A/N: I think this is the chapter everyone has been waiting for! So, without further ado or too many notes, please enjoy!
Belle didn't know what she was doing. She was flying up the stairs, having been seconds away from doing something she wasn't even sure Mr. Gold wanted her to do… and breaking rule after rule after rule again. Belle had never been one to circumvent the ties that bound her, she liked to operate within the framework, so that she might preserve her own position, even if it meant she'd have to work a little longer or try a little harder, she hated the idea of breaking the rules.
Now, she was doing everything wrong – defying the owner of the entire Playboy enterprise, defying Regina, and staying in a man's apartment – a man who was not her boyfriend, fiancé, husband, or relative. Not only was she breaking Bunny rules, but she was pretty sure her father would have a heart attack if he knew – he never even let her stay a night at George's – let alone take suitcases and move into her own room.
He might have actually approved of that part – but everything else: no chaperone, all alone with an older, richer man – everything added up to a very bad conclusion. The only thing was, Mr. Gold didn't even really get within arm's length of her unless they were here.
Pushing her way into the back room, Belle rubbed her temple, wondering what on Earth that could mean – and why it was so different, before she became aware of Tia closing in on her. "You don't smell like smoke," she said pointedly, searching Belle's face with her intelligent, accusatory dark eyes.
Belle's cheeks started to burn. Tia was scrutinizing her, "I forgot my smokes," she lied, lamely and Tia stared at her, unconvinced – thoroughly. It was the most exposed she'd ever felt, even as she slipped off her jacket to distract herself, Tia was still looking, silently waiting for the truth. "Don't look at me like that, Tia," Belle pled.
It didn't appear her plea meant anything, however, and Tia put her hands on her hips, off setting the mint green with her beautifully toned skin. "I wouldn't have to if you told the truth," she pointed out, "Now what is going on?"
"Nothing!" Belle lied, though forcefully. "I just wanted to take a break outside. It's cooler out there than back here," true, but not the real reason. Tia frowned, deeper than before and shook her head. "Trust me?" Belle lowered her voice, practically begging to just drop the subject.
It seemed, at least, that was enough to make Tia step off. "If you're in trouble, honey," she leaned closely, not wanting to attract anymore attention than had already been pulled toward them, "You just need to ask for help."
Belle shook her head. "I'm fine, Tia," she squeezed her-coworkers shoulder with a smile of good faith, "I know," she wrinkled her nose. Little did Tia know, Belle was looking to someone else for help, but she wasn't going to tell her that. It was much easier to just pretend everything was peachy keen. Not that she suspected her co-worker believed it, but it was enough.
They exited the backstage area uneasily, but Belle couldn't dwell on it – and really, neither could Tia. They both had something to prove – Belle being on probation (that Regina didn't seem to be watching h anyway… but she could never really discount her presence and eyes), and Tia wasn't the typical bunny. Yes, she was as young and beautiful as the rest of them, but being African-American, it was something that some people had to get over. While Tia's performance was constant, Belle was new to the idea of being watched all the time, and currently, she was failing miserably.
At least, as far as she was aware, it was only a personal failure – only Tia had noticed she wasn't being entirely truthful, and even then, she couldn't prove anything. For a moment, Belle was glad she hadn't kissed Mr. Gold senseless, she'd smell like his cologne and her lipstick would have been terribly mussed… Her imagination, however, was running away with her, and Belle had to reel herself back in. She had at least three more hours of work and there was nothing she could do about it.
So, she resolved to be all smiles and cheer, despite the way some of the men looked and their grabby hands reaching out to take whatever handful they could get. It was mitigated by the fact Belle truly felt in control of what could happen. Maybe she couldn't stop Todio from shooting her down at some point, but she found it very easy to dictate what happened in her immediate circle of influence.
Once you've tugged one of the most powerful men in Chicago by the tie… everything else seemed like it might just be a little easier than she anticipated. It was his own damn fault, really, being charming and kind one second and then a complete ass another, and then the soft-gentle alleyway nonsense. He was an enigma, and Belle really hated things she couldn't understand.
So, she upped the ante. She smiled wider whenever she looked at him, sought eye contact at every turn she made, and when she was at the table, made sure to compliment him. Todio looked quite displeased when Belle leaned over the table and Belle smiled so sweetly at him, "That tie really suits you, Mr. Gold," she practically purred and grabbed his glass from in front of him. Their eyes met and a smile flashed across his face: not exactly threatening, but mysterious, for sure.
