It was Setzer's biggest gamble yet; Daryl was not an average woman—she eschewed finery and frippery for functional clothes and a well-tailored overcoat, and she left the other women to their gossiping and matchmaking as she took to the freedom of the skies—and he had no idea whether the dozen roses he carried would be met with her approval or her scorn, so he sighed in relief when she opened her door and took the bouquet into her arms, drawing it in from the chill night air and enthusing over the roses' beauty.

She thanked Setzer with a kiss, and then, once he'd shut the door, she put the roses to work: one in her hair, tucked behind her ear, six more scattered behind her as she headed toward the bedroom; the remaining five met with the essence of Daryl, herself, her heady mixture of violence and tenderness and passion, as she plucked petal after petal and flung them upon her bedsheets, before doing the same with her and Setzer's clothes, discarding these upon the floor.

Morning light found the petals wilted and clinging to their bodies, bright invitations to touch and kiss the skin they revealed, to explore the textures and scents of the night all over again, to transform the pleasure of a dozen roses—once, twice, three times more—into the pleasures of the flesh, and of the heart.