A/N: Everyone demanded a second chapter, and so here it is: Monday Afternoon! Enjoy!

Her father is downstairs in the shop.

Belle is upstairs, in the kitchen, pouring tea for a man with a subtle little smirk and gleaming eyes.

And this shouldn't be a turn-on. Oh, it really, really shouldn't. But Gold had promised he would get his revenge for her attack that morning, and he'd said it in that low, rough, determined voice he only used when he wanted something from her.

He'd said 'tonight'; she'd expected them to meet in their special place, outside the library, and vanish together into the night.

His house is safe: no one could catch them there.

But here? In her home, with her father in the shop downstairs sweating bullets because the landlord was upstairs? This is the opposite of safe.

Her dad doesn't like her dating. She is twenty-five years old, a grown adult, so really she shouldn't have to act like a rebellious teenager. But since she broke off her engagement to George Gastbury – the most boring man in existence and her father's old apprentice – he doesn't approve of her dating.

Said it was cheap, that people would talk.

She leans over the table a little far to reach the teapot, allows her tartan skirt to ride up the back of her thighs. She's giving Gold an eyeful, and she knows it, and he's insane if he thinks she'll stop anytime soon.

"Careful, dear," he murmurs, as she sits back and pours his tea. His hand is on her bare thigh under the table, warm and higher than is strictly appropriate.

"Of what?" she asks, casually, as if they're talking about the weather.

"Your father is right downstairs, perhaps you should behave?"

She shrugs, shakes her head, and he moves his hand a little higher, fingertips reaching the hem of her tiny kilt. She sees his raised eyebrow when he discovers her distinct lack of underwear. She had warned him earlier that they had been misplaced… it isn't her fault that her knickers all go mysteriously missing when he decides to drop by.

They're useless anyway, when he's looking at her like that, all dark eyes and hunger.

"Perhaps you should…" she replies.

"Perhaps…" he's leaned in close, so his lips are right by her ear, and she giggles. She must have done quite a number on him this morning, if he's this forward this fast.

Usually they talk for a while; usually she makes the first real move.

But no, he's breathing into her ear, his tongue darting out to trace the shell, light and deft, making her squirm and shake in her seat. She shivers hard when he suddenly takes her earlobe between his teeth, and bites lightly, right as his fingers reach her centre, tease her through the rough plaid fabric…

Then the bastard sits back, and smiles like the devil, and oh she's going to kill him.

Right when she's done fucking him.

Yes. The fucking must come first.

She sees his game, of course she does. She drove him crazy in an inappropriate place, when he couldn't do anything about it, so now he's going to pay her back in kind.

But she's better at this than he is, she proved that this morning, and so she stands and moves the chair aside so she's right in front of him, looks down at him and bites her lip. She leans down, her hands on either side of his face, and kisses him, hard and deep, nipping his lips with sharp teeth and stroking his tongue with hers in that way she knows shuts off power to his brain.

His hands on her waist haul her down onto his lap, so she's straddling him on the kitchen chair, and she smiles in victory as she squirms against him, rubbing her centre against his growing hard-on.

But then, just as she's ready to start work on his flies and finish this here and now, he suddenly breaks their kiss and smiles up at her.

That's not his dazed, hopelessly turned-on smile.

That's not his soft, tender smile, either.

That's his 'you don't know what you're dealing with, little girl' smile. The one he wore the night he tied her up with the curtains of his four-poster bed and teased her for hours. The one he wears when he has a plan.

She gulps, and wonders what she's started.

Then mentally shrugs, figuring that as long as his plan involves him, her and a distinct absence of clothing, all is well with the world.

He sets her back on her feet in front of him, and rises with her so they're face-to-face once more. "I thought you said we needed to be careful," she whispers.

"You started this, dearie, not I," he moves his head so his lips are back by her ear, and her eyes flutter closed at the sensation of his breath on her skin, "So how far are you willing to go?"

He is asking permission. This man who the whole town believes to be a villain, who terrifies her father and promised – mere hours ago – to punish her for her wicked ways, still asks for permission before he takes it any further.

And her heart swells, because it's hard not to fall in love with him when he looks so soft.

"As far as you'll take me." She whispers back, and presses a kiss to his jaw, and that's all the permission he needs. His grin turns dark, determined, as he kisses her hard on the mouth and then spins her around.

She giggles, but it turns to a soft moan as his lips find the back of her neck, sucking and nibbling on her pulse point. His hands grip her hips, fingers digging in, holding her flush against him so she can feel his growing erection against her ass.

Then his lips leave her neck, and trail a line of hard little kisses up her jaw. His voice is a harsh whisper in her ear "Bend over."

She trembles, but does as she's told.

"Good girl…" he praises, as she puts on hand on either side of the tea tray, bracing herself, fingers wrapped around the edge of the table.

One hand leaves her hip and trails downwards, to the hem of her skirt. She sighs when she feels them brush against the skin of her upper thigh, as he flips the hem up, so the skirt lies across her back and she is exposed to him.

With just one finger, he strokes down the curve of her ass and down, until he finds her bare and dripping pussy. He traces her clit in maddening little circles, making her whimper and buck into him, "You deserve to be punished, wicked little thing," he murmurs, and she shivers, "Calling me at work, leaving me hard and wanting you. Is that what you want, Belle, for me to punish you?"

She can't answer; she just grinds down against his hand and hopes he gets the message.

She squeals when he pinches her clit hard between thumb and forefinger, "I asked you a question."

"Yes!"

"Okay then," she can hear the smile in his voice, and he doubles his efforts, two fingers rubbing against her hard until she's gasping and moaning. But then the bastard stops. "Do you want more?"

