Melody felt as though she was suffering from sensory overload. A minute ago she was preparing to face devastation once more and now ... now, it was all Melody could do to keep from moaning into his kiss. It'd been months since she was last touched so intimately, and longer still since the hands to do so were ones she was this familiar with. Every touch of Ben's hands on her — on her face, on her legs (god, her legs) — set her blood on fire. More, Melody would have begged if she was willing to sacrifice even a second of his lips upon hers.

Desperate hands blindly worked on the buttons of his shirt as she sighed into the kiss. She no longer remembered every contour and muscle of his chest, his body as foreign to her as it was the first time he kissed her. Soon she'd remember, or so Melody hoped. What she didn't remember she would eagerly learn, taking only as much as he'd allow her in these next few minutes. (Hours? Days? Weeks?) Even with his shirt undone and her dress hiked up, there were still far too many layers to contend with, for Melody could scarcely breathe with how constricted her corset now made her chest. "Bed," she murmured into the kiss. "Take me to bed."

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