Always the proper lady. Petticoat after petticoat layers trimmed with ribbon and lace. Her lips fused to red-hot skin she can scarcely breathe.
She can’t, she shouldn’t. There’s a spine of a book pressed between her shoulder blades. Her fingers fumble against leather.
The hand fisted in her hair releases. She reaches up instinctively. Her curls have gone to frizz. She sighs. “Thank you.”
Her hands resume their groping, winding higher to scrape against the skin at the back of his neck. She tips her head to the side, lost for a moment.
Lips whisper Latin, French against her ear.
She moves a hand forward to shove the sleeve of a jacket aside, one and then the other. Cool brown leather pools on the floor.
She grins a wicked grin. She had never cared much for proper ladies.
She pops a button on his vest and watches his eyes widen. She presses forward and he stills. His hands, lips, tongue suddenly idle.
She kisses him, hard, pulls the air from his lungs. He responds in kind. Her fingers grasp at the underside of wooden shelves.
There’s a clatter in the street and they both freeze. Her father.
They separate. She smoothes her dress, fiddles with her hair. He picks up his jacket and blushes.
“Please don’t say anything.” There’s an imploring look.
She giggles behind a hand held up to hide a smirk. “Not a word. I promise.”
He turns away, leaving in a hurry. She stands as she is, breathing heavily. Her father’s assistants were always so much fun.