"Yeah. That was a silly question. I’m sorry."
Then he kisses me.
It's soft at first, almost tentative, like he's asking permission.
I grant it by fisting my hands in his shirt and pulling him closer, and he groans against my mouth, deepening the kiss until I can taste his desperation, his relief, his bone-deep need even in this moment.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard.
"Once we get out of this f*****g Summit," he murmurs against my lips, "I'm taking you to my estate. And I'm going to pamper you so thoroughly you'll forget any of the horrid things that have happened."
"Pamper me how?" I ask, because apparently I'm a masochist.
His eyes darken. "However you want. Breakfast in bed. Baths drawn for you. Massages that end with you screaming my name."
Heat pools low
