The darkness of the closet enveloped Felicia in silent shadow,
disorienting and disconcerting simultaneously, and she blinked
her eyes rapidly in a frantic attempt to make them adjust to the
sudden loss of light. Something that felt suspiciously like a
vacuum cleaner hose pressed against her back, and she surmised
that she was trapped in some sort of storage closet used by the
mansion's cleaning staff. She could detect a faint lemon polish
smell with an acrid undercurrent of ammonia nipping at its heels,
which reinforced her theory. It seemed odd to Felicia, although
not impossible, that such a closet would be located directly outside
of Lila's sitting room.

She focused on all of this, on the cold, bare facts of the matter,
on the process of rational deduction that she prized so dearly, in
order to distract herself from the realization that Luke Spencer
was pressed up against the length of her body, the heat of his skin
bleeding into hers, his hands brushing lightly against her hips, his
smoky breath stirring the hairs on the top of her head.

Sometimes, she reflected grimly, private detective work caused
more problems than it solved.

She stood on tiptoe and chanced a whisper in his ear -- anything to
deflect her attention from his maddening body heat. "How long
do you think Lila will be?"

"Depends on why she came up here," he answered, his voice a wisp
of tobacco and warmth in the darkness, and the proximity of his lips
to her ear made her regret asking the question in the first place.
"Could be five minutes, could be an hour. We're just going to have
to wait her out, darlin.'"

She scowled and chewed on her bottom lip. Her eyes were finally
beginning to adjust to the dark, and she could just make out his
shadowy outline directly in front of her. Judging from the angle
of his head, he was attempting to look at her face, or down her
shirt. Either option was equally likely.

Hurry up, Lila, she chanted silently to herself. Hurry up, hurry up,
hurry up....

As they waited for the telltale signs of Lila's departure, the
vacuum cleaner apparatus that was digging into the small of
Felicia's back became increasingly uncomfortable, poking her
vertebrae with unyielding force, until she had no choice but to
lean away from it somewhat to decrease the pressure. This,
of course, necessitated leaning in closer to Luke, who responded
by placing his hands around her waist and pulling her more
securely to him.

This is not happening, said her new internal mantra. This is not
happening, this is not happening, this is not happening...

Nonetheless, she could feel her body responding to his with a mind
of its own, her back arching ever so slightly, her legs shifting so that
they framed one of his, her hands resting on his forearms, the hairs
on his skin soft and coarse all at once beneath her fingertips.

They remained that way for what seemed like forever, locked in
their silent embrace, their breath coming in short, shallow gasps.
Felicia could swear, although she would never say it aloud, that Luke
Spencer was trembling. Trembling. But with a growing horror and
disbelief, she realized she could not say for sure if the tremors she
was feeling came from his body or her own.

And then, his lips brushed the crest of her forehead with a warm,
feathery touch, his hold on her waist tightened, and she found
herself unutterably, disgracefully glad that she had no way
to escape.

Hating herself for it, but unable to resist, her head tipped up almost
imperceptibly, and his lips moved with her to graze her temple, her
eyebrow, her cheekbone, the heat from his lips branding her with a
scarlet touch that she felt sure would remain embedded on her skin
as evidence of her transgression. His lips traveled further down and
her head tilted farther up until finally, finally, their lips met, almost
by accident really, and then, well, what choice did she have but to
open her mouth beneath his?

Searing, wet, deep, endless. He tasted of smoke and brandy and a
hundred unnamable things, but overriding all other thought and
sensation was hot hot hot. One of his hands moved from her
waist to cup her behind, strong fingers digging into her soft flesh,
and she swallowed a moan that hovered deep in her throat, longing
to be set free.

Kissing and kissing and kissing until she realized with disgust that
she was shamelessly grinding herself against him, wanting to feel
more of him, and when his mouth left hers to ravage the delicate
juncture of her neck and shoulder, his other hand brushed against
her breast and oh my god... The temperature in the closet seemed
to soar even higher and she began to feel light-headed, whether from
the heat or his attentions or both she couldn't say, and all she knew,
all she could ever think of knowing, was his lips, his hands, his tongue...

"I'm coming, Reginald!" A light, quavering voice cut through the
heavy haze that surrounded them, freezing them in place, and
within moments they heard the door to the sitting room shut as
Lila took her leave.

They stood there in the confines of the closet like marble statues,
immobilized in shock and confusion, Luke's lips hovering over
Felicia's shoulder, one hand gripping her behind, the other cupping
her breast, her hands clasping the back of his neck. Their harsh,
heavy breathing was the only sound.

"We can go now, Luke," she said at last, softly.

"Yeah," he whispered, not moving. Then, coming to his senses, he
straightened abruptly and released her, shaking his head violently
to clear it. "Yeah. Right. Let's go."

"Let's." She straightened her dress and smoothed her hair,
then cautiously opened the door of the closet, squinting against
the light in the hallway as she peered out. "The coast is clear,"
she announced, trying to keep the note of regret out of her voice.

"Great," he said, in an equally disappointed tone. "Let's go find
those letters."

"Let's," she repeated. She took a deep breath and resolved to
herself, knowing even as she did so that it would be in vain,
to put the memory of Luke's lips against hers behind her.

end.