Belle felt vindicated as she slowly withdrew from the table and sashayed away with another round of scotch for the table. She was keeping count tonight, and Mr. Gold was somewhere near four drinks? It seemed like a lot, but Belle didn't really have much of a gauge. She didn't drink, at least no more than one glass of champagne on New Year's or at a wedding, and that was enough to get her giggling. Four scotches… with a fifth on the way?
She supposed it was late in the evening, and almost time to go – Belle couldn't do much about it, except delay a bit by visiting her other tables, picking up tabs and even stopping to chat a bit with Ruby, who was out of sorts. The tall, dark haired young walked with her, complaining about how the redheaded account manager wasn't paying nearly enough attention to her, and she'd tried just about everything, which Belle could only pat her arm in sympathy, understanding all too well the complexities of getting the attention of those you were absolutely not supposed to.
But, Ruby was a natural rule breaker. She liked boundary pushing, as evidenced by her employment here. Belle just hoped that she wasn't going to be playing with fire. She'd much rather Ruby find her way without worrying about men, considering she was so young, but it was her life – and she had to make choices. Wasn't that what the new social push was all about? Belle heard words like liberation, feminism, and choice thrown around to describe all manners of choices.
Belle didn't know how she was going to navigate these things – choices seemed to be for those that had the means to make them, and Belle certainly wasn't one of them, but at the same time, she was allowed to work in a place like this. She had that option, and she could only thank whoever had the time to work for that opportunity that she and her father weren't starving as a result, even if she had to rely on her looks to do it. That was, arguably, the best thing to come of whatever was bubbling beyond Belle's sphere of influence.
She just had influence here, and now, and over her own life, which she was happy for. Doing what she had to do was her way of life, and as she slipped through the club, another smiling face amongst the crowd, she let her hips sway and curls bounce, pretending this was the best thing that could possibly happen to her. She was just glad that the night was winding down, the worst thing that happened post alleyway meeting were comments from Mr. Todio while she was at the table, ones met with steely glances by Mr. Gold, which made Belle stand up a little prouder, and smile just a little wider.
As the patrons were escorted out, the tabs collected, and tips stuffed in unseemly places until they could be deposited in their envelopes and purses, Belle grabbed her tips and greedily counted them all, practically squealing as she rounded past one hundred, and steadily climbed up with each passing bill. Her heart soared – One hundred and ninety five dollars – just five dollars short of two hundred! Her breath hitched in her throat, she was making so much progress. Even from the tables she had no stake in, the tips were higher, the time easier.
Pulling her purse out of her locker, Belle immediately shoved the money inside and put it right back into the locker. Swallowing hard, she wished she didn't have to leave the suit at work. She thought it might be worth it – to sneak it out of the club, but that was one of the rules. No suits left the club, or it was fifty dollars off her paycheck, and Yaga – the Eastern European seamstress who pressed, cleaned, and mended all of the suits would have her head if something happened to it. She'd be the first to rat her out, crone that she was, so Belle slipped out of the suit, albeit reluctantly, and back into her dress from the day.
The other girls were taking their time, chatting, but Belle was actually very ready to go. In fact, she was the first to grab her coat and start for the back door. "What's the rush, Belle?" Ashley chimed, combing out her thick, blonde hair.
Belle turned, anxiously shifting her weight from one foot to the other, "Dad has been waiting up," she lied – so many lies, all of the time, "I figured I'd get out a bit earlier tonight."
Ruby sighed, rolling her eyes. "You should come with us."
"Where?" Belle asked, delaying, but only because her curiosity was getting the better of her.
A devious sort of smirk spread over Ruby's lips, the mischief in her eyes easy to pick up on. "The mansion," she breathed, "Heff is having a party tonight," her tone dropped to monotone, "For Sue." But she was able to straighten up, roll her shoulders with a bit of a shimmy, "But we're going to go. Come with us!"
Belle bit the inside of her cheek. The expectant looks on her friends faces made it difficult to say no… then again… the idea of going to a warm bed and her pajamas and come up with some kind of plan for Mr. Gold made it quite easy. Her shoulders dropped, "Maybe another time, girls," she smiled uneasily, "My dad is waiting." Not the image she wanted. Both sighed and rolled their eyes at her. "Sorry!" she offered, trying to offer a reassuring smile.
