They stare at each other for a moment. To Rosalie, it feels like the air is crackling between them. Anticipation and hesitation and desire flitting around the room. But then MissPine gets up and Rosalie slumps into the couch. She watches MissPine wander the bookshelves, looking at the titles.
“Have you readThe Italian?” she asks.
“No, I haven’t,” Rosalie says, close to groaning. She didn’t ask her back here to look at books, or take tea, or—
Thankfully, Mrs.Lowry barges in with the tea service, and Rosalie gets a brief reprieve from her nerves, helping her set everything out on the low table between the settees.
“Do you ladies need anything else? I’ve got to get to market for a few things. We weren’t expecting visitors,” she adds, smiling over at MissPine before shooting a look at Rosalie.
Rosalie just shrugs guiltily. “I think we’re fine, Mrs.Lowry, thank you.”
“Ring for Mr.Lowry if you do,” Mrs.Lowry says. “You might need to ring a few times. He’s organizing wine in the cellar. Your father’s got a new categorization scheme.”
Father and Mr.Lowry’s never-ending quest for the most properly organized wine cellar is a topic of much debate among the staff. Usually, it’s a nuisance. But today it means Rosalie and MissPine are likely not to be disturbed, at all.
Rosalie listens as Mrs.Lowry’s footsteps fade away. She stares at the tea and biscuits, her heart racing. They’re alone. She can ask whatever she wants. Do whatever she wants.
Anxiety tugs at her throat, so she pours them both tea, the pot and cups rattling in her hands. It sounds so loud against the silence. When she’s done, she looks up and finds Miss Pine watching her, still standing half a room away by the bookcases,that tension hovering between them again. She’s wanted this opportunity for weeks. Since before the moment they had in the theatre, if she’s honest.
Eloquence and formality are failing her. She can’t talk her way into or out of this one. And she can’t stay sitting here in this silence for a minute longer, she just can’t.
Rosalie stands up and sees MissPine’s breath hitch. There’s a blush climbing up her long, elegant neck. Her eyes are wide and dark and Rosalie finds herself walking across the room until she’s right there, right in front of MissPine.
MissPine steps back, bumping into the bookcase, and Rosalie hesitates. What if she imagined every look and touch and question and suggestion, and she’s about to make the most horrible mistake of her—
MissPine’s delicate fingers trace along her jaw. Rosalie blinks up at her. MissPine hesitates, her thumbs stroking at Rosalie’s cheekbones, and Rosalie nods into her hands, her heart soaring. She pushes up on her toes, leaning into MissPine as she bends that beautiful neck and their lips finally, wonderfully, crash together.
Soft, and needy, and delicate, it’s better than Rosalie could ever have imagined. She places her hands on MissPine’s waist, feeling her narrow hips beneath the lace of her dress. MissPine sighs into her mouth, one of her hands gliding back so she can cradle Rosalie’s skull, her other hand stroking at her jaw.
It makes Rosalie shiver and she curls her hands around MissPine, pressing them closer together. MissPine sucks on Rosalie’s bottom lip and Rosalie groans. She wants more, she wants to stay just like this forever, she wants everything.
Suddenly Miss Pine spins them and Rosalie squeaks againsther mouth. Miss Pine giggles, still kissing her, and slides her hands all the way down Rosalie’s body, fingers leaving trails of heat and tingles as she goes. Her hands bunch up Rosalie’s skirt and Rosalie releases her mouth, her head tipping back in shock and delight.
MissPine lifts Rosalie with surprising ease, pushing her back into the bookshelves. Rosalie gasps and wraps her legs around MissPine’s waist reflexively. Suddenly they’re the same height, MissPine’s long, lovely hands holding the backs of Rosalie’s thighs.
She’s never thought about being picked up by a woman. Never even crossed her mind. It’s fantastically arousing.
“Is this what you were thinking about at the modiste?” MissPine whispers before sipping another kiss from Rosalie’s lips.
Rosalie toys with the hair at the nape of MissPine’s neck, breaking from MissPine’s mouth to trail kisses along her jaw, pressing their chests even tighter together in a delicious friction that’s not enough and also so much all at once.
“I’ve been thinking about this for weeks,” Rosalie admits.
“Me too,” MissPine says, her voice husky and rough.
She drives her hips into Rosalie’s and Rosalie can’t help but let out a long, low groan. She squirms, trying to gain friction to grind back against MissPine. Their combined wriggling rattles the bookshelf. Delicate metal and glass objects tinkle around them.
“Should we move this somewhere less precarious?” MissPine whispers.
Rosalie nods, preparing to slide down to touch the floor. But Miss Pine just steps back, bringing Rosalie with her. Rosalieclamps her legs tighter around Miss Pine’s hips and wraps her arms around her shoulders, laving kisses down her neck to show her appreciation.
Rosalie had never thought about being carried by a woman either. Who knew so much strong muscle lurked beneath MissPine’s fetching gowns?
They plop roughly onto the settee, Rosalie cradled in MissPine’s lap, legs straddling her waist, skirt pushed up nearly to her bum, chemise messy between her legs and MissPine’s lovely dress.
It’s heady and humbling and wonderful. Rosalie can’t help but rock against MissPine’s lap, both of them moaning into each other’s mouths. Their kisses are growing sloppy, all lips and teeth and tongue and wonderful, overwhelming sensation. Rosalie tries to wriggle her hand down the front of MissPine’s bodice.
She grunts in frustration to find her stays so perfectly fitted that she can’t quite get her fingers down to naked flesh. But MissPine bucking up into her lap, her mouth going slack against Rosalie’s, is reward enough.
