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There was a half day’s ride at least before Angelica Schuyler-Church and her brother Philip reached Manhattan. The trip, which pulled Angelica away from her father’s Albany estate, was unplanned. But it was not necessarily unwelcome. Though Angelica had been enjoying herself lakeside with her sister Eliza and the children, there was someone in Manhattan whom she longed to see. Sarah De Lancey (of the New York De Lanceys) was not that person, though it was her letter that bade Angelica come to the city, if she could, for the upcoming meeting of the Society Ladies:

There is talk amongst certain members of the Society (the letter read) that you have forsaken temporarily that fairer side of the Atlantic and are with us now in America. Do come to the Meeting on the 28th. Alva will host. We have all heard of your triumph bringing the Count de Noaille and family out of Paris. We would have your thoughts and encouragement on this whole ordeal.

The “ordeal” in question was the revolution currently underway in France. Spurred on by Jefferson and LaFayette, the French followed in America’s example, though somewhere along the line that example had become corrupted, in Angelica’s opinion: people rioted in the streets of Paris, demanding the heads of the royal family in the name of liberté, egalité, fraternité. What began as unnecessary bloodshed was spiraling into a reign of terror. Couthon and Robespierre were becoming dangerous tyrants in their own right and would send any man or woman to the guillotine for so much as blinking in a way that seemed loyal to the crown.

Several of Mr. and Mrs. Church’s friends had written from Paris. They had to get out now, they said, or risk their lives and those of their children. Angelica had personally arranged passage for several of them, including the French bishop Charles Talleyrand, whose care she had entrusted to Alexander Hamilton, her brother-in-law. He had done an admirable job, to be sure. Fed, clothed, and set the man up with employment so that he might make a life for himself here in America. If only Alexander would be as generous with his attention and time when it came to Angelica and Eliza.

He ought to have been with them in Albany that summer. If he had been, he could have escorted Angelica to the City and she would not have had to listen to Philip’s inexorable snoring. Eliza had offered to accompany them, but Angelica advised her to stay. There was fever in the city, it was rumored, and the air upstate was so much better to breathe. Without questioning, Eliza had agreed with Angelica’s logic. Angelica tried to convince herself that she had acted only out of concern for her sister’s health. But as she sat in the carriage, drawing closer and closer to the City she felt an excitement rising in her that had nothing to do with the French or the Society Ladies…

There wasn’t a day Angelica did not hate herself for the treachery that lived in her heart.

***

It was in moments like these that he would come to her. Within the privacy of a carriage, her sole companion asleep on the seat opposite her own, she was free to unfold that dark, secret part of her mind. The part reserved, in spite of her every effort to ban him, for one man. The man was not John Church, her husband. No, far from it. The man on her mind had no equal when it came to his combination of intelligence, ambition, and enterprise. Angelica had understood this fact almost immediately upon meeting him at the Winter’s Ball all those years ago. And Eliza. Oh, Eliza. She had known it, too.

But Angelica was tired of the shame which tinged all thoughts of that night. She would not think of it. At least for now. She would give her mind over to the groaning, creaking carriage frame, the steady clop of hooves. A racket that would lull even the wickedest child into a sweet sleep. The constant jostle, back and forth. It calmed her. The tilt of the head, the drooping of the lids, they were almost involuntary. Now, just as she did every night before sleep, she conjured his face. His expression was mild but his eyes were burning, always burning, with the next remark, the next sentence. “Alexander,” Angelica whispered.

The interminable motion took hold of her body and made it heavy. She sank deeper into the plush velvet seat. Those eyes. He had the most intelligent eyes. The carriage rumbled on; she felt the vibration in her chest. And if she shifted in her seat, spread her legs a bit, that rumble would awaken her body and her imagination. He wore a green waist coat. And beneath it? Crisp white shirt, tucked into his breeches. Did she dare drop her gaze further?

Her hand moved of its own accord, slipped under her thigh, sought the humming between her legs. She could feel the heat there, even through her skirt and petticoats. Her hand tightened into a fist and she rocked against it. Yes. She would dare now, here in the privacy of this carriage and her own thoughts. Those eyes of his. How she hated to leave them. Her gaze traveled down his chest and met with evidence of his arousal, bulging in his breeches. Would that it were tangible…She closed her eyes and imagined pressing herself against him. The thought of it was enough to make her sigh aloud. Her eyes flew open and she scrutinized Philip’s face for any sign of waking. Nothing. The man could sleep through cannon fire, which was lucky for her. Angelica squirmed against her hand, imagining it belonged to Alexander. That familiar ache balled in her groin and pulsed through her body.

