It’s broad daylight. Sylvie is asleep in the next room, and morning light is pouring in from the unshuttered windows, breakfast is simmering on the stove, and they shouldn’t be doing this.
But then Lucas’ hands are at her hips, guiding her back and nudging her up on the table. His mouth is swallowing her groan before his hands slip to her waist and bunch in her flannel. She hooks one leg at the back of his knee and pulls him down towards her, her lips desperate against his. He slips his tongue into her mouth, teasing against her own as he presses her to lie back. She knows she hits one of the clay tumblers they’d pulled off the shelves above the sink, can hear it clatter against the floor, but she can’t bring herself to care when she can feel him hot and hard against her.
Dorothy bucks her hips as her hands tighten their grip at the back of his neck. She wants to feel him closer, works to draw his tongue further into her mouth, and drops one hand to slide beneath the open lapel of his coat. She breaks from his kiss with a deep breath as he manages to open the bottom few buttons of her shirt and slips a hand beneath her t-shirt, his fingertips teasing along her belly.
“Yes,” she sighs as his thumb arcs along the bottom of her rib cage. She wants him to push further, wants to feel his skin against her breasts. She glances up to find him watching her, a feral smile on his face before he buries his face against her neck, dropping a line of wet, open-mouthed kisses that ends just below her ear.
He ruts against her once again as his breath comes in heavy pants against her skin. “Gods, Dorothy, I want -”
His words are cut off when she reaches for his belt, purposely pressing her hand along his erection before slipping a finger beneath the leather to tug it through the buckle. She has it halfway open before she hears a shuffle and turns to see Sylvie moving into the room, her hands rubbing at her eyes.
Lucas groans quietly as he stands up, his hand dropping to Dorothy’s and untangling it from his belt. It one motion, he rights himself and sinks to a squat at Sylvie’s level.
“You ok there, little one?” he whispers, his hand reaching to clasp one of hers. “Are you hungry?”
Dorothy sits up and slides off the table in time to see Sylvie nod and follow Lucas to the stove, her hand in his, while he uses his free one to stir at the porridge they’d left forgotten. When he turns to look at her over Sylvie’s head, Dorothy holds his stare, want still clearly radiating from the stiff hold of his shoulders.
She can still feel that same want thrumming through her blood, but works to steady her breathing as she grabs the three stacked bowls from the table. “Later,” she mouths and gives him a grin that he returns. She just hopes that maybe something in this land might cut her break so she can deliver on that promise.