn't feel wrong. Feels absolutely right." She reached for his neck but he seized her hand and held it on his chest,
"...Ifff this is part of your revenge..."
"Christopher!" She chided and lifted her head to look at him.
"Nno? Sorry. It's-em... What?!"
"Well I can't very well call you 'Sir' now, can I?"
"Christ." He whispered to himself.
She laid her head on his shoulder again, in an effort to calm her excitement,
"Does this seem like revenge?"
"Definitely doesn't seem like...ffriendship."
"You must know how I-."
He interrupted her, insisting,
"Wwe can stop this now. We should...stop this now, Sam."
Yet he didn't push her away, or move away himself. In fact, he subsided against the settee's backrest, drawing her with him.
"Should we? I'm rather comfortable here, actually." And she settled herself more snugly against him, under his arm, her hand resting on his waistcoat. Sam fancied she could feel his heart thumping. She certainly felt the rise and fall of his chest.
"I'm not trying to seduce you. I wouldn't know how."
Foyle expelled a short involuntary huff. "Really."
"What?"
"Mm-sure you have no idea."
"About what?"
"Yourrr...erm...effect. On men."
"Men?" She frowned, "Which men?"
"Wull, can't speak for the others."
"Hmh. Can you speak for yourself?"
"...Rrrather not."
He gave his head a shake, "Look, Sam, we've tried less than five minutes of acknowledged friendship and you can see where it's got us." A splayed hand shot out horizontally, "Wwe should just go back to-."
"It wasn't enough."
"Wull, where've we heard that recently?"
"I'm not looking for just a bit of fun. I'm not like Jane Hudson. You know that."
"Wwhat're you saying, then?"
Sam answered in a small supplicating voice,
"That...we're meant to be together. Aren't we?" She sat up to better study his face, but he'd retreated behind a mask of troubled neutrality. His silence undermined her confidence, and she asked resignedly,
"Will you please tell me what you're thinking?"
With his other hand he scrubbed his forehead, as he stared into the cold hearth across the room. Sam saw something like pain moistening his eyes, which she took as a sign of his discomfort, a sign of rejection.
She lifted her chin to stop its quiver giving away her upset,
"I see I've made a mistake. Sorry."
She got up to leave - to escape, really - and added in her brightest, though constricted, voice, "See you Monday, Sir."

She'd taken two steps before he arrested her hand, "Nno." And rose to stand behind her. "...Haven't made a mistake." He clasped her right hand in his, and she felt his warm breath on her hair. "Wull, perhaps you have, if you rreally think..."
Sam didn't dare turn, and held her breath, waiting for him to explain.
His voice came as a doubting whisper,
"Where'd you get such an idea, Sam?"
"...Four years of close observation. You see, I need you to keep me out of trouble, and you need me to... well, perhaps you'd best say."
He took a step and pressed his cheek to her hair,
"To get me into trouble."
Her smile wavered between pleasure and disbelief. Then she felt his lips on her temple and closed her eyes in pure joy. Samantha faced him and wrapped her arms around his neck,
"If you like."
"Ssam..." His hands were on her waist, but he hadn't yet embraced her.
"I love you, Christopher. That's all there is to it."
This seemed to cause him more discomfort. He looked away,
"...Hhardly know me, Sam."
She compressed her lips into a determined line, then whispered,
"I know you. ...I know you, Christopher."
These words brought his troubled eyes back to scan hers. The furrows between his brows smoothed in a nascent look of hopefulness.
She softly smiled, "I want to know more...than you'll ever show your driver."
He quirked his mouth to one side, pleased and admiring.
"As for me..." she added, "I suppose I'm an open book."
"W'll, no. You've…been very surprising from Day One, Sam."
"Have I?"
"Mmh. Hidden depths..." He narrowed his eyes at her in appreciation.
She grinned with shy delight, just as she had an hour earlier walking into the Station,
"That's the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me!"
And since they were alone, and everything was different now, Foyle showed her his true feeling at seeing that beaming, sunny smile directed at him.

His arms went around her slender form drawing her close, and he met her eager mouth with a reverent passion that astonished her. After a while Sam found herself on his lap, on the settee again, his hand caressing her hair and the other on her hip. Yet he hadn't taken any further liberties. Panting with him, she let go her grip behind his neck, took hold of his hand and raised it to her breast.
He gasped but didn't remove his hand.
"Sam..." He protested into her ear.
"Please..."
"We mustn't..."
"...Sheep as a lamb...?" She breathed querulously.
She felt a puff of laughter on her cheek and heard the smile in his voice,
"Mmmeant to keep you out of trouble." He moved his hand down to her hip.
"I'm nearly twenty-seven! If I don't get some trouble soon I'll...!"
"Twenty-seven? That much?" He murmured.
"Yes!" She cried, as if it were a scandal.
"Rrright..." Foyle struggled thoughtfully over her proposition and inhaled deeply, only to be instantly intoxicated by the rising sweet erotic musk of her frustrated desire. He pressed his lips to her brow a moment, found his inner censor had gone unusually quiet, and announced,
"Well you'd best come with me, then."

