We start to sway. He studies my face. Like always, I don’t know what he’s looking for, but as his dark eyes move over me, he can take as long as he’d like to find it. My eyes sting, informing me I’m staring, and I flutter my lids, not wanting to break the connection with a prolonged blink.

“You,” I manage. “Why are . . .”

His Adam’s apple bobs with a swallow. “Paperwork. For Charles.”

I nod, though his response doesn’t mean anything to me. Possibly because I’m transfixed by the way his mouth moves when he says “paperwork,” the forward motion of his lips on the last syllable making me wonder what it would feel like if he said it against me, brushing his lips to the side of my neck. I inch closer, sliding my free hand to a more deliberate grip between his shoulder and neck. He closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, I swear his pupils have dilated.

I shake my head, woozy at the intensity. It’s enough to rouse a prickle of irritation, the vague awareness that he’s done something very, very wrong—

Darcy glides his thumb along my spine and the clarity is lost to a libidinous fog. His hand slides up between my shoulders, then down again. I arch into the caress without thinking, not that I’m able to do any thinking at the moment. My fingers curl reflexively, squeezing into the muscle of his shoulder beneath the soft chambray of his shirt.

“I . . .” What was I going to say?

Darcy lowers his head, his “Hmm?” tickling the side of my neck where his lips should be. He smells good. Clean, with a hint of some spice. I probably smell like rum. “What had you smiling earlier?” he asks.

A ripple passes through me. “An opportunity.”

His “Hmm” is more thoughtful this time, but it makes me quiver just the same. “Whatever it is”—another languid swipe of his thumb—“I hope you find it fulfilling.”

I’m about to thank him, but there’s something else I should ask him about . . . right? I’m supposed to be mad at him, or, at least, not actively plotting to get him to put his mouth on my neck.

“I need to talk to you.” I say it hoping to trigger whatever should follow. I sound dazed, even to myself, and I don’t know why I was so sure a chat is in order when there are other things we could be doing instead. My fingers edge to his neck, tracing his hairline. The hand at my back presses more firmly. I let the gentle pressure guide me closer, and my next inhale has my chest brushing his.

His head dips lower. I hold my breath, angling my face toward him.

We definitely don’t need to talk—