“If I must,” he says, all light and rueful. But when she pulls away, he nearly leans forward to follow her before he catches himself.

His own breeches feel tighter now. He loosens them at the waist, so she can pull them down when she wishes it. After a moment’s further thought, he rocks backwards, so that he isn’t on his knees anymore: instead, his feet are flat on the sand, and his knees are raised, and his arse is on the velvet mantle.

This will do about as well as anything, out here. There is no chance that they will have days to themselves on this island, but they can steal these last few moments.