"Once again, love drives me on,
that loosener of limbs, that bittersweet creature
against which nothing can be done."
— Sappho
Evening light cast itself onto the city of London. Warm orange and yellow hues tinted the streets, while an abnormal pattern of drizzle began to grace the narrowly slanted rooftops. The streets were mostly empty with the exception of a few passersby. Despite the cross-in weather, it was beautiful outside. Tomorrow would prove even more beautiful with the leftover dew in the morning—the scent of dew on the grass was one Cereza loved since she was a child. But not nearly as much as she adored sweet perfume on another woman.
Normally, Cereza would gather her skirts in her hands to be quicker in her movements but her wrist was trapped in the hands of a lady. Not one of noble status like herself, but a prostitute. The sound of their boots hitting the wet ground was rhythmic as the rain became heavier by the minute. Cereza's handbag bounced helplessly against the full hip of her dress's outer skirt—the hem became soaked further as she ran. Gracefully she followed the other woman's movements, even with a captive wrist. They soon sharply turned a corner that lead to an alleyway.
"I certainly was not expecting such rain…" Cereza mentioned whilst breathing heavily. "…Or for you to run so quickly." Her chest heaved gently, even in slight exhaustion she remained pretty. With a newly free wrist, Cereza leaned against a cobbled wall behind her. She didn't bother to reach for her fan as it was more than likely soaked from the now boisterous amount of rain thundering down. Instead, she closed her eyes and allowed the water to hit her. Light streaming through the alleyway gave the already beautiful skin of hers an angelic glow. Cereza was visually flawless, appearing out of place in the run-down and jagged alleyway.
Her eyes fluttered open at the sound of footsteps approaching her, resting on the sight of the woman before her. She was beautiful as well—but not a noble. Cereza knew not of her name; that tended to be standard for women like the one before her. Also soaked from the rain, her mousey brown hair dripped with water and had fallen from its updo. She did not seem to mind—Cereza silently admired how it fell to her shoulders and complimented her breasts. Her body was lovely. All her curves were accentuated in the dress she wore. Far less extravagant than Cereza's, but still nothing short of breathtaking. Her shoulders were round and slender with soft breasts to match—her waist was diminutive, followed by her hips. If Cereza were not recounted to be one of the most beautiful in English high society, she could have been envious.
Closing the space between them, the prostitute caged Cereza's body with her own. Her catlike eyes bore into the bright ones of the noble before her. "I would not have presumed that you were a homosexual, Lady Arrowesmith." A sly grin tugged at her red-tinted lips. Before Cereza could respond, she was enveloped in a kiss that made her lose all sense for a moment. She longed for this—allowing herself to become lost and for the world to fall away. Mindlessly her hands flew to the other woman's waist, tugging her closer as if she were to disappear upon release. Their bodies were soaked but neither woman cared. The prostitute broke her lips from Cereza's before moving down to her neck, brushing aside her curls and pulling down her lace choker.
"Wait," Cereza moaned softly, the prostitute pausing in her movements. "I know not of your name, Miss…" Thunder cracked overhead as she spoke. Detaching her lips from Cereza's dainty neck, she whispered in her ear.
"Call me as you wish, my lady."
Rose. Cereza thought immediately due to the woman's red dress. Her soft voice broke the momentary silence once she gave the woman her name for the evening. "To me only, you are Rose." Cereza's hands hadn't left Rose's waist since she had first placed them there—not that she wanted to move. Her eyes searched Rose's face for a reaction, being met with a warm smile.
"It is quite fitting, is it not? I like it," Rose replied, her eyes smiling. Though hesitant Cereza smiled back in relief. It may have been pouring rain and soaking them both but with Rose, she felt warm. Rose then slipped her hand down to Cereza's breast—smaller than hers but supple. "May I?" She asked before being met with a slow nod.
"I am paying you, am I not?" A smiling Cereza retorted whilst her mistress let out a small snicker. Rose returned to her place on Cereza's neck, her crimson lip tint left traces of herself wherever she went. Each kiss was slow and calculated with the rest of her movements. Though Rose and Cereza hadn't ever been with one another previously, she proved to be *very* versed in her profession. Slipping a delicate hand into the top of the bodice, Rose quickly learned of Cereza's sensitivity.
Cereza gasped quietly, Rose's hands were freezing but it made her knees weak. Her perfume, though wearing faint from the heavy rain was extremely intoxicating. Cereza refused to believe that such an alluring woman was servicing her like this—in harsh rain. Before she knew it, Rose had released herself from Cereza's grasp and knelt on the wet ground. Instinctually, the noblewoman's kind heart nearly lept from her chest—wanting to say that Rose need not kneel before her. However, she knew the true purpose of her soiling her dress; the money.
Momentarily, Cereza's heart sank. As Rose had begun to lift her skirts she stopped her. "Stand up. I have changed my mind," Cereza said firmly. Though her serious tone did not mask the deep sadness in her eyes. Rose obeyed, rising from her place on the ground.
"Is something the matter, my lady?"
Cereza looked away before shaking her head. She seemed anxious, her infamous habit of chewing her lower lip revealed itself. Hastily she removed her purse from the belt of her dress and shoved it into Rose's hands. "Keep it all—you have earned it," Cereza urged despite the subtle apprehension in her voice.
Quickly she flitted out of the alleyway, leaving Rose in the downpour behind. Her skirts balled up in her fists were now heavier from all of the rainwater that had been soaked by them, but it did not stop her. Cereza could not pin the feeling in her chest, but she knew it was one she did not understand or like. It was vacant and cold, much like the alleyway she had abandoned Rose.
Her mind was running as fast as she did through the mostly barren streets of London, so much so that she pummeled right into someone else. Knocked onto the ground from the blow, Cereza's clouded thoughts finally exonerated. Her eyes settled on the person before her—Lady Estelle Dryden-Estaughffe. The next marchioness. And Cereza was splayed beneath her like a beggar. Disheveled, cold, drenched, and obscured with evidence of her aforesaid affair.