Darcy shifts a hand to cup my cheek, fusing me to him with the arm at my waist. His tongue sweeps along my lower lip, then presses in to tangle with mine. My knees threaten to buckle. This is a distraction. It’s still Darcy. He’s why Jane is hurting. He’s a proud, rude shit. You’re using him. You’re using him.

Then I find myself sliding my hands up to knead the thick muscle between his neck and shoulder, drawing a sharp intake of breath from him. The sound cuts off the monologue in my head, and my number one priority is getting him to do it again.

My hands scorch down his chest. I make a tactile record of him through his shirt, registering the firmness of his pectorals and the muscle along his rib cage, then lower, tracing the ridges of his abdominal muscles. The path leads down to the defined outlines of his hipbones, and I track them to the waist of his trousers, where I let my fingertips rest on his belt. He, in turn, has moved one hand so low that it’s technically pressing against the top of my ass, and the other cradles my head, cushioning me as he backs me against the wall.

The hand at the top of my rear eases down, following the outside of my hip to the top of my thigh. I melt into the contact, and it’s a testament to my loyalty to Jane that I keep myself from wrapping my leg around him. I nip at his bottom lip, and he gasps again. Good God, that sound—

I resolve to apologize to Jane.

I arch, lifting my knee slightly, and in a display of impeccable instincts, he pulls my leg up against the outside of his. Then he’s everywhere, kneading my hamstring and backside. He smooths me over, as if working to erase the contact from before, to overpower the unwanted imprint. It works. Each movement is long and slow and deliberate, until there’s no trace of the intruder, only him. Only Darcy.

When I wrap my arms around his neck, he tugs my leg higher, hand moving farther inward on the underside of my thigh, grazing the edge of my panties. I angle toward his hand—

And let out a yelp of pain.

We break the kiss at the same time. Darcy shifts his hold, lowering my leg the millimeters necessary to dislodge the corset boning jutting into the top of my quad.

He lifts his face from mine. “Are you—”

I shake my head. My heart hammers against my sternum, and I’m grateful for the wall because I don’t think I could stand on my own. “Corset,” I pant. “Not ideal for . . . this.”

“Ah,” he breathes, and smiles faintly. He kisses my temple, then my cheekbone, and angles down to the corner of my mouth, lingering there.