"I'm going to hold you to it," Ruby said pointedly as she adjusted the low, sweet-heart neckline of her halter top. It would have been a little less scandalous if she didn't pair it with skin tight cigarette pants and red heels. Belle shook her head, the girl was something else. "Can't let us have all the fun, after all!"
"You won't be," the words tumbled out before she could stop herself and she felt herself starting to flush. Ashley and Ruby looked at her sharply, scrutinizing, and narrowed their eyes. Belle's heart thumped in her chest, trying to will the blush on her cheeks to go away entirely as they stared at her. It wasn't happening, so Belle was beating a hasty retreat, "I've got to go! Be safe! And Have fun!" the last statement was somewhat of an afterthought, and she dashed away, before they could even grab her, and through the staff only doors.
Belle stopped on the first landing to calm herself, wondering what on Earth she was thinking, and why she would have said anything at all, let alone that! That was most assuredly not what she intended, but she knew how they thought – she knew it was going to sound like that. Rubbing her face, Belle calmed herself, and then descended further, glad to see the alleyway was empty – a shiver travelling down her spine – before she exited the alleyway.
Looking up and down the street, her smile brightened as she saw Mr. Gold and Hongrois standing outside of the Cadillac. It appeared they were in some kind of discussion. Belle approached, hoping to catch the tail end of it, but they seemed to notice her before she got a chance to. "Hello Hongrois," she smiled brightly as she approached, choosing to stop by Mr. Gold's side, "Hello again, Mr. Gold."
"Miss French," Hongrois greeted coolly, the ghost of a smile flickering on his face. Belle wondered what that was about, but he opened the door and she sat in quickly, sliding across the street to allow Mr. Gold to climb in next to her. The black partition that separated the front seat from the back was up – strange, and Belle looked confusedly at Mr. Gold as he climbed in. The best he could do was shrug in return.
When Hongrois closed the door, Belle watched him make his way behind the car and then to the driver's door. She only heard the door shut and the engine start. It was so strange to not see him drive. "There's a party at the Mansion tonight," Belle suddenly felt shy, in her day clothes, feeling very much like Belle French – not Bunny Belle – and an awkward shyness settling between them. Maybe she should have risked Yaga's anger to take it with her, if it would provide her whatever she lost between the front doors of the club and the car.
Mr. Gold's fingers tightened around his cane and he cleared his throat, "I see," his voice was terse and low, eyes trained forward.
Belle reached up and twirled one of her curls around her finger, biting her lip. Well, that didn't go over very well. "Ashley and Ruby wanted me to go," she added, "but I told them no."
He shifted only slightly to look at her. "Did you wish to go?" he raised his hand, like he was going to knock on the partition and instruct Hongrois, but Belle shook her head, and his hand stilled.
"No, no," the second was stronger, more sincere, and she lifted her downcast eyes to smile at him, "I made an excuse so I wouldn't have to. I don't think I would like something like that," she offered, hoping it would ease any of the guilt that was written all over his face.
It seemed to work and his hand dropped back into his lap unceremoniously. "What would you like then, if not champagne, music, and dancing?" he asked, an almost speculative, and a bit… could she say dreamy? Maybe there was a hint of that, but it could also easily be some kind of sadness. Belle had trouble enough with him, let alone deciphering his every mood and whim.
Belle slumped in her seat for a moment in thought at his provoking words. Champagne and music and dancing would have been well and good, if she were inclined for that sort of thing. And why wasn't she? What was the problem with any of it? Oh right. "Drinking doesn't interest me, and though I love music, I'm a wretched dancer," she let a bubble of laughter rise from her chest. "I'd much rather spend time relaxing," he nodded in understanding, "with you."
The words hung in the air between them. Everything in the backseat seemed to still, she no longer fumbled with her skirt from anxiety, he didn't even twitch his fingers over his cane's handle, which he was wont to do in circumstances that seemed unpleasant. The ride wouldn't last much longer, Belle realized, and though her breathing was shallow and her heart was thumping loudly in her chest, she had no other option.
Belle scooted close and quick, she didn't want him to be able to think about it and she placed the smallest, most chaste kiss on his cheek. The act itself was not significant, but the fact that Belle did it, that color rose to her cheeks and her eyes searched anywhere but his face as she withdrew from his slightly stubbly cheek, laughing nervously, but happily, waiting to hear something- anything.
