Merlin help him—there went those scruples again.

It was her fault, Fitz decided in that moment. Her words, her tone, her body language, her body. She had asked him one question, yes, but her very being was asking another altogether.

He answered her question not with words but with deed. It was easy, really, for him to lean, to close the gap between them. His practiced lips met hers—full, warm—in a kiss. Though a far cry from chaste, the kiss was not particularly hungry either; at least, not yet. A caller, knocking upon a door, rather than a burglar making free with the silver.