Unless one counted lungs moving in and out, color flooding into cheeks, pupils flaring to shilling size, neither of them moved.
And then he slid his hand down, down, down along her arm to bracelet her wrist.
He felt her heart drumming against his fingertips. At least as hard as his was beating.
It was what he needed to know.
He tugged her up against his body.
It was nearly as much a collision as a kiss, at first, fierce and hard, as if they were both intent on punishing themselves and each other for wanting this.
This was a mistake. He’d known it was, and he could not stop himself from making it.
He fanned one hand against the small of her back; with the other he cradled her head, threaded his fingers up through her hair. And tugged her head back to take that kiss mercilessly, greedily, carnally, deeper.
She moaned softly. And opened to him with a sweetness and hunger that stunned him, then made him nearly savage. Her hands rose to grip his shirt and she pulled him hard up against her. He slid his hands down beneath the curve of her arse and scooped her up hard against the swell of his cock and he felt her ribcage jump against him as her breath snagged.
And then she shifted to fit him more snugly between her legs and pulled him closer and lust threatened to tear the top from his head.
It was already out of hand.
The hallway spun, as if he’d staggered from an opium den.
Her finger remained curled into his shirt. Her body was still crushed to his, and he could feel her heart beating against his body, in counterpoint to his.
He could rest his cheek on the top of her head if he wanted to. It was as seductive as those pillows in his room, a moment of infinite weakness.
God, how he wanted to.
Which was why he didn’t.
“I’m not a gentleman,” he said gruffly. Finally.
He didn’t know why these should be the first words he said after he surfaced from the kiss. A warning, perhaps. Or an explanation. Not an apology.
He would never apologize for something that could not be helped.
She finally stepped back from him and drew in a breath that shuddered.
Her hands rose, and he thought for a moment she meant to cover her face. But she dropped them again. And she stared at him. Not censorious. Assessing, perhaps. Amazed, certainly. Her eyes were hazy and soft.
“No. You certainly aren’t,” she said finally.
He said nothing.
She adjusted her shoulders, as though realigning herself with propriety.
And then she turned and went down the stairs without another word.
Albeit carefully, and a little more slowly, as though she were finding her footing in a world that was still shifting beneath her feet.
Chapter Fifteen
“I’ve missed you, sir,” Massey said. “Your snorts, your grunts, your frowns, your growling commands.”
Tristan obliged Massey by scowling. He carved his sausage. Stabbed a segment and lifted it toward his mouth.
It had been two days since they’d convened.