Rosalie’s breath whooshes from her lips, heat flushing up her neck. “That’s lovely,” she says. To be the only person Catherine has ever felt this way for—it’s incredibly heady.
“Have you?” Catherine asks.
“Felt like this for someone?”
“For a man.”
Rosalie hesitates. She’s never said it out loud, to anyone, not even Christopher. But Catherine’s let Rosalie see her weak and wanting, and Rosalie doesn’t want her any less for it. In fact, she might... feel more for her.
Catherine’s trusting her to be as honest as she’s asking Catherine to be in return. Choosing, together, to trust each other.
“I’ve never wanted the future my mother wanted for me. Never felt the things she says I should feel. I keep—I kept waiting to meet a man who made me feel the way my mother does for my father, or my aunt does for my uncle—all...” She trails off, struggling to describe it.
“Butterflies and giggles and giddy anticipation?” Catherine suggests.
Rosalie meets Catherine’s eyes, wanting to trust her, wanting to share. “I’ve never met a man who makes me feel what I do when you touch me.”
It comes out soft and secretive. Almost like shame. Almost, but not quite, because the way Catherine’s face breaks into a smile, the way her eyes light up—it makes Rosalie feel all those butterflies, makes her want to giggle, makes her want to pounce and push Catherine into the settee and kiss her silly.
And they’re alone, so shecan.
It’s quieter than the butterflies want, leaning in, drawing Catherine to her by the nape of her neck, pressing her lips against her achingly soft ones.
Rosalie sucks on Catherine’s bottom lip, relishing her breathy groan. She scoots just the slightest bit closer and Catherine’s left hand leaves Rosalie’s to rise up and cup her cheek. Rosalie lets her tongue slick across Catherine’s bottom lip. Catherine gasps.
Rosalie’s whole body is warm and tingling. She lets go of Catherine’s hand to press on her shoulder, tipping them sideways so she can stretch out along her glorious body as they kiss, languid with sloppy open mouths.
Catherine cradles her jaw in her hands, sending trickles of warmth down Rosalie’s neck that make her shiver and smile and squirm. Catherine moves with her, the two of them squished there on the settee, everything pressed so deliciously together. But it’s still not enough.
Rosalie breaks from Catherine’s mouth, rearing back to stare down at her there on the settee—at the plump red of her lips, her bright pink cheeks, her eyes blown wide.
It would take a lot of work to get her down to her chemise right now, which seems needless when Rosalie can simply shuffle off her and slip to the floor. Catherine sits up, staring down at Rosalie as she begins running her fingers up Catherine’s calves, rucking up her dress as she revels in the silky feel of her skin, in the soft hair on her legs, in the way Catherine’s panting already.
Catherine blinks down at her as Rosalie rests her palms on Catherine’s thighs. “All right?”
“I haven’t done this before,” Catherine whispers.
“Do you want me to stop?” Rosalie asks, smiling up at her. “We can.”
“No, no, God, no,” Catherine breathes out.
Rosalie can’t help but laugh. “Okay.”
“But you— I’ll take your lead,” Catherine says, cheeks going even pinker. “If you’ll show me.”
Rosalie can feel the smile that stretches across her face. “I’ll teach you absolutely everything I know, and the rest we’ll learn together, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Catherine says, her hesitation melting away.
“Just tell me if you want me to stop,” Rosalie says, waiting for Catherine’s eager nod before she glides her hands around Catherine’s thighs until she can grip at their backs, fingers pressing into luscious flesh. She drags Catherine to the edge of the couch.
Catherine squeaks, laughing, and Rosalie grins up at her before she slides one hand to push Catherine’s skirts out of the way. Which leaves her bare and beautiful and so incredibly tantalizing from the waist down. Catherine stares at Rosalie, her entire face flushed.
“You’re so beautiful,” Rosalie tells her, leaning forward to rest her chin on Catherine’s strong, lean thigh.
She watches Catherine’s face as she glides her hand up to the crease between hip and thigh. Catherine swallows hard, her chest rising and falling rapidly, and Rosalie takes that as a good sign, letting her fingers move up up up until Catherine’s head falls back on an overwhelmed sigh.
Rosalie grins and touches her gently, exploring, watching every little twitch and movement of her face, waiting until the thigh beneath her cheek untenses, until Catherine is lax with pleasure. Rosalie dips her head forward, swiping her tongue against Catherine’s center.