The only sound that greeted her ears was the halting of the tires and the muting of the engine. Belle's heart sank. Mr. Gold did not make any move whatsoever, and before Belle knew it, Hongrois was opening the door for her. She was glad that she could dash out of the car as soon as she did and compose herself. Belle wouldn't let herself be upset by it. It wasn't right to get all worked up over someone who stole kisses for practical matters.
She wished, just a little, that he might be less practical, that out of all of this: not seeing her father, being within inches of losing her job, and lying to everyone about everything that something good might come of it. Her voice was quiet and eyes watery as she thanked Hongrois before moving further on the pavement, Hongrois' eyes following her as he shut her door and moved around the other side, say something quite forcefully, though quietly, as Mr. Gold maneuvered out of the car.
When he took her side, Belle continued her steadfast gaze at the ground, watching his cane and feet move to direct her own actions. She felt foolish, and the way he just stayed stock still. Belle just walked by his side, cursing herself as they stepped onto the elevator and another awkward silence was no accompanied by the low humming of the apparatus pulling the elevator upward. The ride, she knew, was quick but felt endless, lingering, and all Mr. Gold did was stand there, looking straight forward – not that her eyes wandered toward him or his pinstripe suit at all, obviously.
They stepped off and he unlocked the door, Belle breaking the silence as she passed by murmuring a very faint, "I'm sorry," before she started to dash toward her bedroom, shrugging off her coat and tossing it on the couch as she did. It would be best, she reasoned, to rush straight to bed.
"Belle," his voice wavered, but he surely called after her, and she tried to stop dead in her tracks, heels skittering to a halt over the wood floors. She didn't turn to look at him, but waited, at the mouth of the hallway, hearing his cane tapping while he walked forward with tentative, soft steps. "Sorry?"
Belle turned slowly, eyes still cast downward, afraid that looking at him might crack her resolve at this moment to be totally honest. "I just…" she took a deep breath, smoothing her hands over her skirt; she needed a moment to gather her words. Once she was sufficiently able, she looked up, meeting his brown eyes and gulped: be strong. "At the club, you… it's not fair, Mr. Gold, for you to act like that there – kissing my hand, and me, and smiling, and here… well, you treat me like a child, like you haven't seen every inch of my legs or arms or kissed me at all."
Mr. Gold looked almost stricken, like she had done him some great disservice by pointing out how he carried on as two completely different people, and Belle sought to explain herself further. "I completely understand, of course, needing an excuse to put something in my pocket, or hand me things… and…" she shook her head, smiling without being happy at all, "I understand if I misunderstood and took whatever I was feeling a step too far… but.. the least you could do is say something – let me know, so I don't continue to make a fool of myself." Belle's shoulders dropped and she was breathing hard, but she realized it felt so good to at least say it, and mean it – to be truthful about one thing.
If it made living with him awkward, so be it, because Belle at least felt one weight ascending from her shoulders and it allowed her to stand taller and feel a little less guilty. "Is that what you think?" he finally replied, his accent thicker than before, enough that Belle had to lean forward to make it out, "You think I'm the confusing one?"
That reaction was not what Belle anticipated. "What? Yes, I do, as a matter of fact," somehow she'd found her voice, and it was ripe with anger at the suggestion that he was not the one who was running around flirting and initiating things he wouldn't go through with.
"Dearie," he walked forward now, with a renewed strength and confidence, "I'm not the one who walks about, tugging on ties and flirting all evening. I'm most assuredly not the one strutting about with a costume that barely covers him up, am I? And I certainly didn't get some tarty pictures taken on a lark either and then talk about them incessantly." His voice was not loud, but it was punctuated. He was standing a mere couple of feet from her, and she could see his hands trembling, an odd show of a lack of composure for him.
Belle, on the other hand, was not one to hold her emotions in very well, and her coloring only heightened as she hastily dug into her purse and pulled out the pictures she had never removed. "Tarty?" she seethed as she stalked forward and shoved the pictures into his shaking free hand. "Have a look then, since you're so fond of the costume and the smiling – if that's the Belle you're so happy to be around, have her all the time. I don't feel like carrying her around anymore."
She crossed her hands over her chest and Mr. Gold looked down at the stack of polaroids in his hand and stood there, looking dumbfounded. Belle hated that – she wanted him to act immediately, do something, but he stood there, looking at them, like his mind had to work out everything before it even allowed him a fraction of a movement. When his head snapped up, away from staring at his hand, Gold threw the pictures down on the floor and walked forward. Belle held her ground, eyes narrowed as he continued his approach, "I guess that doesn't please you either?" she asked, disappointment and anger equally present in her tone.
