Chapter 8: Heat

He carried me through the service corridor with his coat around my head.

I could still smell him through the wool, cedar and smoke and sweat, and every step jolted heat down my spine.

By the time the elevator doors closed, I had my mouth against his throat.

"Lenore."

"Don't tell me to wait."

"I wasn't going to."

His voice was rough as gravel.

The penthouse door slammed behind us.

He set me on my feet in the dark, and I shoved his jacket off his shoulders and tore at his shirt.

The buttons flew for the second time that week.

"You're ruining my wardrobe," he muttered.

"Then take off your pants."

He laughed, a short, ragged sound, and did.

I was twenty-eight and he was thirty-six, and I had never wanted anything the way I wanted him in that moment.

It was not gentle, the want.

It was an ache so deep and wide that my whole body felt hollowed out around it, and only one thing could fill the space.

I pulled my dress over my head.

He looked at me, standing there in nothing but my underwear in the city's glow, and his hands closed into fists.

"Come here," I said.

He crossed the room and took me by the hips and backed me against the wall.

His mouth found mine, then my jaw, then the soft skin under my ear where the patch used to sit.

I moaned so loudly that I startled myself.

"There," he breathed. "That's the spot."

He licked it, slow and deliberate, and I came apart in his arms.

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