***

Oh, but he was impossible at times. Had she not crossed the ocean to spend the summer with him and Eliza? She’d said as much in the Hamilton’s parlor two months ago, on the eve of their departure for Albany. Eliza’s letter had promised that the three of them would be together that summer, but now Alexander was preoccupied with his debt plan. “I’ve crossed the ocean for this?” Angelica raged, her temper suddenly overcoming her.

Eliza shushed her. “The children are in bed.”

The three of them were standing around the center table, upon which were strewn the remnants of two bottles of wine and a game of whist. Angelica and Alexander stared at each other, the color rising on both of their faces. “Angelica,” Alexander began. “I must find a way to best the Republicans. Madison and Jefferson—.”

“Must we speak always of these damned Virginians?”Angelica felt Eliza's disapproving glare.

“They are the chief fools in all of this!” he cried. “Blinded by loyalty to each other and to archaic institutions. They dismiss out of hand what they cannot understand! It is no wonder I can’t get through to them.”

“Alexander, please,” Eliza hissed. “Unless you would like to minister to the baby when he wakes?”

Alexander folded his arms but was silent.

Angelica regrouped. When she spoke, her voice was soft and controlled: “While I admire the depth of this character analysis, your diatribe is useless on me. I am not a politician whose vote can help your cause. Nor would I be inclined to, even if you and your fellow statesmen had seen fit to include my fair sex in the governing of our nation.”

“Surely you must see—”

“Government runs on compromise, Alexander. As do many things in life.”

“I cannot negotiate with imbeciles.”

“Of course you can. Sit down with Jefferson. A compromise does not necessarily have to be equal. The other party just has to think it is.”

Alexander frowned at her. She scowled back.

“Well, I’m going up to bed,” Eliza announced. “Shall I leave you two to debate the future of our country?”

Angelica searched Alexander’s face. “You really will not join us?”

His reply was quiet. “I lose my job if I don’t get this plan through congress.”

“I came all this way…” Angelica struggled to keep the emotion out of her voice.

Alexander pinched his brow. “I can’t stop until I get this plan through congress.”

“Come, sister,” Eliza said, taking Angelica’s arm. “Leave him.”

Angelica allowed herself to be led away, but not before Alexander had raised his eyes to hers and she communicated the full force of her fury in a glare. He stared back at her, his mouth open stupidly. There may have been distress in his eyes, or confusion, but she didn’t care. If he was smart enough to write the Federalist Papers, he was smart enough to understand why she was angry with him now.

She refused to engage in conversation with him over breakfast the next day, though he tried several times to speak to her about the illogical objections of the Republicans to his credit scheme. She knew it gave him pleasure to discuss these things with her, as she understood far more than any other woman, or man, for that matter, and so it gave her a kind of vindictive pleasure to deny him access to her mind. 

After breakfast, she and Eliza left Manhattan with young Philip, Angelica (named, of course, for her esteemed aunt), Alexander Jr., and the baby in tow. Amidst the hubbub of children playing in the front hall and porters shuffling in and out the door with their luggage, Alexander approached Angelica.

“Well if it isn’t the man of the hour,” Angelica said. “Are you sure you can spare the time to see us off?”

He did not flinch at her words. “I would not miss it.”

She looked him in the eye. The earnestness she saw there, real or not, disarmed her. She sighed. “You will be missed," she admitted.

He moved closer to her and took her hands. His palms were warm, lightly calloused. His thumb stroked the back of her hand. “Angelica.” Was he going to apologize? Unlikely. She could count on one hand the number of apologies he’d issued in his life, none of them to her. With practiced charm, he leaned into her and pressed his lips to her cheek. There he lingered for a moment, whispering something in her ear. She heard him but did not immediately register what he'd said, given his scalding proximity. Once he had withdrawn and turned to Eliza and the children, Angelica put meaning to his words. It had not been an apology, of course. No, he had said what he always said when they parted ways: ma chère, soeur, he'd whispered, don’t forget to write.

