Page 49 of How To Tempt A Bodyguard

She wrapped her arms around herself.

"You could what?"

"Like I could survive this. Not just the mission. Everything after."

Matthew stared at her. This woman who'd run into lions’ dens and saved hundreds of girls. Who’d survived assassination attempts and has scars to prove it. Who'd never let anyone close because closeness meant vulnerability and vulnerability meant death.

That woman was shaking.

"Then don't," he said.

"Don't what?"

"Don't let me go." He closed the distance between them, his hands gripping her shoulders. "I never asked to be released. Carrick or not, I'm still here."

"Matthew..."

"I'm still here, Florence."

He kissed her.

Not gentle. Not careful. He kissed her like he was starving, like he'd been waiting his whole life for this, like if he didn't taste her right now, he'd die. She gasped against his mouth and he swallowed the sound, his hands fisting in her hair.

Heat roared through him. Every nerve ending sparked to life. He'd kissed her before, touched her before, but this was different. This was desperation and declaration all at once.

She kissed him back with equal ferocity. Her fingers clawed at his coat, yanking at the fabric, trying to get closer. A sound escaped her throat—half moan, half sob—and it went straight to his cock.

He shrugged out of the coat, let it fall. Her hands immediately found his shirt, tugging it free from his trousers, her palms pressing flat against his stomach. The touch of her skin on his made him hiss through his teeth.

"I need…" she gasped against his mouth.

"Tell me."

"I need to feel you. All of you. Please, Matthew."

The plea shattered him.

He spun her around, pressed her against the wall. His chest to her back. His mouth at her ear.

"You want to feel me?" His voice was a growl. "I'll make sure you feel nothing else."

He found the fastenings of her dress: tiny buttons, dozens of them, mocking him. His fingers fumbled once, twice. Patience evaporated.

He gripped the fabric and pulled.

Buttons scattered across the floor like hailstones. The sound of ripping cloth filled the room. Florence gasped—shock, arousal, he didn't care which—and then the ruined dress was sliding down her shoulders, pooling at her feet.

"I'll buy you ten." He spun her back to face him, taking in the sight of her. Corset cinched tight. Chemise thin enough to see the dark peaks of her nipples through the fabric. Chest heaving. "Christ, look at you."

She flushed under his gaze. Her hands moved instinctively to cover herself, and he caught her wrists.

"Don't." He pinned them against the wall above her head. "Don't hide from me. Not now. Not ever."

Her breath came in shallow bursts. Her pupils had blown wide, swallowing the violet until her eyes were nearly black. She was trembling.

"You're beautiful," he said. "Do you understand that? You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

"Matthew…"