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They stood in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower, a paper bag of ludicrously expensive cigars bumping against his leg.
"You dragged me," she sighed wistfully, "From the comfort of our honeymoon bed, just so you could kiss me here."
"Can I kiss you here again?"
"You don't have to ask my permission," she whispered, "At least, not always."
With a flourish he pulled her into his arms, the paper bag dropping to the ground as, taking her weight in his arms, he dipped her backwards and kissed his way up her neck. She gave into him with complete abandon.
She gave in with the same abandon as she had at the Tower at various romantic, strategic points on their blissful walk back to the hotel. He danced her around L'Hotel de Ville, no concern for onlookers, and kissed her just over the spot where the guillotine had completed her bloody work.
"At least," he conjectured as he held the door to the hotel open for her, "We don't have to worry about different hotels."
"No," she agreed, "But different rooms."
"Oh," he feigned astonishment, "I thought you would want separate rooms."
"I was angry, not void of sense," she whispered lustily, "My room is nearer."
"So it is," then he looked puzzled, "Is it?"
They stopped at the from desk, and his hand tapped impatiently against the surface of the mahogany. The receptionist gave them both keys.
"Second floor," she stated, as she led him towards the lift.
He shrugged, "Fifth. I took the suite."
"Such expensive taste...monsieur Addams," she whispered.
She felt his hand contract around hers, his knuckles whitening. Nonetheless, she reached for the button and pressed the gilt number 5.
"But your room," he pulled her flush against him, so she was facing the lift doors and he was behind her, "Is nearer."
She could feel, not too subtly, why that may be an issue for him.
"Don't make me go up 3 more floors than I need to," he groaned.
"There is nothing," she let out a little sigh as he ran his hands up her arms, causing her to shiver, "Wrong with a little patience and training. And anyway, you should always want to do more than you need to for me."
"You make an entirely valid and reasonable point. I do," he moved her hair to one side and trailed his lips from behind her ear to the nape of her neck, "Have some very necessary 'making up' to do."
The lift heralded it's arrival at the floor with a sharp 'bing' and the heavy doors, panelled with wood, slid open. He stepped forward and out first. Then, as she stepped across the lift threshold he scooped her up in his arms. She didn't quite have to stifle a scream but she did let out a little gasp of surprise.
He strode down the hallway, not looking at all where he was going, maintaining the most intimate of eye contact with her. Placing her gently on her feet, he handed her the key to the suite. Morticia hated modernity in all its crudeness, but at this moment, more than anything she wished for one of those infernal card swipes that opened the door. He was using his fingers to draw little patterns on her hips and with his other, was tracing lines up and down her neck. It seemed like the most innocent of caresses, but it carried with it so many promises.
She finally managed to turn the lock and preceded him into the room. It was dark and cold and she was flooded with the delightful memories of their previous stay there. She slipped the button of her cloak free from the loop, and it puddled around her feet. Then she turned to him. He was still standing at the door, though he had closed it as soon as they had come in. While he had been observing her, he had been unbuttoning his shirt. As he stood, his shirt lay wide open, exposing his well toned chest. Never had she been so grateful for his hours of fencing.
Suddenly he charged towards her, ripping his shirt fully from his body. He pushed her against the nearest wall, though she moved very willingly, his hands firm on her shoulders as his lips crashed onto hers. Their kiss was incredibly heated and she moved her hands onto his face to exert some control. She pulled back a moment.
"You need to calm down," she gasped, as his lips landed on the pulse on her neck. He did not listen. He reached down, his hand impatiently pulling her skirt up to her waist. The material was tight, but it gave easily under hands that had been doing the self-same thing for years.
"Gomez...mmmm," she purred,"Mon amour, mon sauvage..."
He merely growled as the liquid gold dripped from her tongue, and grazed his fingers along the top of her stocking. She laughed, a visceral, delightful, animal noise and fell gloriously into this experience.