The door clicked shut behind her, a soft sound in the empty hallway. It opened again before the latch could settle.
Vincent stood in the doorway, a shadow blotting out the hall light. The controlled lines of his face were gone. His jaw was tight, the scar through his eyebrow a pale slash in the low light. He was still in his trousers, his shirt open at the throat, and his composure was a visible, trembling lie.
He didn’t speak.
He crossed the room in three strides. His hands came to her face, fingers pressing into her jaw, his thumbs bracketing her mouth. He didn’t give her time to breathe. His mouth covered hers.
This wasn’t the controlled, punishing kiss from his study. This was raw. Desperate. His tongue pushed into her mouth, and she tasted scotch and salt and a hunger that felt like tearing. He kissed her as if trying to consume the part of himself she now owned, his body pressing hers back against the closed door.
His hands left her face. One arm wrapped around her waist, hauling her against him. The other hand fisted in her hair, tilting her head back to deepen the kiss. A low sound vibrated in his chest, almost a growl.
Sofia’s mind, usually sharp and cataloging, went white. Her body answered before thought could form. Her hands came up, not to push, but to clutch at the open sides of his shirt. The fine cotton was warm from his skin. She kissed him back, her teeth catching his lower lip.
He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged. His dark brown eyes were black in the shadows, fixed on her face. His gaze dropped to her mouth, swollen from his.
“Tell me to leave,” he said, his voice gravel.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. She could feel the hard length of him pressed against her stomach through the thin silk of her dress. She remembered the feel of him inside her, the soreness between her legs a fresh, aching truth.
She said nothing.
His thumb brushed over her bottom lip, a shock of gentleness. Then his mouth was on her again, softer now, sucking at her lip, tracing the seam with his tongue. It was an apology and a claim in the same breath.
He walked her backward, away from the door. The backs of her knees hit the edge of the bed. She sat, the silk whispering against the rumpled sheets.
Vincent stood over her. He looked down at his own hands, then at her. He knelt.
He put his hands on her knees. His palms were hot through the silk. He pushed her legs apart, settling between them on the floor. The position was one of submission, but his touch was not. He looked up at her, his face level with her chest.
His hands slid up her thighs, pushing the cream-colored silk up to her hips. The cool air touched her skin. His gaze followed the path of his hands, taking in the pale skin he’d marked, the dark hair between her legs, the slick evidence of her arousal—and his—that gleamed there.
“Look at you,” he murmured, his voice thick. “Look what we did.”
He leaned forward. He didn’t kiss her. He pressed his forehead against her sternum, his black hair soft against her skin. His breath was hot through the silk over her breast. His hands tightened on her hips, his fingers digging in.
He stayed there. Breathing her in. Holding on.