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The sheets beneath her stick to her sweaty skin as she arches a little into that sweet mouth, her climax startling her in its intensity, even after all this time. She moans, a broken thing stumbling from her lips, and drags her cousin's widow up the length of her body, one hand still tangled in her hair as the other finds its place at the small of her back.

Francesca's mouth is slick and puffy as it slants over her's, her mouth opening in a gasp and Michaela seeks to clean the taste of herself off of the other woman's tongue. The sounds they make echo in the room, the slide of mouths and the slide of sheets beneath their limbs and the small moans and whimpers they press into each other's lips.

It's intoxicating, it's beautiful. She's beautiful, loose and hazy-eyed with pleasure in Michaela's arms, moaning sweetly as Michaela brings a hand to her breast, cupping her palm around pale skin and pinching a nipple. Michaela chases the sound, wrapping a leg over the back of her waist, drawing her in closer, until they are pressed together hot and wet.

Michaela twitches slightly with oversensitivity, even as she uses her leverage to rock Francesca, gasping with startled pleasure, forward. The slide of their sexes against each other breaks their kiss, both of their breaths hot against each other as they make high, cut-off sounds into each other's mouths. Michaela watches the Lady Kilmartin's eyes as they flutter, like she doesn't quite know how to compute the pleasure she's feeling.

It makes her feel wild. It makes her want to take Francesca apart beneath her, over and over again, until she can't say anything but--

"Michaela--"

And Michaela has always loved beautiful things, so of course she watches with fascination as the delicate, cold beauty that once watched her with careful eyes shudders apart on top of her. Of course she presses her mouth to the long, pale line of her neck, leaving a mark that will leave no room for interpretation on what has happened between them, what they are to each other. Of course she presses herself more firmly to Francesca, rocking her pleasure-ached core against Francesca's twitching, soft skin until she's also stuttering out a moan of relief, her pinnacle a slow, glowing thing after all this time.

And of course, when Francesca's eyes flutter open again, her hair aglow and disheveled across her shoulders, her gaze soft and broken open with something warm enough to hurt, Michaela opens her mouth and says--

"Francesca?"

The sheets beneath her are warm, but the bed is cool. Michaela's breathing slows as she watches shadows cast by moonlight across the haunted walls of her cousin's estate. Her fingers clench in cotton sheets. Her thighs slide slickly against each other. She wants to touch herself.

She runs instead.

Michaela Stirling, for better or for worse, has always known exactly who she wants.