Every sign she gave him said yes, said more; he would take the night at her pace but he was starting to doubt her resolve not to sleep with him yet. He leaned in to her palm on his chest, forcing her to press hard enough to feel his heartbeat quickening through his shirt. He caressed her breast more firmly, trying to find the right placement and movement and pressure to make her melt into him. The clothes made it difficult; all his attempts here were blunted, and he wasn't sure how much was actually getting through to her. She was clearly enjoying kissing him, and she'd tangled her fingers in his hair, but her body said more and he wanted to give her more. He had almost resolved to break off kissing her and ask if he could undo the laces on her dress, at least, despite his resolve to leave the pacing of the evening all up to her — but just as he was contemplating it, there was a noise in the hallway. Someone's laughter, too loud, probably drunk on either wine or the indulgence of staying up late at a country party, then a conversation following on. Two voices, loud enough to be intrusive but indistinct eniough that the words themselves were lost.

Don Juan stopped kissing her. He wasn't worried about the voices in the hallway — they were already moving away from the door, and clearly not out looking for anyone in particular — but expected it might have startled her, and that she would need some reassurances. He caught her eyes and offered her a playful smirk. He mouthed the word quiet. Then he reached up to catch the hand she'd had on his chest, brought it silently to his mouth, and slowly sucked on one of her fingers.

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