He gathered her—not laying her down, not placing her—'gathered' her, both arms taking her weight with the possessive economy of someone who has decided that the distance between you and the thing you want is simply not relevant anymore. She was pulled against his chest, the full soft warmth of her pressed to him, her arms going around his neck with the automatic motion of someone who had been falling toward something for the past two hours and had just run out of things to catch on.
Her breath was against his jaw.
"'Sir Cang—'" she started.
He kissed her.
Not asking. Taking—the warm press of his mouth over hers with the specific completeness of someone who has been patient for a very long time and has chosen the moment to stop being patient, his hand coming to the back of her head, holding her, his mouth moving over hers with the unhurried thoroughness of someone reading an inscription—careful, complete, missing nothing.
She made a sound against his mouth.
He swallowed it.