***

Two months by the lake cooled Angelica’s anger considerably. Still, though, she did not write. She tried to tell herself that it was because she was busy corresponding with the Society Ladies, arranging for lodging and engaging speakers for the upcoming meeting. To admit that Alexander’s absence stung her everyday would be to admit defeat, and that was not something Angelica Schuyler-Church was ever inclined to do. Best then to push him completely from her mind. His letters arrived and she did not open them. The lines of greeting and affection he wrote to her in every letter he sent his wife she heard, but only because she would not deny Eliza the pleasure of reading them. It was ridiculous that this man, her sister’s husband, should consume her so. She should have put an end to it years ago. Why, then, had she been so eager to accept Sarah De Lancey’s invitation?

Upon their arrival in Manhattan on the 25th of August, Philip saw to it that Angelica was settled comfortably in her rented rooms before heading downtown to the club. That first night she spent in her own company. She had never been a particularly good traveler and she was glad for the respite from social obligations. She ate only a light dinner, so as to settle her road-weary stomach.

She woke late the next morning to an unusually pleasant day. Heavy rains the night before—which she had slept soundly through—had lifted the humidity that plagued the City during the hot summer months. Outside, the sky was blue and hung with fat clouds. A breeze blew away the harshest of the sun’s rays. Perfect weather for a stroll, Angelica decided. After she had breakfasted and dressed, she took her parasol and went out. She called first on Sarah De Lancey, as was her obligation. They spoke at length about the goings on in France, each woman sharing her own horror stories, some more substantiated than others.

Angelica went next to see the Roosevelts, then the Astors, the Beekmans (who were not at home; she left her card), the Osgoods, and the Wendells. When she left the last house, it was six o’ clock. The evening sun bronzed the faces of the buildings and the people. She ought to have headed west towards her rooms; Philip surely would have been by and left a note about dinner. But she did not go west. Her steps took her north, instead, towards Harlem.

When she arrived at the Hamilton house on 141st street, the sun was low in the sky, indeed. The breeze had turned chill, and it whipped through her hair and skirts, but Angelica knew that was not why she shivered. During her walk she had contrived reason after reason for paying Alexander a visit. Something she could tell Eliza, if pressed. She settled on the extraction of an apology. When she stood on the porch, however, her hand hovering over the knocker, all her conviction deserted her. She sighed, turned around, and then turned once more towards the door. “Oh, don’t be a coward,” she chided herself. She took hold of the knocker and dropped it twice against the door.

There was no answer. She listened for footsteps but heard none. When a minute had passed, she knocked again. She looked around her, to see if anyone observed her standing there on the Hamilton’s porch. Few people were about. And by now dusk was settling; she really had better get back to her rooms. She could take a hansom cab, if necessary. One last time, she looked back at the door. Her eyes settled on the brass knob. She tried it, on an impulse, and to her surprise it was unlocked. The door swung inward by itself and left a gaping entrance to the house before her. Cautious, she stepped inside, passing through the foyer and into the dark front hall. The maid must have gone home already, she thought, or Alexander did not keep one when he lived alone in the house.

“Hello?” she called. Again there was no answer. She thought to abandon this crazy venture, which might be construed as a burglary or some other form of trespassing, when a thump sounded upstairs. Angelica startled, her hand flying to her chest. She listened, waiting to hear the sound again but everything was quiet. What had that been? Something hitting the floor, she guessed. Angelica crept towards the stairs, the hairs rising on the back of her neck. There was no reason yet to suspect anything amiss, but she could not help feeling as though disaster awaited her upstairs. She mounted the staircase, the steps creaking under her weight. She did not dare call out again. Finally, after what seemed an eternity of careful movement, she gained the landing. The only light here was faint and flickering; it came from beneath the door at the end of the hallway. Alexander’s study. She drifted towards it like a moth to a flame.

Only after she had pushed open the door and met his startled gaze did she think how much of a fright she’d give him, materializing like a spirit out of the dark. He had been sitting with his chair pushed back onto two legs. At the sight of her, he lost his balance and the chair thudded forward onto the ground. So this was what she had heard from downstairs.

He squinted at her. “Angelica?” He looked as though he’d just woken from a dream. His body was hunched, his hair mussed. In front of him, on the desk, was a sea of parchment, the ink still glistening on several of the sheets.

“I—I knocked several times,” she stammered. “And the door was unlocked.”

