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“Promises, promises.” She’d already forgotten that trying to make a joke of her situation was only going to make it worse.

“Is that so?” He crowded into the tiny sliver of space left between them. Too late she realized she had nowhere to go. There was hunger under his banked fury. Desire.

For her.

“Is that what you want?” he demanded.

She swallowed, lust and anticipation chasing through her blood.

“Answer me, Clara.” A dark growl. It tightened her nipples, jolting sensation between her thighs. She would not have thought that she did want this, but her body clearly craved it. His quiet, dominating touch. Her mind marveled at the fact that she trusted this man enough to explore her own desires.

But she did not know how to say it out loud. Were she someone else, she might have flirted, might have said something provoking just for the fun of knowing she had instigated that in him. Her characters would have done any of these things. Would have undressed right then and there.

And why couldn’t she? If she wanted her private life to be different from her public life, she was going to have to act. If she wanted Bram, she was going to have to act.

And she did want Bram.

Again. Still. Always.

And as the clock was ticking on their relationship, she could not afford to waste any time. She could not afford decorum and etiquette and rules.

So she reached behind to pull her laces loose, until her dress pooled at her feet. It was the sound of the fabric hitting the floor that had Bram hissing out a breath, proving he was not unaffected. She took off her chemise cover, until she stood in her stays and stockings and little red ribbons.

Anticipation was electric between them.

“Are you breaking the rules, Clara?” he asked silkily. He towered over her.

She lifted her chin, but her hands trembled with the need to touch him. To feel him touch her.

He laughed once, softly. The way she imagined a pirate might laugh.

And then he spun her around, bending her over the tea table. She gasped, the inlaid wood cool and smooth on her bare skin. He was at her back, fully dressed, his big hand pressing between her shoulder blades. She was already wet, already full of fire.

“Are you sorry for putting yourself in danger?”

She shook her head silently, defiantly.

“Wrong answer, lass.”

He caressed her backside gently, one cheek, then the other. She felt like a harp string, reverberating after being plucked. Waiting for the next note in the song.

His mouth brushed her ear, sending goosebumps across her sensitive skin. “If you want to stop, you say so.”

She nodded.

“Out loud, Clara. Say it. Say, ‘I understand, Bram.’”

“I understand, Bram,” she said on a tiny moan of desperation.

“And do you understand that you don’t face the world alone? Not anymore?”

“Yes.” She was melting and burning all at once. It was nearly too much.

“I’m not sure I believe you. I think we need to make sure you remember.”

She arched back just a little, seeking his touch. Squirming at the throbbing pressure in her quim. Aching. “Yes.”

“What was that?”