"This is like a scene in one of those books Neal keeps under his bed," Kel whispers, giggling slightly. It is warm inside the extra office, a room that was most likely intended to be used as a supply closet- it's shallow and wide and the desk squeezed into it barely fits. "You know the ones with the half-naked women on them?"

"Queenscove keeps cheap romance novels under his bed?" There is barely concealed amusement in his voice, and she can feel the burbling laughter rumbling up against her chest, pressed as she is against him. "I should have known."

"One of the children found them one day when she was fetching something for Neal. She asked me what some of the, ah, terms meant."

Kel shrugs, shifting slightly to get more comfortable; something is digging into her side. The wall at her back is not very sturdy, most likely some sort of temporary and cheap wood, and it groans at the weight being pushed on it.

Breaking that fourth wall would not be very stealthy of them, and it would definitely be unprofessional.

"Careful," she murmurs. He responds by kissing her, exploring her mouth as fully as he can, and her shoulders press even further backwards.

The wood is now pitching a fit; it sounds like a rusty gate. Her hands trail up his side slowly, sliding over well-knit muscles and worn skin.

"Is it getting warm in here?" he asks into her ear, and it is her turn to buckle with laughter.

"Really," she grins. "You chose to say that of all things. I'm surprised at you, sir, I wouldn't have thought you would-"

"You're talking too much," he growls down at her, noting her flushed face and full, red lips.

"Am I?" She asks breathlessly, playing a part that isn't her normal self, a part she usually hides. "Well, what are you going to do?"

The whole scene is really straight out of one of Neal's books, except if she was a character in one of those things, she would be wearing a dress and her hair would be curlier and longer, and there would only be one knight, not two. Kel murmurs indistinctly, noticing the air. It is sudden and cold on her skin; she seems to have lost her shirt.

"For the last time," Wyldon says, looking down at her, "no one will be able to find us here, nor will they expect us to be here." His hands are fumbling with the clasp of her breastband. She moves forward, presses into him to make it easier, and tries to take off his shirt, tries to even the score between them.

The wall creaks, but it is not the one that she has been pushed up against for who knows how long, it is the wall with the door in it, the recalcitrant door being pushed open. Kel exhales, long and shaky, and tries to make herself small.

Wyldon curses softly.

"Excuse me? Er- sir? Miss? You're not supposed to be in here."

(Oh dear.)