His hand caught at the silk hanging on my hips, and I waited for him to pull it up. For him to cover up my skin, and for both of us to back away from a moment that we both wanted and yet always retreated away from. Because it was not wise. Because it could cause complications. Because, because, because.

But instead, his hand drifted lower, fingertips scoring a line of fire against my bottom, the back of my thigh, and the curve of my calf. And before I could breathe, the warm silk of my shift pooled around my ankles. He let his hand drop to his side, and I watched his eyes take me in.

I let my knees buckle, not because they were weak, but because it was what I wanted. Tristan caught me, pulling me against him, and when he kissed me, he tasted like spilled wine and melted snow, and I drank it in like one who has walked desert sands for days. I buried one hand in his hair, kissing him back hard enough that my lips felt bruised while my other hand skimmed the hard muscles of his back, my nails digging into his skin and teeth catching at his bottom lip.

Then my back was against the floor, the plush weave of the rug rough between my shoulder blades and Tristan’s breath hot against my throat. He caught my hands in his, our fingers interlocking, and the fabric wrapped around his wrists all that was left between us.

“Cécile.” He lifted his head up so that we were eye to eye, his fingers squeezing mine tight.

“Yes?” His voice was serious, and concern made my heart beat a little faster.

He let go of one of my hands and pushed back the tendrils of hair crossing my face. “I know we shouldn’t do this,” he said, eyes flicking away from mine, then back again. “There are risks and consequences, and logic, reason, and… and good sense say that I should stop now.” He bit at his lower lip, and I held my breath. “But I don’t want to. We’ve almost lost each other too many times, and I don’t want to regret not giving you everything when I had the chance.”

The flames burned high next to us, the heat leaving half of me hot and half of me chill, but all of me was on fire. The choice was mine, and for once, it was easy to make. Wrapping my arms around his neck, I pulled myself up until my lips brushed against his ear. Then I whispered one word.

“Yes.”

Chapter 43

Cécile

Tristan lay on the sofa with his head on my lap, one leg bent at the knee and the other heel resting on the arm of the sofa – with the disregard of someone who has never had to scrub upholstery in his life. His silver eyes gleamed like coins, distant and unblinking, his mind a twist of dread and frustration as it raced through scenario after scenario. As we waited to see what or who would come.