Destiny, she thinks that’s called. The gods (and her fellow nymphs) knew her heart was for no one else once she’d met him. A tragedy had befallen them, but they’ve paid their dues.

“Some venues are probably inappropriate for orgies,” she agrees, thinking of Covent Garden, among other places. Though the dressing rooms are often hotbeds of hookups. His thumb finds her nipple and she makes a quiet sound of need, pushing her breast into his hand, which also pushes their hips more firmly together. That induces a gasp at the increased pressure. “Your restraint is admirable. I’m ok with being responsible for all the babies, though.”

Not theirs just yet. One day.

She pulls her top off, leaving her in only pink boy shorts that say “I believe in unicorns” on the front.