lysistrategic

"Arthur, my love," Joan manages around a half-peel of laughter, then she has to kiss him, a greedy meshing of mouths that she's been denying herself for what seems like hours now. It goes on, far longer than she'd originally intended it to, but it always does with Arthur. If his honesty is her Kryptonite, his kisses are her Turkish delight. She finally pulls back, laughing again and cocks her head ostentatiously toward the other side of the room. "The bed is over there."