He notes, with that detached part of himself which specialises in noting such details, how experienced her movements are and how readily she makes them; her body is pliant and willing in his grasp, delicate enough to be a sweet reminder of how easily it could be broken. She has not yet grasped her position, aims to negotiate out of discomfort, and there is a thrill in the question that poses itself: whether to disabuse her of that illusion now, or wait until she has signed herself away? She will have to learn, one way or another, whose decisions will carry more weight here. She will have to learn who is in charge.

Teach that lesson too soon, too aggressively, and she may still flee. Teach it too late, and she may balk, betrayed. It is a knife's edge, this kind of choice, and knives' edges have always appealed to him.

He nips at her ear, and the hand under her skirt continues to rise, still light in its touch. "The rest of the city will wait, regardless," he murmurs; and when he moves, it is snake-swift, as he twists and pushes her with sudden force up against the counter, yanking her shirt open. Turnabout, after all, is fair play. His mouth finds hers, rough and claiming, and he has her pinned for the moment between himself and the glass-topped counter, his hand cupping the swell of one full breast.