#rxd

It didn’t happen often, not in front of the public. Her coveted position in society required proper manners and posture, and she obeyed the veiled rules of aristocracy very well. However, in the comfort of her own office, with at most one or two close companions around, she allowed herself to relax more. What senile men in pompous attire thought of her mattered little then.

In those moments, sitting on her cabriole couch, an elbow propped on the arm of the antique, her legs would cross naturally; her skirt would crumple and ride up, exposing a lean calf—muscles perfectly molded by the supporting leg pressed against it. And if Relena was really upset, carelessness would lead to an exposed knee, slipping free from the reins of modesty.

The sight was dangerously alluring, and Dorothy took delight in it every time.

“Miss Relena,” she announced her arrival, eliciting a small brief of Relena’s gaze in her direction and a dismissive wave in response.

Relena’s mood had been terribly sour as of late, and part of Dorothy ached at seeing her so distressed over mundane issues such as diplomatic negotiations and conflict resolution. Peace was exhausting, and Dorothy believed matters would be more easily solved if swords were involved again—not that stabbing someone was the solution to every problem, but she couldn’t say she hadn’t tried.

The other part of Dorothy, however, relished Relena’s irritation, and was all too honored to behold and worship it.

She strolled across the room and sank to the floor before Relena’s feet with deliberate grandeur. Her dress flared wide, drifting down to rest around her, and she smoothed the dark velvet into place. Satisfied, she tossed her hair back over her shoulder and tilted her head lightly, bracing herself on one hand. Then, curving her lips into a smile, she finally allowed herself to revel in the scene she had been graced with: the expanse of Relena’s lower leg, golden against the last rays of sunset. All hers to admire.

Her eyes flitted from the hem of Relena’s maroon silk skirt to the contour of her kneecap, tracing the clean join of patella and tibia. She followed the precise lines of bone and tendon and muscle as they curved down to her ankle, caught in a white slingback heel, then repeated the process—knee, calf, ankle—again, and once more.

If Relena spoke, her words drowned completely in Dorothy’s thoughts.

It would be sacrilegious to corrupt perfection, but Dorothy wasn’t afraid to sin. She dared to touch the masterpiece in front of her and removed the shoe from Relena’s dangling foot slowly, carefully, her fingers barely brushing skin. The touch, light as it was, sent a shiver down her spine, and she pressed her lips, biting the plump flesh.

“Dorothy, what are you—”

“Miss Relena,” Dorothy cut in, so pathetically impolite and utterly desperate. Pushing herself forward, she parted her lips to let her tongue find the cusp of Relena’s kneecap, mapping its texture in detail. Through her lashes, she savored the frown on Relena’s brow, the unspoken pleasure in her dilated pupils as tongue left damp skin in a final, measured roll.