"Yes," she looks up at him over her shoulder and nods, not trying to hide the pleading tone in her voice.

"How much more?"

"Please, please take me…"

He laughs, but it's low and husky, betraying some of the desperation she knows they share, "Well, how can I resist a 'please'?" he lets go of her, and for just a second she's alone, and then he's right back there, naked and hard and insistent, pushing against her throbbing entrance.

For a moment, she believes he's going to do it here, and fuck her on the kitchen table, over the tea things.

Then he's hauling her upright, chuckling into the back of her neck, and she's wondering how much longer she has to wait before she can murder him.

"Not here, love," he murmurs against her lips, "Anyone could walk in… you can be rather loud."

By 'anyone' he means her father. Admittedly, crying out 'Yes, yes, please fuck me harder!' was probably a bad idea with him within shouting distance.

"Is there a room with a lock on the door?"

Yes, there is. Beside the bathrooms, there's her father's bedroom. She tells him this, and hopes he won't be freaked out by the idea: she really needs to come, soon, and this isn't a time for him to be delicate.

He grimaces a moment, and she reaches down between them and squeezes his cock through his trousers.

That decides it.

He grabs his cane, and nods, and she leads them around the corner, past the living room and into her dad's bedroom.

She locks the door, and sprints past Gold with a wicked smile. She keeps eye contact as she unbuttons her shirt, displaying a complete absence of a bra, and bites her lip.

That was one of the ways she'd seduced him, that first day in his shop. She'd learned that biting her lip was one of the many sure-fire ways to get him to stare at her mouth, and imagine other uses for it.

There's something unspeakably naughty about this, she thinks, as he pushes her back on the double bed, fucking a man old enough to be her father in her parent's bed. It makes it feel all the more dirty, more illicit, when Gold holds her hands down and bears down on her. He lost his suit pants and boxers somewhere in transition, and so he's in just his shirt and she in her tiny little kilt.

She likes it this way: sex always seems hotter, more debauched, when clothing is only partially removed.

"This better?" she giggles, breathlessly, and he nods.

"Slightly. You still need to keep it down, though, pet."

"You like it when I'm loud," she whispers, squirming down, trying to get a little more pressure where she needs it most.

"Indeed, but while it would be fucking fantastic to have you screaming my name, I don't want you locked up forever by an enraged florist."

"He wouldn't… it wouldn't be as bad as that," she murmurs, a little unnerved by the tenderness, the sadness that's suddenly present in his eyes. Like she's someone else, someone older and so far away.

He looks at her like this, sometimes, when she says something completely innocuous and his eyes widen, when she slammed him back against a china cabinet and broke a teacup.

She leans up and kisses him, slowly, thoroughly, reassuring him that everything is fine and brilliant and beaming sunlight. How could it not be, when they're in bed together, and his hands are pinning her wrists, and she loves him so much that her chest feels it might explode?

She's just a plaything for him; a bright, shiny, bouncy friend with benefits. She's too young for him, and she's not a fool: this has no future. They can't even walk down the street together, for God's sake.

But he looks at her as he does now, with such soft brown eyes, such a warm and tender smile, and she can't help but hope that there's something he's not telling her. That he's found a loophole in time and space that allows her to be his lover, his partner in crime, and everything else in-between.

A very small degree of hope is sufficient to cause the birth of love. She'd read that somewhere, once, and she can't help but prove it true.

"Ready?" he whispers, and she nods, smiling like the sun, "Then say your right words…"

"Please," she moans, "Oh, Gods, please…"

He smirks, and thrusts up inside her, as hard and far as he can. She moans deep, back arching off the bed, and then cries out as he dips his head down to suck on one nipple, rolling it between his teeth so it hardens into a little point as he pounds into her, fucking her mercilessly.

He looks up in alarm at her volume, and holds himself still inside her, making her writhe and try to force him back into motion. He quickly brings her hands together so he can hold them in one of his, so he can cup the other one over her mouth.

"Now, dearie," he hisses down at her, "what did I say about noise? One more peep out of you and I'll be forced to stop. Do you understand the rules?"

She swallows and nods, and he grins, "Good girl." He starts moving, harder and faster than before, the hand moving from her mouth and down, to flick her clit in time with his movements, "Such a good girl," he grunts, "All good and wet for me, my perfect little Belle…" she nearly comes right there, from the sound of her name on his lips.

She bites her lip, trying so hard to keep from screaming his name as she feels herself careening for the edge, so close to climax she can taste it on her tongue. "Come for me, Belle," he murmurs, "Go on, come for me…"

She does, and he leans down and kisses her hard so he can swallow her screams. He releases her hands and she immediately threads her fingers through his hair, holding his mouth against his so she can kiss him messily, all teeth and tongue.

He stiffens inside her, and she can feel as he climaxes, hard, his thrusts jarring and erratic as he rides out an orgasm six hours in the making.

Finally, he collapses on top of her, and rolls them over so she's sprawled on his chest.

"Fuck…" he breathes against the top of her head, and she sighs happily, snuggling into him.

"Worth the wait?" she asks, looking up at him with a cheeky little smile.

"Always," he replies, and kisses her softly, hands cupping her face so gently that she could melt, could just die there in his arms and be perfectly content to do so.

Sneaking him out again is a bit of a task. Belle considers the fire escape, but his leg doesn't like rickety metal stairs, and finally he just smirks at her, grabs his cane, and beckons for her to follow.

The man walks out of their home through the front door, through the shop, and smiles benignly at Mr French on the way past, muttering something about his daughter's good manners.

Belle isn't sure if she's impressed, amused, or furious. She settles for dreamily post-coital and completely in love, and decides to go back to sleep.