He rose from the chair. “What are you doing here?”

“I was in the neighborhood,” she said, inventing rapidly. “I thought to pay a call.”

“Does Eliza know you are here?”

“No. She stayed in Albany. I'm only here for a meeting, anyway. The Society Ladies..."

He stared at her a beat. “You’ve not returned any of my letters.”

Angelica forced a smile. “We might have discussed the content of those letters and hundreds more, face to face, if you had joined us in Albany.”

He laughed, but she could tell he was not amused.

“Well,” she said, motioning to the mess on his desk. “Is it coming along, then?”

He frowned down at his work. “Hardly,” he muttered. Then, suddenly animated, he plucked his quill from its pot and scrawled a quick series of words on the parchment directly beneath him.

“You know,” Angelica said, stepping into the room, “a mind benefits from rest every once and awhile.”

“That is a rich man’s logic.”

She bristled. “Why here, then? Why this close, dark cave, where you will surely go insane! Can you not scratch away at your parchment in Albany?”

“Of course I cannot!”

“And why not?”

“Especially not with you—”

“With me what? Alexander, I have been nothing but supportive of your work and ambitions.”

He began to pace, his hands on his hips. “Yes. Yes, you have been. I only meant…”

Angelica turned away from him. Her hands were shaking; she balled them into fists so that he wouldn’t see.

“Please,” Alexander said. He sounded exasperated. She heard him stride across the room to stand behind her. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Will you sit?”

“No,” she said. “I think I had better go.”

“Angelica.” He took her by the shoulders and spun her to face him. “You  must believe me when I say that I do not mean or want to upset you.”

“Why, then?” she shouted, shrugging out of his grip. “Why do you avoid me?”

“Because…” He inhaled deeply, then let out a violent sigh. “Because…Angelica, would you have me say it?”

“Say it now or I shall never make that damned sea voyage again.”

He looked at the floor. “You…you turn my mind away from…my work, from…my wife.” He raised his eyes to hers. “From the fact that you, too, are a married woman.”

Angelica’s heart hammered in her chest. He stood there in front of her, his brow creased, hands fidgeting, waiting for her to respond. When she did not, he cleared his throat and said. “Can I get you something to drink?” He turned around, searching the room. “I know I had a decanter in here somewhere.”

Insane, Angelica thought. He must be at least partially insane. To voice his adulterous thoughts and then offer her a drink as if this were afternoon tea.

“No?” he continued. “Well, then, have you eaten? I’m afraid my pantry is rather poorly stocked but we might throw something together…”

Angelica could not contain her laughter. She surprised both of them with a sudden fit of giggles.

“What is it?” Alexander’s expression wavered, caught between amusement and confusion. “What could I possibly have said to tickle you so?”

Angelica’s hand flew to her chest as she struggled to catch her breath. She shook her head.

“What?”

“I don’t know what to do with you,” she admitted.

He affected mock concern. “Have I got something on my face? I did make a mess of the soup I had for lunch.”

Angelica wondered if they had ever stood so close to each other, or ever been so alone together. And was he not standing closer to her now than he was a few seconds ago? She’d not had a drop of alcohol in days and yet she felt drunk with the proximity of his body to hers.

“Alexander,” she said. Her heart was beating so loud she could hear it in her skull. “What would you do if I kissed you right now?”

He was quiet. His face had lost its mirth, turned solemn all at once. But his eyes betrayed him. She watched them stray from her own, every other second, to linger on her lips. He turned away from her. She would never know what communion he held with himself there, his back to her, his hand braced against the wall. He stood like that for a minute, maybe. Maybe longer.

Angelica touched his back and he whipped around, as if her fingers had shocked him. He grabbed her, gathered her to his chest, one arm clutching her back, the other buried in her hair. He dropped his forehead onto her shoulder. They stood there, trembling, pressing into each other as if they might become one. “Kiss me,” she whispered, so softly that she was sure he had not heard. But then his hand moved in her hair, tilting her head back, and he covered her mouth with his own.

