Every move she made was wrong. A newbie skier at the top of a lift, she'd set off down the hill without consulting her map, and slid right onto a double black diamond slope. Once far enough in, going back was impossible. You had to snowplow your way through to safety. The trouble was that around every bend, instead of smoother terrain she found moguls, a half pipe, or some fresh new hell. In a turn fitting Jean-Paul Sartre's No Exit, Marlowe understood that she was currently the Knight's hell, as well. He hadn't realized it yet.
Poor fucker. What he lacked in sanity and judgement, he more than compensated for with passion. A paper crane handled by a gentle savage, he called another of her bluffs. Their surrounds disappeared, blocked by the size of the Knight, his hands on her face and neck and the hunger of his affections. It wasn't meant for her, which miffed her even in her panic. She'd been around the block enough to recognize and appreciate a first kiss for the exotic bird it was. The lights didn’t dim and the world didn’t screech to a halt on its axis, and she thought it very rude for not observing the courtesy. She whimpered. The recipe for her reaction: one part excitement, one part fear, a heaping handful of regret, and a dash of heartache to season, stewed in adrenaline. It was a decadent kiss, hot and artful and singularly focused, the kind that should have ended with Rhett Butler carrying Scarlett up a red velvet staircase, if his swooning inamorata hadn't been terrified of becoming the wrong sort of meal or having her neck snapped if she gave up her ruse.
Her arm a shepherd's crook around his neck, Marlowe took a shallow gasp of air between the attentions of his lips. "Come here," she beckoned, shifting backwards towards the tentpole supporting a corner of a 'Win A Stuffie' shooting gallery attraction. To coax him closer to her intended escape route, she fastened her fingers around a handful of cotton at his neckline. She tugged, smiling against his mouth.
By encouraging him to pin her to something solid to offset her rubbery legs, she meant to put herself in reach of the electric lantern swinging higher on the tentpole. If she kept him distracted, she could unfasten it. A solid whack over the head wouldn't harm him. Fury, was the more likely outcome. She wasn't stupid enough to think otherwise. It would enable her to run, though. She only needed a few paces to camouflage herself with her environs and slip away, shaken but in one piece. Taking the lead she sank fingers into the fall of hair at his temple and gently squeezed. She kissed him long and soft, the hand at his collar loosened to graze the hard plane of his chest, then lifted above her head along the tentpole, looking for support.