"Is it?" I lean into his touch.
"Which is it, Seraphina? Strategy or desire? Have I not given you enough, already?”
I roll my eyes. “Can’t it be both?"
Something dark flashes in his eyes. "You're playing with fire."
"Hasn't it already burned me?"
He kisses me.
It's not gentle. Not sweet. Nothing like the last time we were together. It's possession and frustration and desire.
His hands are in my hair, tilting my head back, deepeningthe kiss until I'm gasping. My fingers find his shirt, working the buttons with shaking hands.
"Tell me what you want," he demands against my mouth.
"You." It's not entirely a lie. "I want you."
"Not good enough." His mouth moves to my neck, biting gently. "Tell me the truth. What do you really want?"
My brain is fogging over. His hands are sliding up my thighs, pushing the nightgown higher, and I can barely think.
"I want—" I gasp as his fingers brush against my inner thigh. "I want to not feel trapped anymore."
He pauses. Pulls back enough to look at me.
"What else?" He's turning the tables, and it's frustrating, but my body isn't entirely my own, and I wasn't lying when I said I want him. Pregnancy nausea has given way to wild hormones, and I feel ravenous for what I know he can give me.
"I want to go to the bookshop. To see Mr. Bolinger.” The words tumble out. "I want a few hours where I'm not just... stuck here.”
Understanding dawns in his expression. Then something that might be amusement. "And you thought seducing me was the way to get that?"
"Is it working?"
His hand slides higher, fingers brushing against the lace of my underwear. "What do you think?"
I can't think. Can barely breathe. His fingers are teasing, circling, making my hips roll toward him involuntarily.
"Adrian—"
"Tell me exactly what you want," he says. "Be specific."
"The bookshop. Tomorrow. With you and security." I'm panting now. "A few hours. That's all."
"And in exchange?"
"This." I pull him closer, legs wrapping around his waist. "Tonight. However, you want."
"However, I want?" His eyes darken. "That's dangerous offer.”
"I trust you." And it’s the truth. I do trust Adrian—with this, anyway.
He lifts me suddenly, papers scattering off the desk. Lays me back against the wood, looming over me.
"You're going to regret giving me that much freedom," he warns.
"Prove it."
