He sat back on his heels and reluctantly handed her the roll of papers. She turned her back to him and hiked up her skirts, using the strings from her inner hanging pocket to secure the scroll. She let the fabric fall with a swish, then turned and took a few experimental steps. The roll rustled almost imperceptibly as it banged against her thigh, but the folds of her skirt hid its presence very well.

“There. I—”

Voices in the hall made them both freeze. The doorknob rattled. He hadn’t locked it. Before she could protest, he grabbed her upper arms, pushed her back against the nearest bookshelf, and smothered her “oomph” of surprise with his mouth.

In some dim recess of her mind Georgie realized Wylde was only kissing her to distract from their true purpose in the library, but as his lips molded to hers, she could barely think. Panic at the thought of discovery heightened her sense of urgency, and with a little moan she returned his embrace with desperate fervor.

Somewhere near the door, she heard an embarrassed laugh—“Oh! sorry, old man, didn’t mean to interrupt”—but Wylde’s tongue delved into her mouth, hot as sin, and thinking became too much.

With the mask on, all she could feel was his lips on hers, the slight, thrilling rasp of his stubble chafing against her jaw. Two mouths pressing together in the darkness. His body was hard, his weight pinning her effortlessly against the shelves, and she writhed against him shamelessly, wanting more. His hands came up to cup her face, then slid down her throat and over her breasts, and Georgie bit back a gasp of shock. Her nipples peaked, and her breasts seemed to swell into his hands.

He moved lower, his lips leaving a trail of fire down the side of her neck and across her collarbone, and Georgie tilted her head, wordlessly begging him to continue. She couldn’t stop her hands from straying over his body, over wool and linen, down the front of his chest, then around his waist and under his jacket. Her seeking fingers slipped beneath his waistcoat and shirt and then she was touching the hot, bare flesh of his back. His muscles leapt and flexed beneath her palm.

He gave a heartfelt groan. “This dress, woman, God, I—” He seemed incapable of finishing the thought. His hot breath fanned the swell of her breast just above the neckline of her dress, and Georgie’s knees almost buckled as his tongue flicked out and tasted her skin. Like in a whirlpool at sea, she let herself be dragged down, beyond hope of rescue, helpless against the undertow.

The abrupt crash of shattering glass brought the world back into focus with a sharp, unpleasant jolt. Someone had dropped something down the hall.