The seminar room was empty, the long oak table polished to a dull gleam under the afternoon sun cutting through the tall windows. Sophia stood in the doorway, her knuckles white around the strap of her bag. He was already there, of course. Marcus sat at the far end of the table, a single file folder open before him, his storm-gray eyes lifting to meet hers as if he’d been counting the seconds until she arrived.
“You’re in my study group.” Her voice was flat, a statement she willed into truth.
“I am now.” He didn’t smile. He closed the folder, the sound crisp in the silent room. “The room was booked. I assumed you’d appreciate the quiet.”
She should leave. Every disciplined cell in her body screamed to turn, to walk back down the hall, to find the library carrel she’d originally wanted. Her feet carried her to the opposite end of the table instead. She set her bag down, the thump too loud. She unzipped it, arranged her notebook, her pens in a precise line. The sunlight warmed the back of her neck. She could feel his gaze on her hands, on the way her fingers trembled just once as she clicked a pen.
“You corrected my Latin.” She didn’t look up. “In the library.”
“It was wrong.”
“I know it was wrong.” She finally met his eyes. They were calm, patient. A predator at rest. “You didn’t have to touch the page.”
“Didn’t I?” He leaned back in his chair, the fine wool of his blazer pulling across his shoulders. “You left a trace of yourself on that stairwell, Sophia. A look. A hesitation. An invitation.”
“It wasn’t.” The lie was ash in her mouth.
He stood then, not quickly, but with a fluid, inevitable grace. He didn’t walk around the table. He came down the long side of it, his footsteps silent on the worn carpet. She held her ground, her spine rigid, her breath held somewhere high in her chest. He stopped an arm’s length away. The heat of him reached her first, then the clean, sharp scent of his soap, something like cedar and cold stone.
“Say it again,” he murmured, his voice a low baritone that vibrated in the space between them.
“It wasn’t an invitation.” The words died in her throat, brittle and unconvincing.
The heat in his eyes knew it. Knew her. He saw the flush climbing her neck, the way her lips parted on a breath she couldn’t catch. He saw the pulse hammering at the base of her throat, the truth she was screaming in silence. His hand came up, not to touch her face, but to hover beside her cheek, letting her feel the warmth of his skin so close to hers.
When his mouth finally covered hers, it wasn’t a question. It was a claiming. Hard and sure, his lips slanting over hers, his tongue tracing the seam of her mouth until she opened for him with a gasp that was pure, terrifying relief. The control she’d clutched so tightly shattered, not with a fight, but with a sigh against his lips. Her hands came up, fisting in the front of his blazer, holding on as the world tilted. He tasted like black coffee and patience, and the shudder that went through her was surrender.