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The carefulness lasts maybe three seconds after that.

I want him, plain and simple. Is it absolutely insane? Yes.

Do I care? No.

I kiss him again first. That’s the end of whatever restraint he had left.

Nikolai’s hand tightens at my waist. He backs me up one step, then another, until my hip hits the sideboard. A glass rattles behind me, and we both freeze.

Down the corridor, someone speaks. Galina, I think. My heart slams against my ribs.

Nikolai turns his head, listening. Then his gaze drops to my mouth again, and I know from his face that he is about to make a very bad decision.

“There’s a door behind you,” he says.

“What?”

“Storage room.”

I glance over my shoulder and see it: a narrow door half-hidden beside the sideboard, probably used for linen or extra pillows or whatever enormous houses need hidden near guest rooms.

“You cannot be serious,” I whisper.

“I’m very serious.”

“We are not doing this in a cupboard.”

“It’s not a cupboard.”

“Nikolai.”

He opens the door. It’s absolutely a cupboard, or close enough to one that the distinction doesn’t matter. Shelves line one wall, stacked with folded sheets, towels, spare blankets, and boxes of things I don’t have time to identify. It is narrow, dim, and private.

He looks back at me. “Tell me no.”

I should. I really should. Instead, I step inside.

The door closes behind him, and the small room becomes all heat and breath and Nikolai. There is barely enough space for both of us, which means I feel every inch of him the second he turns toward me. His body presses mine back against the shelves, careful enough not to hurt me, not careful enough to pretend this is civilized.

I whisper, “We have to be quiet.”

His mouth comes to my ear. “Then be quiet.”

My whole body reacts to the words. His hand slips under the hem of my dress, sliding up my thigh with a patience that makes me want to hit him and beg at the same time.

“You’re shaking,” he says.

“Because this is insane.”

“No.” His fingers reach the edge of my underwear. “This is insane.” He touches me through the fabric.

My head falls back against the shelves, and a stack of towels shifts beside my shoulder. His other hand catches them before they fall.

We both go still.

Then I start laughing silently, breathless and mortified, and he looks at me like I have personally made his life harder.

“Don’t laugh,” he says.