tiltingwithlips | [Werewolf AU. WE DO WHAT WE WANT.]

[Werewolf AU. WE DO WHAT WE WANT.]

Kate Percy is having a bad day.

Tonight's the night of the full moon, and usually she spends the day in her room before slipping out to the heath at moonrise. Usually. But today, the Percys are playing host to a neighboring baron, and Kate has had to spend the day seeing to the guests. The baroness has called for every luxury possible since she arrived, and the baron smells of disdain whenever he speaks to Kate, and Kate is ravenous.

If she can make it a few more hours -- just long enough to make sure the cook has dinner well in hand -- she'll be able to shrug it all off and go out in the moonlight.

Hopefully she won't lose her head and bite the baron, in the meantime.

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"Is it too oft?" She leans her head against his and breathes in the smell of his hair. "How could I ever send thee from thy bed? Ah, more fool me! I shall amend it."

"It is ever too oft." His focus is entirely consumed by the exposed skin at her shoulder. "Do so quickly, I pray you, for my poor sake tonight."

She chuckles, brushing her lips against his cheek.

"Wilt thou still love me if I leave thee alone to our guests at dinner?"

"I will love thee even if you return before sunrise and steal half the bed, wet and muddy and stinking of the heath."

Funny how that can sound romantic when you've got your hands looped around a lady's waist.

Laughing, she takes his face in her hands and kisses him.

He'll not resist that -- he'll even pull her closer, though that may also involve backing her against the wall.

The door's not far, it's just... not close either.

Kate rests her forehead against his and growls happily.

He braces himself against the wall, one finger hooked under the seam of her dress. "A very fine means of keeping quiet!"

"I would not have our guests hear us talk of them!" she protests. "But . . ."

She kisses him again. Well, all right, she bites his lip, gently. It's sort of like kissing, right?

"I may howl my love for my lord and find no shame in it."

"By heaven! Leave off shame altogether." If he has more to say, he forgoes it in favor of somewhat more urgent kissing.

Kate should be close enough to understand why that is.

As if her nose hadn't already told her enough. Groaning, she thumps her head onto his shoulder.

"Ah, Harry, if we stop not now--"

"No. We are past stopping."

He's just decided this.

Which means he takes her by the hand and starts toward their chamber.

He didn't seek her out for this, necessarily, but as it stands they are definitely past stopping.

She laughs. "'Tis very well!"

Better that they're taking it to their bedroom, though.

She practically overtakes him on the way there. With the full moon on the rise, all her appetites are burning hotter than usual.

No sooner has he slammed the door than he is shedding his jacket and pulling off his boots. Sometimes this has to wait, as he'll not wait to kiss if he need not do so.

Kate seeks to help with his shirt where she may.

If this occasionally involves ripping off a button, well . . .

. . . She's sorry?

A button or five is nothing to fuss over at a time like this (nor any other time, given how much attention Harry usually pays to his state of dress); their seamstresses have long since given up on telling them to be careful.

A larger concern: if he keeps backing her up and not looking where he's going, will they both topple onto the still-unmade bed? Or will they trip on the corona of discarded garments first?

There's a stumble or two, but they make it to the bed more or less upright. When Kate bumps into the bed, she takes Harry by the shoulders and turns them around to push him back.

He'll fall willingly enough -- but the thing about Kate still wearing most of her dress is that he has no compunction grabbing it and taking her with him.

She growls again as he pulls her down, landing with her hands on either side of his shoulders.

A fine position for him to take her face between his hands and kiss her again.

With teeth. And some low noises of his own.

It seems like she had a plan a moment ago, that probably involved somehow getting this damnable dress off, but it has quite flown her mind. Who could focus on such things when there's the scent of him in her nose and the sound of his heart pounding in her ears and the taste of him on her lips?

Harry's ardor is no less fierce and no less poetic at heart. Yet at the moment he's confronting some somewhat more earthbound problems. If he maneuvers his hand so... and reaches there... is that the lacing at her back?

He tugs experimentally. (Oh heaven, the strong lines of her spine beneath the cloth.)

She steals another kiss, then sits up, straddling his hips.

"Wilt lend me thy aid?"

He sits up himself. "Wilt let me be quick about it, else I be driven to distraction?"

Ah, this is easier. If he wraps both arms around her... and busies himself with the crook of her neck in the meantime...

There. 'Tis loosed.

Meanwhile, she returns the favor of kissing her way up his neck.

Sighing happily, she starts pulling the dress off.

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