She doesn't answer. Her hand stays flat against his chest, feeling the steady beat beneath her palm. He shifts, and then his arms are around her—one beneath her knees, the other across her back—and he lifts her like she weighs nothing. Her body goes slack, surrender where resistance should be, and she lets her head fall against his shoulder.
He carries her through the dark house. They pass rooms she's never seen—a study with a single lamp burning, a hallway lined with black-and-white photographs, a kitchen where moonlight pools on marble counters. She should memorize the layout, should catalogue exits and sightlines. Instead she presses her face into his neck and breathes him in: cedar, clean sweat, something darker underneath.
His bedroom door swings open under his shoulder. The air inside is still and warm, smelling of sheets and his cologne. Moonlight falls through a tall window, illuminating a dark wood bed frame and the sharp crease of a silk duvet. He lays her down like she's something precious, her spine meeting the mattress, her hair spreading across the pillow.
He follows her down, his weight settling over her, and the pressure is an anchor. She feels the edge of the bed frame against her hip, the cool silk beneath her thighs, the heat of him pressing her into the mattress. His hands frame her face, thumbs tracing her cheekbones, and he looks at her like he's memorizing the way the shadows fall across her skin.
When he kisses her, it's nothing like before. Before was hunger, teeth, a claim staked in the foyer. This is slow—deliberate, like he's learning the shape of her mouth, the way she breathes into him. His tongue slides against hers, a question asked over and over, and she tries to answer by pulling him closer, by arching into him.
He breaks the kiss. His hands find her wrists, pinning them above her head on the pillow. The silk bunches beneath her fingers. She feels the weight of his grip, the tension in his arms, the way he holds himself just barely above her.
"We have time," he says. His voice is low, rough, stripped of everything but patience.
The words land somewhere deep in her chest. She stops straining against his hold. Her body stills. He watches her, gray-blue eyes searching her face, and she feels something crack open inside her. This man—who knows exactly why she came, who let her in anyway—is not rushing. He's not taking. He's waiting.
His mouth traces a path down her throat. Slow. Hot. His lips press against her pulse point, and she feels him smile against her skin when she shudders. His hands release her wrists and slide down her sides, palms learning the curve of her ribs through the black silk of her dress. He doesn't fumble for buttons or zippers. He just touches her, like he has all the time in the world.
She came here to destroy him. That was the plan, the purpose, the only reason she'd ever allowed herself to want anything. But lying beneath him, with his breath warm on her collarbone and his fingers tracing the dip of her waist, she understands the truth she's been running from since the moment she stepped onto his courtyard. She doesn't want to destroy him. She wants him to destroy her instead.
His hand finds the hem of her dress. The touch is light—fingertips grazing the edge of black silk where it meets her thigh. She feels the fabric shift, just slightly, and her breath catches before she can stop it.
He doesn't look down. His eyes stay on her face, watching the micro-expressions she can't hide: the flutter of her lashes, the parting of her lips, the way her chest rises and falls a little faster. He's reading her like she's a language he's been learning in secret.
His hand slides higher. The silk rides up her thigh, inch by inch, the cool air meeting heated skin. His palm is warm, calloused, settling against the outside of her thigh with a weight that feels like a question. He doesn't move further. Just holds her there, thumb tracing a slow circle on her skin.
"Tell me," he says. Two words. Low. They hang between them.
She knows what he's asking. Not permission—he already has that, has had it since she dropped the gun. He's asking her to name it. To say out loud what she wants, which means admitting it to herself first.
Her throat tightens. She could deflect, could kiss him again and let her body answer for her. But his hand is still on her thigh, patient, waiting, and she's so tired of hiding behind calculated moves.
"Don't stop," she whispers. Her voice cracks on the last word.
Something shifts in his expression—a flicker of heat, yes, but something softer underneath. He leans down and presses his mouth to her collarbone, a kiss that's almost reverent, and his hand slides higher. His fingers trace the edge of her underwear, a whisper of pressure that makes her hips lift off the mattress.
He hums against her skin. A sound of approval, of satisfaction. His thumb presses down, finding her through the silk, and she gasps—a sharp, broken sound that fills the dark room. Her hands find his shoulders, nails digging in, and he repeats the motion, slower this time, watching her fall apart beneath his touch.
His thumb presses through the silk once more, and her hips rise again, chasing the pressure. Then his fingers hook the fabric at her hip and slide it aside. The cool air meets her skin, and then his hand is there—direct, skin against skin, his palm cupping her like she's something he's been waiting to hold.
She makes a sound she doesn't recognize. His thumb finds her clit, and the contact is electric, a jolt that travels up her spine and settles behind her eyes. He doesn't move. Just holds the pressure there, watching her face in the dim moonlight.
"Look at me," he says. Not a command. A request, stripped bare.
Her eyes find his. Gray-blue in the darkness, steady, waiting. She feels exposed in a way that has nothing to do with the silk bunched at her hip. He's seeing her—the real her, the one who came here with a gun in her bag and hatred in her chest. And he's not looking away.
His thumb moves. A slow circle, wet and deliberate, and her breath catches. Her fingers curl into the duvet, silk bunching beneath her knuckles. He watches her come apart in increments—the flutter of her lashes, the way her bottom lip catches between her teeth, the arch of her spine as she presses into his hand.
"That's it," he murmurs. His voice is low, rough, barely audible. "Let me feel you."
His thumb circles again, and her thighs fall open wider, an invitation she didn't give permission for. He takes it, his palm pressing more firmly, his fingers sliding through her wetness. She's soaked—has been since he carried her through the dark house, since he laid her on his bed and told her they had time.
He drags his fingers through her, gathering her on his skin, and then his hand stills. He brings his fingers to his mouth, and she watches him taste her—slow, deliberate, his eyes never leaving hers. The sight of it, the casual intimacy, sends a pulse of heat through her core.
He lowers his hand, places it back on her thigh, and leans down. His mouth hovers over hers, not kissing, just breathing the same air.
"I've wanted to taste you," he says, "since the first moment you walked into my courtyard."
She can't breathe. Can't think. His mouth is so close, and his hand is still on her thigh, and she feels like she's standing at the edge of something she can't see the bottom of.
He kisses her. Soft. Almost tender. And his hand slides down, his fingers finding her entrance, pressing inside her with a slowness that borders on reverence.