He released the door handle. The heavy latch clicked into place, sealing them in the grey light of the north-facing office.
He crossed the room in three strides.
His hands found her face before he could think better of it, thumbs tilting her chin up. She was staring at him, grey eyes wide and dark, and he kissed her like he'd been dying to for months.
She gasped against his mouth—a soft, broken sound that he swallowed whole. Her fingers dug into his arms, not pushing, holding. He walked her backward, one hand sliding into her pinned hair, the other pressing flat against the small of her back. Her breath came in short, ragged bursts against his lips.
Her hips met the desk's edge. The antique wood groaned under the impact, a deep, formal complaint that seemed to echo in the empty room. He didn't stop. He lifted her onto it, her body light and yielding in his hands. Loose papers scattered beneath her, sliding to the floor in quiet white sheets.
The cold of the polished surface pressed through her thin dress, a sharp contrast to the heat of his hands on her waist. She shivered once, then wrapped her legs around his hips, pulling him closer until there was no space left between them. The sound she made was buried against his mouth—half sob, half surrender, a release of something she'd been holding for years.
Above them, the floorboards were silent. Victor had stopped pacing. The whole house held its breath, the rain against the windows a low, constant hush. Ethan broke the kiss, his breathing ragged, and his mouth found the hollow of her throat. Her pulse hammered there, wild and frantic against his lips.
Her hands slid from his arms into his hair, her fingers threading through the sawdust and the sweat. She pulled him harder against her neck, her head falling back, her pinned hair a mess of loose strands against her shoulders. She was trembling.
His hand slid down her side, over the curve of her hip, to her bare thigh where the dress had ridden up. Her skin was cold, then hot under his callused palm. He tightened his grip, pressing her closer to the edge of the desk, and she made a low, desperate sound that was pure wanting.
He was aware of everything—the smell of rain and her perfume, the weight of her leg hooked over his hip, the grooves of the antique desk under his free hand. He was aware of the silence above them. Victor was listening. The knowledge should have stopped him. It only made him hold her tighter.
He bit down gently on the tendon of her neck, and her whole body arched into him, her nails digging into his back through the flannel. Outside, the rain kept falling, the same steady rhythm it had had for days. But inside, the world had tilted on its axis and was holding still, waiting to see where they would land.
Her hand came up between them, fingers pressing flat against his chest, a small barrier that stopped him cold. He stilled against her, his breathing ragged, his mouth hovering above the pulse point he'd been devouring.
"Wait." The word was barely a whisper, strained and broken, like she was fighting herself to get it out. Her grey eyes found his, wide and dark and drowning.
He didn't move. His hands stayed on her waist, gripping the fabric of her dress, but he gave her the space—an inch, a breath, a chance to change her mind. The rain filled the silence between them.
"I need you to know," she said, her voice cracking on the last word, "that I've never—" She stopped, swallowed, her fingers curling into the fabric of his flannel. "I've never wanted anything the way I want this."
The admission hung in the air, raw and terrifying. He watched her throat move as she swallowed again, watched her fight to keep her voice steady. Her hand was still pressed against his chest, and he could feel her fingers trembling through the thin cotton.
"But if we do this," she continued, her voice dropping lower, "there's no going back. He'll know. He'll know, Ethan."
She said his name like it cost her something. Like she'd been saving it for this exact moment.
He brought his hand up slowly, giving her time to flinch away, and cupped her jaw. His thumb traced the line of her cheekbone, soft and deliberate, and she closed her eyes against the gentleness of it. "I know," he said, his voice rough. "I've known since the first time you handed me that coffee."
Her eyes opened. They held his, searching, and something in her expression cracked open—the last wall, the final defense she'd been hiding behind. Her hand slid from his chest to the back of his neck, pulling him down until her forehead pressed against his.
"Then don't stop," she breathed. "Please. Don't stop."
Above them, the floorboards creaked—once, deliberate, a weight shifting from one foot to the other. Victor was still there. Victor was always there. But Claire's fingers tightened in Ethan's hair, pulling his mouth back to hers, and the sound of the rain swallowed everything else.