Samantha gawked as he nudged her off his lap and stood up. Her eyes darted to the straining bulge in his trousers and she knew what it represented, but beyond that she was a complete novice. Foyle led her by the hand around the settee, across the hall to the foot of the stairs, then stopped. Taking both her hands, he asked quietly,
"Hhow much trouble would you like?"
Cheeks ablaze, she was too nervous to meet his eyes, too bashful to look down towards his trousers, so instead focused on his chin. She swallowed,
"Um, I'm...not exactly..."
Her own voice was higher than she'd expected, while his was lower than she was used to.
Christopher leaned in and kissed her.
"Just take it a step at a time, shall we...?"
He let go of one hand but then paused to reassure her, "Only need to say 'stop.'"
As they mounted the stairs Sam's breaths came so rapidly that she felt quite dizzy on the landing. He stood close again and nosed below her ear,
"You know where the bathroom is. The, um, dressing gown's still on the hook on the back bedroom door. ...Mmeet you here when you're ready."
Sam was confused. Her limited experience with one or two fresh young men had involved rather rapid escalations leading to determined fending off of strong hands.
"...Christopher."
"Sam?"
"You're not just...?"
"Hmm?"
"Doing this for me..., are you?"
The rumble of laughter in his throat was quite unexpected.
"Sweetheart. Mmay be a bit past ravishing young ladies on the sofa, but, em. Very int'rested." And to prove it he took her in his arms again, kissed her soundly, ran a hand down her spine to her bottom and pulled her against his hips. She felt the shockingly firm evidence of his desire and, with a quick gasp, sank into him, her brain whirling in excitement and anxiety.
"And, em, ...assume you'll be accepting my proposal of marr-?"
"Yes!" She answered distractedly, "Can we...?" Now it was Foyle's turn to be led, as Sam made for his bedroom, pulling him at speed.

There was still a low-slanting sunlight at the window, and Christopher wasn't about to delay the pure pleasure of seeing Samantha unclothed by mentioning the Blackout. As soon as she released his hand he slipped out of his jacket and waistcoat. She followed suit by kicking off her shoes and stockings and then unfastened her skirt. He pulled apart the knot of his tie and tossed it onto his pile of garments on the chair.

He joined her and took over the unbuttoning of her uniform shirt. Sam watched his fingers descend down her front with wide eyes, and he couldn't resist chucking her under the chin. She gave him a fleeting smile which vanished as he slid the khaki shirt off her shoulders. Now she wore only her slip and undergarments.
Sam bit her bottom lip studiously and reached to start on his shirt buttons. He saw her hands were shaking, then realised she was trembling all over. Closing his eyes, he wondered, 'When was the last time he'd made a woman tremble?'
He bent to bestow a reassuring kiss, and softly said,
"C'mon."

He led her to his bed, pulled back the counterpane and sheet, and tilted his head to indicate she should climb in. As Sam sat on the edge and swung her legs in, he walked to the other side. Foyle pushed off his braces, removed his wristwatch, cuff links, shirt and vest in short order, then sat to discard his shoes and socks, and finally pivoted to face her.
Samantha seemed a small figure in the bed, her hair a golden halo on the pillow. Her eyes were wide, her breast noticeably rising and falling. And he felt the responsibility of what they were about to do.
Christopher took hold of her hand, "...All right?"
"So far...!"
He chuckled at her willing enthusiasm in the face of the unknown, and asked,
"Mmay I join you?"
Glancing like a skittish colt at his broad shoulders, solid arms and lightly furred chest, she nodded briskly, "Umhumh!"
He turned and lay down beside her on top of the covers, propping his head on his hand, and held her fingers to his lips.
Samantha darted a puzzled look at him. After a pause she took in a quick breath to ask,
"D-did you ever learn to swim, Christopher?"
His eyebrows rose.
"Ummm, yes. I can swim. ...Interesting question."
He waited for her explanation, which came in a torrent of words.
"W-well, you see, as a child, I was quite frightened to learn, and wouldn't get into the water, and my cousins were rather fed up with me hanging back, and one day they just dragged me to the edge and pushed me in."
"Oh."
"Well, the thing is, after I got over the shock, and found I could actually float, I quite liked it."
"I see."
"And I became quite a good swimmer that very summer!" She flashed an earnest look at him.
"Did you?" The corner of his mouth hitched up in amusement. "So...you're saying...?"
"Well I'm actually rather nervous just now, so... L-let's not hang back...?"
Christopher ran his tongue over his lips and gave a nod of acquiescence, "Rright."
A moment later he was naked under the covers with her, and Sam had shed her slip.
He pulled her close, kissed her brow, her cheek, her lips, and locking his eyes on hers, murmured,
"Ssamantha... V'lloved you for four years. Nnever expected...you'd..."
Her voice was warm but breathy,
"Of course I love you, Christopher. Fell in love with you straight away." Her fingers caressed the curls at the back of his head, "That's half the reason I say such silly things at times - I'm a bit on edge around you." She was still trembling.
"Well, nnever suspected..."
"That's because I didn't want to lose my job."
"Oh I see. And now...?" He smiled.
"You wouldn't fire me now. We'll see the War out together."
His smile grew, as she seemed to be thinking only of her length of service and discounting the fact that they were, now, in bed together. Surely a firing offence for one or the other, if not both of them. Hardly seemed the time to mention it.
"Expect you're right." And added contentedly, "...Can't manage without you."
Her eyes glowed with happiness, then clouded again with apprehension. Abruptly she brought the conversation back to the matter at hand,
"Will it hurt?"
He pressed his lips to her forehead, then looked solicitously into her eyes,
"Mmay be a moment that's a little uncomfortable. It'll be fine, Sweetheart. People've been doing this for...quite a while, I believe." And he ran his hand persuasively up her back to the fastening of her brassière.
"Yes, so I've h-heard..."
With a deft flick he had opened the garment. His fingers sought her breast as he murmured,
"It's very popular..."

