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“No. But if there were, I would not place their names on Max’s desk for his approval first. What I do with my body and with whom is a decision …” Her gaze faltered, dropped to the minute space between them. “A decision I alone make.”

He applied the pressure of his knuckles to the soft spot beneath her chin, lifting it to its warrior height once more. “You’re right.” And she was.

“No one has to know,” she said. “Max does not have to know.” She stepped out of his light hold. “But I realize I would be asking you to keep a secret from your friend, and that is … a tad appalling.” She rubbed her brows.

Keeping secrets from Max was not as appalling as her drooping shoulders, as Grant’s own need to comfort her. Damn Max. Damn everything and everyone outside this tiny room.

What to say to her? His body wanted one thing, and his mind quickly ran out of reasons not to do exactly that.

She licked her lips, the movement mesmerizing him. Impossible to look away. Why not do something with that mouth he found so fascinating?

Her fists clenched at her sides. “I’ll try one more time, if you’re agreeable.”

“Try what, Freddy darling?”

She nodded her head to the side and cocked a small grin. “Third time’s a charm, Mr. Webster.” She leaned in and pressed her lips against his. She pulled his bottom lip between her teeth.

Still, he remained a statue; a tree with strong roots and immovable branches. He ached to bend to her will. But would he? He searched his brain for remaining objections.

She broke the fragile-as-glass kiss and sighed, turned to face the mirror. The line of her back curved gentle yet strong. Like her. Her slumped shoulders offered her final, most potent argument. Did any objections remain?

No. Not a single bloody one. He’d brave a strongman’s fist to his face to fix the sad slump of her shoulders. He’d brave anything to fix that.

For the third time, she’d pursued him, despite two rather rude rejections. She was the type of woman who deserved to receive her every desire, and if she desired him, then so be it.

He wound an arm about her waist and pulled her against his body. Her arse fit perfectly against him, and he snaked one arm up over her shoulder to stroke the curve of her jaw. She gasped, then the sound of shock became a sigh of pleasure as she melted against him.

The side of her neck sloped smoothly, and he showered kisses down it until her head dropped to the other side, giving his curious lips more room. Her arm ribboned along his own, forearm resting against forearm, hand settling atop hand, as if he guided her in the best way to love herself.

Fascinating idea, that.

She tried to move, but he held her tighter. She wanted this. She could not leave now that he’d decided to give himself over to her.

She leaned her head back into his shoulder and spoke into his ear, low, soft, seductive. “I want to turn in your arms. Let me. Please. So that …”

“Say what you want.”

“So that my breast might press against you. I ache to do so.”

If he hadn’t already been hard as rock, he was now. He loosed his arms, let her turn slow and sure to wrap her arms around his neck before he tightened his embrace once more, this time spanning the generous width of her waist with both hands.

“Better?” he whispered.

“Yes. More.” She swept her hands across the breadth of his shoulders. “You’re so very fine a man. Even from the balcony I could tell how strong you are.” She grinned. “You are so beautiful, and I am … a ghost of a woman, older than you, I bargain. I have not a spoonful of your charisma. But I do not care how much your brilliance might shadow me as long as you keep kissing me.”

Him? Overshadow her? Impossible.

“I don’t care how many years you’ve walked through this earth. I’m no young stud, either.”

“You’re very … vital.”

Hell. He felt vital with her hands on him, igniting every nerve, every desire. “So are you.”

He speared his fingers through her hair, dislodging pins and making the full, burnished length of it unravel down her back in thick ropes. He twisted one around his hand and kissed the silken strands. Then he kissed her again, deeper this time, stroking his tongue inside her mouth. Not enough. Not close enough to her, not enough of her revealed to him. He bent low and swept her into his arms, picking her up like a babe. He carried her to the small settee—too small, really, for this—then sat, placing her on his lap, and returned to kissing.

But with his arms around her and hers around his neck, with her body folded into the nest of his, his earlier urgency to have her dropped away. He lightened the kiss, softened his muscles, and sipped from her as if they had world enough and time to learn one another properly.

Perhaps they did. She meant this to be a liaison, an affair. Those had no time limits.