He reached for her.
She did not move.
His mouth found hers.
Her gasp opened her to him, and the kiss deepened instantly. His hand slid to her waist, fingers curving around her as if he meant to pull her into him. His other hand cupped the back of her neck, steady and warm.
Her knees nearly gave way.
His touch burned through her gown, scorching and soft at once. His mouth was devastating. She clung to him, hands in his damp hair, letting herself drown in the taste of him.
He kissed her like a man long starved.
He kissed her until she forgot her anger.
Forgot everything but him.
His hand slid down her back, cupped her hip, then skimmed forward across her stomach, and she snapped back to herself.
She tore her mouth from his. “I— wait— I cannae— I am on me monthlies,” she blurted.
Silence.
Maxwell stared at her.
Then, slowly, inexorably, and his mouth curved into a smirk.
A smirk.
At her.
“Are ye now?” he asked.
“Yes?” she squeaked.
He stepped closer again. She stumbled back.
“Ariella, are ye lyin’ to me?” he asked, voice low and amused.
“I am nae.”
“Ye did nae smell of blood. And ye forgot to flinch when I touched ye low.”
Her mouth fell open. “Maxwell!”
He chuckled under his breath, but he braced a hand on the wall beside her head, not trapping her. Not exactly. “If ye wished to stop, ye could have said so plainly.”
“I do wish to stop,” she lied again, mortified.
“Very well,” he murmured. “Then I will wait.”
“Wait?” she repeated weakly. “Daenae look at me like that,” she whispered.
“How am I looking at ye?” he asked.
“Like ye ken things.”
“I do,” he said. “At leasttwothings to be true.” He leaned in, lips brushing her temple. “One: I ken that ye want me to claim ye.”
