She pushed the shirt off his shoulders. Her hands moved across his chest — not searching, not cautious. She knew this body. She knew the scar on his ribs, the one she had traced before. She spread her hand flat against his chest and felt his heart beating hard and fast under her palm. Good.
She moved him backward toward the bed — not roughly, just the pressure of her hands on his chest, walking him back — and his hands tightened slightly at her hips when the back of his knees found the edge. He sat. She stayed standing. His hands dropped from her hips to her thighs and she watched his face do something — the jaw loose, the control slipping.
She reached for the hem of her own shirt and pulled it over her head.
Vincent looked at her. Just looked. No move, no claim, no word.
