Her hips were already up against his but he wanted her closer. Without lessening the intensity of the ongoing kiss, he worked one hand down to her thigh, navigated down through the rumbled layers of skirts, and pulled it up to his waist so that she was half straddling him. A rush went through him at the friction between them as her body shifted.

Well, we never did get the wedding night we should have had, he thought. As it first occurred to him, the way this seemed to be going, the idea was accompanied by a thrill of excitement, but this quickly gave way to a smothered sort of panic. This was serious — a serious act in general, a serious violation of all the norms they'd established since their split — a serious breech of etiquette and propriety — potentially serious ramifications for both of them, if anyone found out. Was this what he wanted?

On one level, of course the answer was yes. Physically there was very little doubt about what he wanted. Emotionally — he'd started the night wanting to prove something to her, or prove something to himself; wanting to feel as though he were in control of something. Was this going to do that for him?

He ran his hand up her thigh. He broke off the kiss, though didn't move back. His breath was hot on her cheek as he spoke. "You still want me."

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