Sylvia looked down at his hands on her waist, then back at his face.
"You are holding me like I am a classified weapon."
"You are."
"I am wearing a blanket."
"That is not a meaningful defense."
Her mouth curved.
Then she kissed him, but not with the careless familiarity of the two years before, when touching him had been simple because her body had not answered him in a language older and more dangerous than thought.
This kiss was slower.
Thomas went rigid beneath her.
For half a heartbeat, Sylvia thought he would pull away.
Instead, his hands tightened on her waist, not enough to hurt, never that, but enough for her to feel the restraint cracking through his fingers. His mouth moved against hers once, careful and devastating, and the room changed.
Her scent bloomed.
The medicinal barrier around the collar dulled it but did not stop it. Jasmine unfolded into the warm air, soft at first, then richer, threaded through with rain and the faint.
Heat.
