Jeeso, this update took me ages. Enjoy, anyway.

Edward lit up a cigar. A quick 'FTCH-oooooooo…' and the sweet briar and jasmine exhaled from the end in heavenly tendrils. A round, pale hand slapped onto his chest. Both he and his lover were jewelled with sweat as their panting chests began to regulate unevenly. 'That was wonderful' she hissed hotly in his ear. Edward rolled her softly into his arms and rested his forehead against hers, pouring his gaze into her eyes.

'I love you' he whisped, though in their respective hearts, no warm feeling of any permanence dwelled.

'I love you, also' she cooed, until a disappointment unwrapped within her. She did not love him, and only she out of the two of them knew it. She rose from the silk bedding.

'Where are you going' he whispered seductively, paddling his fingers up her waist and leaning in to kiss her neck. 'Stay with me' he insisted.

Usually she could resist him, but he smiled in a certain way and touched her in a certain way, free of lewd want, but with an unspoken, omnipotent promise of dark satisfaction; a promise she had immediate faith in, as if she had prayed for it.

'You don't love me' she stated, as the warmth of his mouth began to lap at hers. 'Celine' he said vaguely, as she got up fully from the bed and began to slip on her various dress 'I do love you, I pledge it constantly'.

'Your pledges and gifts never bear any constancy… You cannot love me; you say I am beautiful and gracious: those words ripple with truth when I look into your eyes, but you do not love me'.

The argument that ensued was one of considerable warmth, after which, they both parted to their separate indulgences: Edward secluded himself to a gambling ring, and Celine sought refuge in an elegant get-together. Edward returned earlier, full of drink and lust, to discover Celine had chosen to drown her sorrows in another form of debauchery…

I rode Mesrour forward with a more thrashing haste than I usually reserved for my returning to Thornfield. He galloped obediently, nonetheless. If only women were as easy to master. It was as if Cupid had an evil doppelgänger , who speared the hearts of the besotted with poisoned arrows.

Mid-gallop, I was tossed violently from my unruly steed. Upon regaining my swirling vision, I gazed angrily from the mud at the pale, small, childish creature that startled Mesrour.

Her features, and expression were of supreme contradiction: she was enquiring and firm, helpful and stoical.

'Are you injured, Sir?' her voice unyielding and curious. I swore and cursed, for want of nothing better to say, demanding 'you must stand to one side' as I plodded up from the dirt she had cast me into. I heaved and stamped a great deal for effect.

I passed through her helping me to my horse in a humid dazed. Ever vigilant to maintain my ground against her, I grunted and gruffed through the encounter, allowing no hint of my excitement and triumph to drip through, as I learnt she would be living with me.

Upon recommencement of my journey, I swatted away thoughts half-dipped in eroticism. 'I should have offered her a ride home' … 'pulled her up onto Mesrour, shelter her small form with my cloak…'.

However, reason prevailed that she may be as vapid and worthless as my string of betrayers and disappointments; ignoring the creeping fact that I would come to enjoy probing her to assure whether or not she was so.