Her jaw went slack, inviting his tongue inside her mouth. He was everywhere, all at once. A welcome invasion. He crushed the breath out of her but she kept drinking him in. More, more. He was solid and real and standing in front of her, smothering her senses and she was crazed with the need to touch him. All of him. She let her hand fall from his chest to his belt, where she could feel by pressing up against him just how solid and real his desire was. The lightest touch was all she allowed herself. Only the tips of her fingers, skating along his length, through the fabric of his breeches. He gasped, staggered backwards. Against the wall again. He looked at her with dark mad eyes, flush cheeks. “Angelica…this is wrong, it's--If we go any further I won’t be able to control myself.”

Angelica wasn't hearing him. Her body screamed at the loss of contact with his and her desire made her brazen. “Mr. Hamilton,” she said. “Has anyone ever told you that you talk too much?”

He smiled, in spite of himself, and this was all the permission Angelica needed. She stepped to him and on tiptoe pinned him against the wall, reclaiming his mouth. He hesitated, but only for a moment. Then his mouth softened against hers. The smell, the taste of him--coffee, mint, leather, and something else that she could not name but recognized as distinctly him--all these things sped her up, urged her on, fired the knot in her groin so that it began to melt.

He pulled her lower lip between his teeth and sucked on it. Then his mouth had left hers and was trailing kisses down her throat, around her neck. His lips brushed the sensitive spot where her neck met her shoulder, making her shiver. He lingered there, whispering against her skin, and then without warning he bit her—not hard, but firmly, possessively—and she cried out.

“Ma chère,” he murmured, as he maneuvered her backwards, “you make the sweetest little sounds.” No sooner did she feel the desk behind her than his hands were around her waist, lifting her so that she sat upon the unbound tome of pages on his desk.

“Take care,” she giggled. “Your magnum opus."

“My dear, I think these pages could hope for no greater inspiration—” he grabbed the lamp and the ink pot and quill, moving them to a safer spot on a shelf—“than that of your presence.”

He flashed her a wicked smile before scooping up her legs and skirts and spinning her so that she lay lengthwise on the desk. A flurry of paper filled the air, settled on the ground as he slotted himself deftly between her legs. Under her skirts, his hands snaked up her stockinged calves to her bare thighs and here she heard his breath hitch. Angelica struggled onto her elbows, dislodging several more sheets of paper in the process.

“Alexander.” She sought his eyes. “You have thought of me like this before, haven’t you.”

“Yes,” he whispered, without hesitation. “And you?”

“Yes, of this.” She bit her lip. “And more.”

“Oh?” Again, that feral smile. His eyes twinkled as his hands moved higher up her legs. His thumbs skimmed the insides of her thighs and she could not help but quiver at his touch. “What do I do in your thoughts, Angelica?”

Angelica cocked an eyebrow. “Really want to know?”

“Dying to.”

“Well, you begin by running for senate.”

He returned her smirk.

She continued: “Your platform is sound.”

“Of course.” His hands traveled further up her thighs to her hips.

“Your credentials are excellent.”

He pulled her closer to him, so that her legs dangled off the desk.

“But your propensity for argument—”

“—proficiency at debate, some would say.” His fingers flitted across her belly.

“— and uncanny ability to insult those in power—”

His hands moved down, down, over her mound, grazing her sex. He looked up at her, his voice perfectly composed: “you mean my unwavering honesty—”

Surely he could feel how hot she was...but she pressed on: “—render your candidacy uncertain--oh!"

He was stroking her, his touch feather light.

“And how do the people vote?” he whispered.

“Split down the middle…”

He thumbed her clit and her hips jerked involuntarily. “Will I hear your sweet sighs again, Angelica?”

She meant to deny him. She did. But he rubbed ever more persuasive circles around her clit and when, with his other hand, he slid a finger inside her, she could not stifle the moan that welled up from some deep heavy place within her. Triumph flitted across his face. He withdrew his finger. “You are very wet, my dear.”

Angelica groaned in response.

“I want to taste you.”

She leaned forward and, grabbing him by the hair, pulled his face between her legs. She felt the vibration of his laughter in her sex. Ticklish, she jerked away from his mouth, but fast as a cat his hands were on her, pinning her down. He took his time, then, dismantling her like an argument. He licked her slowly, up and down. His mouth strayed to her thighs, biting, licking, and then returned to her sex where his tongue prodded her entrance, teasing her. "You devil," she breathed.

The want—no, the need—was building inside of her. It was not enough, his fingers, his tongue; she was frantic with the desire to be filled by him. Her thighs fell open to give him greater access to her most sensitive parts and she writhed against his hot, teasing tongue. Suddenly his mouth was gone from her entirely. She sat up, alarmed. “What? What is it?”

