Page 52 of His Wall

I held her there for the rest of the song.

The music changed to something slower. I took her hand and led her off the floor, past the bar, past the table where Soleil was now feeding a piece of cake to a tired Lena, and through the glass doors at the back wall onto the terrace.

The terrace was empty.

The city was below us in long lit lines down to the river. The wind was low and warm, coming off the building — lifting her hair off her shoulder and dropping it again. The music went muffled the second the door swung closed behind us.

She walked to the railing. She put both hands on it and looked out.

I came up behind her. I stood close enough that the line of my chest was a half-inch from her bare back.

"Your friends love you, Julian."

"They tolerate me."

"That's not what I saw."

"What did you see?"

She turned to face me.

"A man people trust."

The wind lifted a strand of her hair across her cheek.

I put my hand on her waist. She did not stop me. She stepped closer. Her free hand came up and rested flat against my chest.

I kissed her.

It was not the river kiss. The river kiss had been the first kiss, the unfolding, the asking. This was the second one. I knew what her mouth would do when mine came down to it. I knew how her lips would part and how her hand would curl into my shirt and the small low sound she would make at the back of her throat when my hand moved to her hair.

Her hand slid from my chest up to the back of my neck. She pulled me in.

My hand moved from her waist to her hip. The sound came out of her — quiet, almost not a sound — and I pulled her closer to me with my back against the railing. My other hand came up the side of her ribs through the cool silk of the dress and her breath hitched.

She pulled back. Just enough.

Her gray eyes were dark. Her lips were parted. The pulse was visible in her throat.

"Julian."

"Tell me to stop."

She did not.

I kissed her again. Harder this time. Her fingers curled into my hair. My right hand slid around her waist to the bare skin of her back where the dress dipped low, and her skin was warm under my palm as she arched into me.

I pulled back.

We were both breathing hard. My forehead came to rest against hers. Her hand was still in my hair.

"Come home with me tonight."

She opened her mouth.

Past her shoulder, through the glass, I saw it.

Silver hair. A tailored gray suit. A dark navy pocket square. A glass of something amber in his right hand, the signet ring on his fourth finger.