He shook his head, laughing as he looked at her stern face. Mr. Gold turned from her and headed for that damned cabinet, the whiskey bottles neatly stacked and rowed with glasses at the wait, and she swore, if she were able, she would have started breathing fire at that moment. "No! You don't get to distract yourself," on impulse, she followed him, trying to move in front of the cabinet, "What is wrong?"
"About this?" he motioned between them, "Just about everything, dearie," Gold tried to move to the left, to get around her, but Belle angled her body to block him again, to deny him the drink that would allow him excuses.
She was done with excuses and cryptic answers. "Whatever this is," she mimicked the flourishing motion between them, "it's nothing if the only Belle you can respond to is as fake as the make-up on my face or the compliments I give to anyone else. Anyone, but you, "she added, sincerity tinged with true sincerity.
Most likely, at the realization that he would be getting no Scotch, Gold moved from the cabinet, taking a few, staggered steps backward. "You're very young," he eased, "You are in a fragile place, dearie."
"Stop!" she closed her eyes, fists balled at her sides before flexing her fingers all the way out. "Please, don't tell me that." When her eyes opened, she looked at him, exasperated. "I'm twenty-five years old; I've been working since I was fifteen, taking care of my dad after my mother died. I am not that young, so you can't use that as an excuse, Gold."
R. Gold certainly didn't have an immediate answer for that, and his jaw mulled like he was chewing on something hard to swallow – Belle got a thrill of satisfaction that her words were what he was chewing on – if she was actually happy, she might have smirked. "Then, let me revise," he started, "I am old, and I work for the very people who consistently threaten your pretty little neck, dear."
"Not so old," she countered, and moved around him, regarding him critically. "And if that was the case, if you were truly dangerous, you wouldn't be keeping me here in your penthouse, like some precious little tea cup – display but not function. You even tell me I don't have to cook or clean; if I can't do anything, what good am I?" Belle realized this argument was about much more than what it started out as - she was frustrated, stifled… she wanted to be someone more than a decoration. She didn't want to be a thing.
It appeared Gold was at least understanding on that point and he moved away from the cabinet. His steps were slow, and he let out a slow, low sound – that might have been a laugh if it wasn't so heartbreaking. "You don't see it, do you?" he reached up, touching the side of her face. Belle tried to resist leaning into it, but she felt powerless. "You will be so much more than ears or corsets or an old man in a penthouse, Belle." The look on his face was so… sad. Belle's knees bent as that familiar weight dropped right back onto her shoulders. She felt like she might cry, and couldn't say anything in return – didn't know what to say. "You were the one who said temporary position, weren't you?"
"Isn't everything temporary?" her lips quirked into a shy sort of smile, and Belle leaned into the pads of his fingers. He trailed his fingers down her jaw and tipped her chin upward.
Belle took a tentative step forward, and Mr. Gold's hand that had previously been wrapped around his cane, tossed it aside on the floor next to the couch, and found its way to her shoulder, "Unfortunately."
Her hands shook as she reached upward, gingerly stroking the mousy brown hair that hung by the side of his face. It as soft as she remembered, and she took a deep breath, slowly threading the strands in between her fingers, seeing everything in slow motion until the sudden jerk forward and she was pressed against him, her fingers closing around the strands of hair to keep herself steady, tugging at the same time – and he made a sound she couldn't have even dream up while her other hand snaked around his shoulder.
Before she could blink, they met somewhere in the middle and Belle was shaking as their lips slanted over one another's. It was a slow, desperate sort of thing, warm and wet and comforting, but outside of twisting her stomach, an ache formed in her chest with every movement, the way he tilted her head back and brushed her hair from her cheek, clutched her neck like she might disappear. Belle grabbed his collar, anchoring herself, but Mr. Gold was talking steps backward and she was helpless to follow as she chased his lips with every step.
The tastes of smoke and whiskey filled her mouth and they tumbled backward, a mess of tangled limbs and knocking joints onto the modern, white couch. Their lips parted as Belle landed on top of him with an inglorious grunt from him and a slight yelp from her. "Are you alright?" he asked in a husky, heavy voice, using both hands to push her hair back from over her shoulder and away from her face with both of his hands.
