Page 34 of His Vow

"You must be Soleil." He crossed the room, took her hand, and held it. "Nolan described you, but he left out the part where you make a room forget how to function."

Soleil's cheeks flushed. She laughed, tucking a curl behind her ear with her free hand. "He said that?"

"Nolan doesn't say anything." Julian released her hand and dropped onto the couch, one arm along the back. "That's how you know it's serious. Tell me about the gallery. I collect, but only pieces that make me feel something, which narrows the field considerably."

She told him. Her hands moved as she talked, describing the scale of Rafael's streetscapes and the texture of his brushwork. Julian leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, asking questions about composition and layering that were too specific to be casual. His hand found her arm as he made a point about color theory, his fingers resting on her sleeve.

My grip tightened on the beer bottle. I looked at the label.

Across the room, Declan watched me over the rim of his wine glass. His eyebrows lifted. The corner of his mouth pulled. He looked back at the wine without a word.

Dinner was at the kitchen table. Lena was in her high chair, mashing sweet potato with both hands, orange streaks across her cheeks. Soleil was beside me, her knee warm against mine. Julian sat across from us, midway through a story about a client meeting with a fire alarm and a very expensive bottle of Scotch.

Thea set her fork down, laughing so hard her eyes were wet. Declan's arm was draped behind her chair, his fingers playing with the curl at her shoulder. Soleil was leaning into me, her hand on my thigh, her body shaking with laughter. Julian delivered the punchline with both hands raised, his face the picture of wounded innocence.

I laughed. The sound surprised me.

After dinner, Soleil wanted to see my apartment. I unlocked the door and stepped aside.

She walked in — slowly, her eyes moving across surfaces, reading. The dark furniture. The bare walls. The kitchen counter, spotless, the dish rack with its single plate, single fork, single glass. She opened the refrigerator, closed it, and walked along the hallway. She stopped at the living room window and looked out at the city.

She was quiet for a long time. I stood in the kitchen doorway and waited.

She turned. Her brows were pulled together, her lips parted.

"You need a painting," she said. "At least one."

"I have one." My empty hands reminded me of the piece I bought from Soleil's gallery which was propped against the bedroom wall, still unhung.

She crossed the room toward me. "That painting is about absence." She stopped in front of me. Her palms pressed flat against my chest, fingers spread over my ribs. "You need one about presence."

She was in my apartment. The room was different — smaller, warmer. As if the cold I'd built into the walls had met something it couldn't hold.

She leaned against the counter. She was telling me about a frame Margaux had ordered, her hands shaping the dimensions in the air, her hip pressed against the granite edge. Her lips were moving. I wasn't hearing words. She was in my space. My real space. The distance between strategy and want had collapsed to nothing.

I crossed the kitchen. My hand found her jaw. She stopped mid-sentence, her eyes widening, her lips parting. I kissed her. Her back pressed against the counter. Her fingers gripped my shirt and pulled.

Kitchen to hallway. Her shoulder blades against the wall, my mouth on her neck, her fingers working at my collar. Hallway to doorframe. Her hands under my shirt, palms flat on my stomach, the muscles tightening under her touch. My hand in her hair, tilting her head, my lips finding her pulse.

The bedroom. I pushed the door open. She scanned the room — the bed and dark sheets, the single nightstand, and the painting propped on the wall.

"Nobody's been in here," she said quietly.

"No."

She looked at me. Her eyes were steady, holding mine without flinching. She reached for the hem of her dress and pulled it over her head.

The green fabric fell to the floor. The black lace from the boutique — the bralette, the matching briefs. Her golden-brown skin in the dim light. Her collarbones. The rise and fall of her breathing. The curl that had fallen across her shoulder.

I pulled my shirt over my head. She stepped forward. Her palms found my chest, her fingers spreading, tracing the lines of muscle with a slowness that made my jaw clench. She wasn't rushing. With her full attention, she was reading me.

The system went quiet. The noise I carried — the architecture, the file, Hugh's face, the plan — drained out through the spots where her fingers pressed.

I pulled her to me. My mouth on her collarbone. Her breath caught, sharp, and her fingers climbed to my shoulders, gripping. I found the clasp at the back of her neck. Unhooked it. Slid the lace from her skin. My mouth followed her shoulder, the curve beneath her collarbone, and the soft skin below her ribs.

I walked her backward to the bed. She sat on the edge. Looked up at me. Her eyes were wide, unguarded. She reached for my waistband. I caught her hands, brought them to my mouth, kissed each knuckle, and set them on the mattress.

I took my time. Her neck. The hollow of her throat. The dip of her waist. Lower. She arched off the sheets. Her fingers found my hair, gripping, pulling. Her breathing sharpened into sounds that turned into my name.