//CLARA//
The moment the door clicked locked, he had me against the bookshelf. My back hit the wood, his mouth found mine, and I swallowed his groan—or maybe he swallowed mine. I couldn't tell anymore. It never failed to undo me.
His hands were everywhere. In my hair, on my waist, dragging up my thighs where my skirts had ridden high. I fumbled with the buttons of his waistcoat, made an impatient sound, and he laughed against my mouth before pushing my hands aside and undoing them himself.
"Impatient," he murmured.
"You have no idea."
His waistcoat fell. His shirt followed. And then my palms were on his bare chest, feeling his heart hammer beneath my touch, and I forgot how to breathe.
He made quick work of my dress in a not-so-gentlemanly manner. The laces gave way, the fabric loosened, and then my bodice hung open and I was bare to the waist, exposed to the golden light slanting through the windows and the dark hunger in his eyes.