Almost wordlessly Christopher guided her through the initial gratifications of mutual exploration, and Sam was an eager pupil, learning her body's responses along with him. As a lover, Christopher had always seen his role as entirely worshipful, and now he devoted himself to transforming his young partner's shivers of nerves into waves of pleasure. Amongst his many tender ministrations Sam found the sensation of his mouth and tongue on her breasts nearly overwhelming, and wondered what more powerful delights there could possibly be.

He soon enlarged her understanding, slipping down between her thighs and applying dedicated lingual adoration to her innocent flesh. Revelling in her soft cries, her unpracticed writhing, and the sweet, heady taste of vestal efflux, he was nearly at the point of climax himself. A part of his mind exalted in the fantasy of keeping her here with him, in this unsullied state forever, a feast for the senses never depleted... But then his carnal, animal urges insisted on their primal right of conquest, of breach and penetration and possession. The essential violence of the act - euphemistically called 'deflowering' - caused him some consternation, and in truth this would be only his second undertaking of the deed.

Despite Samantha's now fever-pitched keening, Christopher left off these venerations to rise onto his knees and make his way upwards along her lithe, slender form. Deceptively unhurried in his progress, he paused at each of the stations - hipbones, navel, solar plexus, nipples, clavicle - with soft devotions and murmured reflections, in a spirit of reparation for the insult and brief suffering he was about to offer her.

Sam, for her part, was desperate for the cresting completion she instinctively felt he had just denied her by changing his approach. She couldn't see what was coming, his broad, deep chest blocked her view, and despite a frisson of fear when his strong hands braced her shoulders, she maintained a receptive position. Closing her eyes to better focus on physical sensation, Samantha felt an initial soft nudging of something that seemed too large and heavy, and wondered momentarily why his knee might be involved, until the long hard object probed further, making easy, steady ingress into space she hadn't known she possessed. And it felt mmarrrvellouss.

Christopher whimpered.
He withdrew a little way, probed again and met the expected resistance, while Sam uttered an unwary, sensual moan of approval. Inflamed, and with sudden inspiration, he breathed hotly by her neck,
"Here comes trouble."
Sam froze, her eyes flew open, and she let out an incongruous burst of laughter. At that instant he thrust forcefully inwards and broke through the unwanted barrier. A little cry of surprised pain was soon followed by cooing acceptance as he soothed her deep inside with gentle loving strokes. She was astonished at the sensation of being filled up by him.
Before, her arms had been resting affectionately, encouragingly on his back, but now her hands grasped him with fierce purpose. Having never done this before, she instinctively answered his thrusts, slow and considerate at first, then insistent and demanding. Her lover's appreciative groans of pleasure entranced her, infusing her with a new sense of power, and also of allegiance. Like never before, she knew for a certainty that they were in this together, with each other one-hundred percent. And fittingly they reached their climax together, her first ever and his first in many years.

Christopher, reverting to the true gentleman he was, managed to collapse onto his side, pulling Samantha with him so as not to withdraw too suddenly. They panted together, his eyes shut in bliss, hers wide open in admiration.
A smile played over Christopher's mouth before he asked,
"And was that enough...?"

Finis.