He was grinning at her, his face wet with her arousal. “Tell me,” he said. “Does Church give you pleasure like this?”

Angelica gawked at him. “You would ask me about him now?”

Alexander leaned over her, his gaze intent. “Does he?”

Angelica scowled. “No.”

“Good. Because I want you to think only of my mouth between your legs, my lips around your clit, my tongue inside your slit.”

Angelica shook her head. “You are filthy, Alexander.”

He laughed. “Yes, yes I am. And I want you to be, as well. I would have you wet and dripping from your sweet, sweet cunt.” As he spoke he curled two fingers inside her and began to move his hand, up and down. “Angelica, my heart, I want to see you writhing beneath me, your body absolutely filthy with pleasure.” His hand moved faster inside her, eliciting from her a stream of whimpers. Soon she could not feel his fingers at all, so strange and intense was the sensation which overtook her. The faster he worked on her, the tighter she clenched around him, her vision bristling with strange lights and colors, until suddenly he withdrew his hand and a wave of relief, hot and wet, surged through her, followed by the sound of liquid splattering the floor.

Angelica struggled to catch her breath, her muscles still spasming, seemingly beyond conscious control. “Alexander…what have I—your papers, I'm sorry—how did you…”

He looked at her with mock concern. “Never mind the papers. Church must be inadequate, indeed.”

She was about to protest when he slid his fingers inside her once more. Surely such an eruption could only happen once… “I’m not sure I can…”

“You can, ma chère. I feel your desire; you’re ready. Just let go.” His fingers could not have pumped inside her more than ten times before she was on the brink of another explosion. “Good girl. That’s it. Come for me.” He pressed three fingers to her clit and rubbed vigorously. “Come for me, mon ange.” And she was lost. She cried out; her hands gripped the edges of the desk, and her whole body convulsed in liquid bursts.

“You see?” he gloated.

Chest heaving, Angelica lay in a daze on the desk. Never in her life had she experienced anything like that. “Christ,” she panted, all respect for the Lord’s name temporarily absent from her mind. And there was Alexander, looking smugger than he had when Washington appointed him Secretary of the Treasury.

“There’s only one way to proceed here,” he said.

“And which way is that?”

“A thorough investigation of the aforementioned inadequacies must be conducted. A lady should never be deprived of pleasure. Speaking of which, I can’t imagine you are getting enough air in that corset.”

What Angelica wouldn’t do to wipe the arrogance from his face and his voice and put the so-called Tomcat in his place.

She smiled sweetly and then, without warning, wrapped her legs around his hips, pulling him flush against her sex. He inhaled sharply at the contact. His hands slammed down onto the desk, on either side of her, and his arms trembled, slightly, but perceptibly. She tightened her legs around him and rolled her hips rhythmically against his. She watched with satisfaction as the cocky smirk left his face and a look of desperation moved in. He thrust against her, his breathing shallow. Soon, Angelica knew, he would break.

“Good god,” he muttered. His hands gripped the neck of her dress. Sensing that he was about to rip open her bodice in his frustration, she sat up quickly, pushing him off.

“Mr. Hamilton,” she cried. “I will not have you ripping my dress. Do you have any idea how much Parisian silk costs these days?”

“Angelica.” His eyes were dark, darker than before, with lust. “I must have you.”

“I shall have you first.” She gestured to the chair across the room that he had originally offered her. “Sit down.”

“Angelica…”

“Hush, now. You will do whatever I tell you. A just punishment, I think, for your neglect.”

He opened his mouth to argue but she held up a finger. “I won’t hear it.” And so he strode to the chair, a simple mahogany piece, and took a seat. Angelica got off the desk, but took her time approaching him, untying and dropping her gown as she walked, reveling in the intensity with which his eyes followed her every movement. When she was in front of him, she turned around and knelt on the floor. “Undo me.”

Sighing, he bent over her and began to pull at the lacing of her corset. “Take care!” she snapped. “If I see a single fray in that ribbon, there will be hell to pay.”

“Yes, madam,” he said, and then, gently, but with practiced efficiency, he loosened the strings that trussed her. When he had finished, he handed her the ribbon. “For your inspection.”