"I'm better than alright," searching his face, she found it okay to smile, and even laugh a little as she dragged her hand through the hair at his temples, as the other trailing down to his neck and over the part of tie that she was not lying on top of. "You?" a breathy laugh escaped her, and her only answer was a tug on the back of her head, bringing her down again.
Resistance was not Belle's strength at this point, and she willingly acquiesced to the pull – even if she tried, she doubted she would have been able to anyway, with the way he bit on her bottom lip and then soothed the sting with a swipe of his tongue. She moaned as he let go of her hair and his hand swept down her back at the same time he teased her mouth open, another permission Belle was only happy to grant.
Belle didn't know if she necessarily set out for this reaction, she certainly didn't ask for the confrontation – for the bearing of whatever insecurities she didn't even realize she had – and then to have each one washed away with every brush of his lips, every swipe of his tongue and Belle felt a coil of pleasure as he moaned her name against her mouth. As much as she might have liked to wipe the word off of him, Belle pushed herself up, separating their torsos. A bleary eyed Mr. Gold blinked, his hand tightening around her lower back, "What? What's wrong?"
"I don't know your first name," she said in between shaky, shallow breaths. Being thoroughly kissed really did that to a girl. "I can't just call you Mr. Gold," her laugh was husky and he pushed himself into a sitting position under her, leaning against the arm of the couch.
Belle scooted forward into his lap, one knee digging into the back cushions and her other leg hanging off the couch, her dress bunched up and stockings out, if she didn't feel like he was staring directly into her, ready to eat her alive, she might have felt ridiculous. Mr. Gold leaned forward and pressed a close-mouthed kiss to her lips, "Robert, m'names Robert," his voice was gruff and he nuzzled past her now wild curls, "I hate it," he placed a trail of kisses upward toward her jaw, Belle shifting with a giggle in his lap, "just Gold."
Belle hummed with pleasure as a well placed bite was pressed to the side of her neck and she giggled, squirming away from his teasing lips. His eyes were wide, and Belle smiled brilliantly at him, "It doesn't suit you," she agreed, "Gold it is," she leaned back in and pressed another closed mouth kiss to his lips as her hands slipped under his jacket, helping him shrug out of it and discard it over the arm of the chair. Left only in his crisp white shirt and tie, Belle wrapped her hand around it and Mr. Gold's hands tugged on her hips and Belle tipped forward, chest and hips flush against his own and he smiled against her lips before claiming another kiss, less chaste than the closed mouth exchanges, teeth clacking with searching tongues, and series of shivers washed down Belle's back and through the pit of her stomach.
His hands moved from her hips and wrapped around her waist, one splayed over her back and Belle's own left arm hooked around his back, while her right stayed firmly on his chest, fingers spread, feeling his sinewy frame under his shirt. As Gold searched the inside of her mouth, Belle whimpered with satisfaction, digging her nails into him through the fabric of his shirt. He again moved from her lips, leaving her shockingly short of breath, and dragged kisses over her jaw and back to the place on her neck that seemed to connect straight to her knees and pulled them together, tighter around him.
In the absence of an occupation for her own mouth, Belle let her head droop to the side, her hand on his back finding its way into his hair, tightening around the roots and she sighed, breath getting caught in her throat as a squeak when he bit down just a little harder than she anticipated. He pulled away at the sound and Belle, with heavy lids, dragged her hand down through the rest of his hair and blinked, "Did I hurt you?" he asked, voice still husky and low, as he loosed his grip on her.
Belle shook her head in response, licking her lips as she searched for an answer. Her whole mouth was dry though, and the relief she sough from the action was not granted. Bravery, Belle demanded of herself, and she pushed herself off of him, and the couch, standing to the side with a lowered chin, only gingerly biting her bruised lip. "Belle?" he looked at her with questions clearly visible in his eyes, waiting for her to say something – to do something.
She leaned down, grabbing his cane and held out the handle end to him, her nose wrinkling with a playful laugh, "Mr. Gold?" At this, Mr. Gold grabbed the end and pushed himself up at the same time, taking the liberty of tugging the cane toward him, and with it, Belle, who laughed and threw her arms about him once again.
Pulled into another intense, probing kiss, Belle leaned against him her whole body sensitive to every movement of his hands, of the heat of him in front of her, and the way he stared straight into her with those dark eyes. And they both smiled as Gold dipped his fingers over the hollow of her throat and along the skin of her collarbone, flushed pink with excitement. "You are trouble, aren't you, Belle?"