Belle Morte Bites (Belle Morte 4.3)

Clotilde

Dijon, France, 1752

Ysanne Moreau rolled over in bed, burying her face in Clotilde's auburn hair, and trailing one hand down the bare curve of her lover's spine.

Clotilde stirred, mumbling into her pillow.

"What was that?" Ysanne said, kissing Clotilde's shoulder-blade.

The other woman lifted her head, blinking sleep from her eyes. "I said, you're insatiable."

"It's your fault. You're so beautiful I can't keep my hands off you," Ysanne teased, her palm moving closer, tracing the slope of Clotilde's backside, moving down to her thighs.

Clotilde made a noise like a purr.

It had been thirteen years since Artus had died, and in the aftermath of his death, the world had become a dark place for Ysanne. She'd started to question her own immortality, wondering if this was all her life would ever be – loving and losing people. She no longer even had a friend to weather the storm – since she and Edmond had parted ways, she had no idea where he was or what he was doing.

Everything had seemed bleak.

Then she'd met Clotilde, and for the first time in a long time, it had felt like the sun was coming out.

"Can we stay in bed all day?" Clotilde said, rolling onto her back and stretching. Her back arched, breasts lifted, and Ysanne's eyes gleamed.

"If you'd like to," she said.

Clotilde rolled over again, climbing onto Ysanne. Her hair fell like a curtain around them. Ysanne ran her hands up Clotilde's soft hips.

Someone knocked on the front door.

Clotilde groaned and lowered her head so her forehead rested on Ysanne's.

"Whoever it is, ignore them," Ysanne murmured, nipping at Clotilde's lips.

Clotilde giggled and kissed her.

The knocking came again, louder this time, and Clotilde started to frown, but then Ysanne slid a hand between her legs, and Clotilde's expression melted in bliss.

"Ysanne," she moaned.

Another furious hammering sounded at the door, and then: "Clotilde. I know you're in there."

The colour drained from Clotilde's face, and she went rigid. "No," she whispered.

"What is it?" Ysanne said.

Clotilde lifted her head, her eyes wide. "It can't be."

The knocking hadn't stopped; it sounded like someone was trying to break the door down.

"Clotilde." Ysanne captured her face with both hands. "What's going on?"

"That's my father," Clotilde whispered.

She scrambled off Ysanne, and climbed off the bed.

"How did he find me?" she said, wringing her hands.

Slowly Ysanne sat up. "He didn't know where you were?"

She'd been with Clotilde for months, but her lover had always been vague about her family, and Ysanne, knowing how deep familial scars could run, had never pried.

Clotilde cast a panicked look at the bedroom door. "I have to go to him. He'll break in if I don't."

Ysanne climbed out of bed, and pulled on a silk robe, knotting the cord around her waist. "I would like to see him try." She cupped Clotilde's cheek. "Are you afraid of him?"