She stood and wound the ribbon around her hand. “Now my skirts.” His hands flew to her waist and set about undoing the knots and bows which held up all three of her petticoats and her pannier. While he worked he looked up at her, his expression one of almost childlike reverence. Such a handsome face, Angelica thought. She reached out to stroke his cheek. His eyes were softer than usual in the dim light from the lamp. “Very good, Alexander.”

One by one her skirts dropped into a pile at her feet until she was left standing in only her chemise, stockings, and shoes. She was well aware that her chemise was transparent and through it Alexander could see all of her. That was just as well, for she intended him to look.

Angelica walked round to the back of the chair. “Your hands,” she demanded, and he obeyed. She threaded the ribbon through the frame of the chair and then around one of Alexander’s wrists, followed by the other. There was ribbon enough left to bind his wrists together and to the chair once more. Satisfied that his bonds were secure, Angelica resumed her position in front of her seated captive.

“I am entirely in your power, madam,” he murmured.

“Indeed you are.”

Angelica pulled her chemise over her head and dropped it on the floor. She was entirely naked now, save for her stockings and shoes, which she bent down and removed immediately after. The exposure thrilled her. She was not a shy woman, and she never had been. Even in total undress, she held herself with natural ease and confidence. She turned slowly in a circle, so that Alexander could see all of her. Facing front once more, she stared into his eyes while her hands rose to cup her breasts. She pinched her nipples, sighing to herself at the sensation.

Alexander shifted in the chair. A deep furrow divided his brow. “So you mean to torture me,” he said.

“I mean to demonstrate the strength of my affection.”

Angelica bent over his lap and with quick fingers, unbuttoned the fly of his breeches. He hissed when she touched him. “Lift your hips,” she commanded and he, somewhat awkwardly, complied. She tugged his breeches down his thighs, left them bunched at his knees. He was deliciously hard. How Angelica yearned to sink down upon the whole length of him. But she would not. Not yet.

She swung a leg over his thighs so that she stood straddling his lap. She took his cock in her hand and held it still while she slid her sex back and forth atop it. With each roll of her hips, she brought him to her entrance, lingering there only a second, before guiding him back to her clit. And again, lingering a second more, and a second more after that. Oh, how she wanted him. Had she ever wanted anything as badly as she wanted him now? She put her free hand out, bracing herself against his chest. Then she took the tip of him inside her—just the tip—before lifting herself off. Alexander flinched forward, grunting.

She waited until he had settled down before taking the tip of him inside her once more. “Please…” he begged. She lifted off him and then sank back down. Alexander growled. His hips bucked, which meant that she immediately stood up. 

“Don’t be naughty or you shall have less.”

A bead of sweat ran down his temple. His thighs trembled against her own. “Is there something you’d like to say to me? Your beloved older sister who sailed across the ocean to see you?"

“Angelica,” he moaned.

She looked at his cock. It was swollen, livid with desire for her. “Well?”

“I—I’m sorry.”

“I know you can be more eloquent than that.”

He groaned, struggled for a moment against his bonds and when he could not free himself, he took a few breaths to calm down. Then he looked up at her and began to speak as if he were addressing an assembly:

“Angelica, I will be plain, then. I trust that what transpires between us in this room has and must continue to exist in secrecy and by virtue of that secrecy I may now be honest..."

He paused to gather himself, but when he continued his voice was firm: "I love you."

Angelica took a shaky breath.

He continued: "I have loved you since the moment we met. I sin terribly every time I open a letter from you; I read your words and I long for you: to see you—yes—to see your beautiful body, you, standing like a goddess before me. But also I long just to sit by your side in front of the fire, to know the contours of your mind, even to share a glance with you from across a crowded room. God, I--"

"Alexander..."

"I love you as I love life itself. And I would gladly give mine for you. You know that. I am sorry, please believe me. I ought to go wherever you would call me. Your very presence is manna. I am a fool…I am undone.”

Angelica was quiet for some time, trying to take it all in. Finally, she spoke, her smile betraying her harsh tone:

“And Madison and Jefferson?”

“They can eat parchment. You are above them in all respects.”

"Well, then," Angelica said. "Apology accepted." She knelt and removed his shoes and socks and the breeches that were still bunched at his knees. She moved behind the chair to undo his bonds. Even when he was freed, though, he remained seated as he was. Something had changed between them, irrevocably.  Angelica perched on his lap and took his face in her hands. "I love you, too,” she said. “Of course you already knew." She kissed him, softly. "Now, Alexander, you may take me to bed.”

