Trail Mix, Fudge Ripple and Flavour of the Day
Story: Timeless { backstory | index }
Title: Tarnish
Rating: PG-13 (sexual themes)
Challenge: Trail Mix #17: pantry/larder, Fudge Ripple #23: lust, FOTD: antediluvian
Toppings/Extras: none
Wordcount: 469
Summary: Miss Merritt and Isaac Prowse’s first entanglement.
Notes: Oh, these two! Couldn’t resist flavour of the day. Antediluvian, adjective, 1-Antiquated; from or belonging to a much earlier time. 2-A very old (or old-fashioned) person.
How did it happen that after weeks of constant sniping, the two of them ended up in the food storage room in a teenager’s embrace? There was nothing gentle about it: everything was tongue and lips and hands, twisting visions of each other’s faces at angles they had never expected to see them from. A tin of sliced peaches bounced to the metallic floor and rolled away, followed by more as their kisses grew in heat.
Adele was having a whale of a time. It couldn’t be said that she enjoyed many things in life, but she was a rather sexual woman, although most people wouldn’t have expected it. Horatio Newson would have been shocked to see her now, pressed against shelves filled with jars of chutney.
As it always seemed to be, Prowse’s interest in Adele was more personal than hers in him. Perhaps he had felt that this was building-the quiet man had an instinct for these things-yet he had never been able to conclude whether it would ever reach its full crescendo. The two were very different, after all, and they were under very difficult circumstances when it came to beginning an illicit affair of any sort. But difficulty could never curb lust, and certainly not lust like this.
Prowse had never seen a woman like this before-understandable, given their circumstances, but even more understandable when Adele Merritt is really held to the light. He broke their kiss wetly and looked at her a moment, eyes moving where his hands had roamed, fingers touching her lips where his had been moments ago. Her lips were dark, so much darker than the fashion of his times: the colour of poison, closer to purple than red. She had thick black paste on her lashes that made them look as long and crooked as spider’s legs, and such a delightful brow, always cut in a severe frown, even now.
It was when she tugged at the belt-loops in his trousers that Prowse finally hesitated.
“Miss Merritt,” he said, trying not to stammer. He was an adult now, after all. “This... are you sure? It would not be right to tarnish your honour in such a...”
Of course, it was difficult to keep talking when she unbuttoned her blouse and flung it aside; she was perched on the edge of one of the shelves, sending tins bounding with viscous glooping sounds from within, and she fluttered those sharp-shooting eyelashes of hers with her hands elegantly moving behind herself to undo her brassiere. She seemed to be amused about something.
“Don’t talk, it’s a total turn-off,” she said, tilting her head like a predator eyeing her prey. Her voice was barely above a breath. “Please... tarnish to your heart’s content.”
Who could resist a siren call like that?