Charlotte shifted, her hand tightening around his neck, her teeth catching at his lower lip, teasing and tasting. He growled, pulling her hard against him, and was rewarded by a breathless gasp. He caught the sound against his lips, and his tongue explored the heat of her mouth, making this kiss a sexually explicit promise.

Flynn squeezed his eyes shut against the waves of desire that were crashing through him. She fit so flawlessly against him, her body strong and hot and pliant against his. But it wasn’t enough. His hands moved from her backside to the waistband of her trousers. He yanked her shirt up, sliding his fingers over the smooth, heated skin of her back. She arched against him, another breathless gasp escaping, and Flynn caught that one too.

She kissed the way she painted, he thought through a haze. Passionately, freely, honestly. She would make love the same way, he knew. And he would give her back everything twofold, watching those caramel eyes as she came apart beneath him, his name on those sinful lips.

“Flynn,” she whispered against his mouth.

He dipped his head and traced a path along the edge of her jaw to the hollow of her throat.

“Flynn,” she said again more urgently, and he raised his head, a sharp rapping on the door finally penetrating his lust-fogged mind.

“Mr. Rutledge?” Accompanying his muffled name was another round of rapping, more impatient this time. “Mr. Beaumont?”

He released Charlotte and staggered back. “Bloody Lisbon,” he cursed under his breath. His eyes flew to Charlotte, who looked back at him, flushed and breathing hard. “A moment,” Flynn shouted in the general direction of the door. He put a hand against her cheek. “We’re not done,” he whispered harshly.

Flynn dropped his hand and stalked to the door. He took a second to smooth his hair back, adjust his trousers, and rearrange his features into what he hoped was bland neutrality, and yanked the door open.

Lisbon pushed past him, rubbing his hands against the chill. “About time. It’s freezing outside.”

“You could have just come in,” Flynn muttered even as he recoiled at the potential consequences of that and feeling, for the first time, a stirring of misgiving. What had he just done? What if he had taken advantage of circumstance and her vulnerability? What if she would come to despise him for it, given the time to reconsider?

The architect shook his head. “I try to retain some level of courtesy, Rutledge,” he said crisply, “and leave my artists alone to complete their work in peace. Though I do expect, on occasion, an invitation so that I might gauge how far you’ve—” He stopped abruptly as his eyes fell on Charlotte.