He searched her eyes, as if seeking further confirmation than her words could offer. She nodded.

That was all he needed. He gathered her in his arms and carried her one room over, into his darkened bedroom where he threw her down on the bed. He strode to the window and drew open the curtains, so that the dim glow of the setting sun coupled with the emerging bright of the moon illuminated the room. He tugged his shirt off and stood naked by the side of the bed, gazing at her.

“Come here,” she said, pulling him down on top of her.

Propped on his elbows, he smoothed her hair back from her face. “My love,” he whispered. “I burn for you always. Surely you must know.”

“Show me,” she said. And so he kissed her. He kissed her deeply. His hand skimmed down her body to guide his prick to her entrance, and he filled her. Slowly, steadily, until she was impossibly full; there he stayed, the two of them paralyzed for a moment by the intensity of their union. How could it be that he fit her just right? It was as if he had been the missing part of her all along. You strike me as a woman who will never be satisfied. It was the first thing he had said to her. Before they had even known each others’ names. She had believed him, cursed for years the accuracy of his premonition, which at times felt like a curse he had placed on her. But now she smiled.

“What is it?” he asked.

“You were wrong.”

“Was I?”

“You said I would never be satisfied.”

“And are you now?”

Angelica cocked an eyebrow.

“In that case, I should like to satisfy you again—” he withdrew from her and she gasped at the sudden loss—“and again—” he sank into her once more, eliciting from her a long, low moan.

She wrapped her legs around his waist, to keep him close. “Don’t tease.”

“What do you want?”

“I want you to make love to me.”

“Angelica…”

He moved in her, precisely and deliberately, as if to wring every possible sensation from every second of their union. Their bodies, slick with sweat, rose and fell together, faster, and faster. Her arms clutched his back. She had given up trying to stifle her cries. And every time she moaned his name he seemed to come a bit more undone. Through it all his eyes never left her face. His brow was stern, his jaw clenched, but his eyes were clear, watching her with the intensity of a lion at hunt.

“You look as if you are composing treatises in your mind.”

He shook his head. “I am memorizing you.”

Her hands left his back to pull his face down to hers. She kissed him and then murmured in his ear, “I would have you deeper.”

Immediately, he pushed her legs back so that her knees were at her shoulders, her feet in the air. He arched over her and sank so deep inside her that she screamed and he almost came. He stopped himself before the spasm took hold.

“Not yet,” Angelica moaned. She could feel his cock throbbing inside her.

“I know,” he said through gritted teeth. “I know.”

When he had staved off the inevitable for the present, he began to thrust into her, deep, like she wanted it. The effect was immediately apparent. She flung her head back and shrilled with pleasure; her fingers clawed the sheets. Her lips were moving but the words were unintelligible. As if she were speaking in tongues.

“What’s that, darling?”

“Take me harder,” she hissed. “Oh, god. Harder.” She shut her eyes against the sensation.

“Open your eyes,” he said. “Look at me.”

She opened her eyes and tears flowed from them down her cheeks. “Yes…” she stuttered, release blooming in her core. It was warm and pleasant at first and then it peaked in a powerful wave so that her whole body thrashed and contracted around him.

“Fuck,” he cried out. “Angelica.”

It was too much. She felt him shaking, on the brink. She took hold of his face. “Come inside of me,” she commanded. And he was gone. His body shuddered as he thrust into her once, twice, three times more.

***

They lay entwined for what seemed an eternity. Alexander fell asleep holding Angelica in his arms. When he woke in the morning, she was gone. There was no trace of her in the bedroom. A strange thought overtook him: had she been there at all, or had he dreamt it? Alarmed, he ran into the hallway. He stopped short at the door to his office. The floor was clean; there was no mess of parchment from when he’d lifted her to the desk. The lamp and inkwell were on the desk where he kept them. He blinked, trying to remember what he had done last night if he had not been with her.

He approached his desk, where there was a neat stack of parchment.  All of it was in his hand, except for the sheet on the very top of the stack:

My Dearest Alexander,

You know I could not stay. Burn this letter and know in doing so how I burn for you.

Yours eternally,

Angelica