Tickets, Money, Passport?

Slowly I stretched out my own hand and wrapped my fingers around hers. It was a cold day, and a cold room, but by some miracle her skin was warm. I looked to her slender fingers, not her face. I encircled her hand in both of mine. She whispered something I did not catch. I took a step forward and bowed my head.

It is of no concern to the reader why, since that day, I have kept and shall always keep the 13th January as a private anniversary. No lips shall breathe the secret of what happened that afternoon in the cramped, whitewashed garret of the house in Westgate-street. Even the cracks in the windowpanes, the splashes of ink and the swirling brown damp stains on the ceiling shared its perfection. It resolved nothing: it was merely perfect, merely itself.

I mean For.Goodness. Sake. What the hell happenened? Where is my bodice ripping, my unsheathing of swords, my fair maidens kisses, the many petticoats to be navigated, the corset to be undone? Huh? This is clearly a cop out of the highest order, either the author didn't feel up to writing a sex scene or he's a prude and either way, that is wrong. She was the beautiful widow, bereft, lonely, in need of companionship, he was the lowly tutor, a handsome man of integrity and passion. We deserve to read what happened. In the words of Clueless Joe (see Holy Moly >>>>) I must kno!!!

Feel free, dear reader, to write what you think happened. I know what I think happened and it involved a few exclaimed surprises and a lot of submission to basic desires. LOL, for goodness sake, I'm writing like a desperate housewife.