She drops her fan.

And it is done.

He breathes onto the side of her neck, his hand pinning her wrist onto the wall as he grazes his lips against the line of her jaw—there is no further movement that can breach that tangible layer of seduction that snakes around their forms, like a hot coil without restraint, her back arching and his fingers woven into the sea of her hair. Slowly, purpose the sole impetus, his hand moves up from its previous position on her thigh and slides upwards: past her hip, lingering in languid grace, over her abdomen, maneuvering itself along her ribs, as he bathes her form in a hazy shadow to the sound of bated breaths and skin on skin. There is no chance to regain her poise after the caress makes its way to her breast, only to leave her aching when the trail leads to the bottom of her abdomen.

"Donna," he whispers, the hood of his cloak amplifying the darkness. "You cannot run from me now."

She bares her throat to him sans thought.

"No, not ever."

"Messere …"

Surely his hands silence her protests, as one of them cups her buttocks and hoists her further up the wall, bringing them closer than any possibilities allowed. "Do not deprive me of this, woman."

Breathless expectancy.

"For I have waited far too long to seize you."