Heat

Damien was waiting in the lobby with two glasses of whiskey and a face that asked no questions.

"How long do we have her tonight?"

"Excuse me."

"How long is Luna with the nanny tonight."

"All night. Rosa has her until morning. I told her I might not come home tonight."

He nodded once.

"Then drink this. Slowly. And then come upstairs with me."

She did not argue.

She drank. She walked to the elevator with him. She did not let him touch her in the lobby. She let him touch her in the elevator, when the doors closed, when his hand finally settled on her hip and she leaned her forehead against his shoulder and closed her eyes for the duration of nine floors.

Damien had taken a suite at the same hotel. It was on the eighth floor. It was small, by his standards. A bedroom, a bathroom, a sitting area. He had not unpacked anything. He had thought he might need to come back to her flat.

She walked into the suite ahead of him. Set her purse on the desk. Unbuttoned her coat. Did not turn around.

"Damien."

"I am here."

"I have been crying inside for two days. I cannot do it tonight. I cannot do tears tonight. I need you to make me forget my own name for an hour, and then I am going to fall asleep, and I am going to wake up and figure out what to do with the rest of it. Can you do that."

He came up behind her. Slowly. He did not touch her right away. He let her hear him cross the room, the way she had asked him to do everything since the gala. With patience. With consent.

He put his hand on the back of her neck. His thumb brushed the place just below her hairline, and she felt the sound she made before she heard it.

"Yes," he said. "I can do that."

She turned around.

He kissed her like a man who had been thinking about it for forty eight hours and had decided he was tired of pretending he had not. His hand slid up into her hair. Her fingers gripped the lapels of his jacket. He pulled her against him, and she went, and the rest of the room dissolved.

She did not want careful tonight.

She wanted erased.

"Damien."

"Yes."

"Not careful. Not tonight."

He pulled back. Looked at her. The pupils of his eyes were dark.

"Are you sure."

"I am sure. I want you to take me out of my head for an hour. I will be a complicated woman again in the morning. Right now I want a man, not a worried husband."

Something in his jaw moved.

"Aria."

"Yes."

"If you change your mind."

"I will tell you. I am not made of glass anymore. I have not been for three years. Treat me like the woman I am now."

He kissed her again, and this time it was not careful, and she did not want it to be.

He picked her up. Walked her to the bedroom. Set her on the edge of the bed and stripped his jacket off and was on his knees in front of her in one motion. His hands ran up her thighs, found the zip on the side of her dress, and the fabric pooled on the floor beside her shoes.

She made a sound that was not language.

"Damien."

"Tell me."

"Do not stop."

"I will not stop."

He did not stop.

Later, much later, when she was lying on her stomach with her face turned away from him and his hand drawing slow lines down the curve of her spine, she spoke without turning around.

"What did you do."

"What did I do when."

"Just then."

She felt him smile against her shoulder.

"I have been paying attention. For three years. I knew what you liked when we were married. I figured out what you would like now. There is a difference."

"You figured out."

"I have been thinking about you constantly for three years. Some of the thoughts were useful."

She turned her face into the pillow and laughed. It was the first laugh she had let out in two days.

He kissed the back of her shoulder.

"Aria."

"Mm."

"Sleep. I will still be here in the morning."

She slept.

Outside, London was wet and dark and full of women she shared blood with whom she had never met. Inside, for one hour, she had not been any of the things her life had made her. She had been a woman in a hotel room being held by a man who had been thinking about her for three years.

In the morning, she would have to be the rest of it.

Tonight, this was enough.

Some time before dawn she half woke. The room was dark. He was propped on one elbow, watching her in the slatted moonlight that came through the curtains.

"Damien."

"Sleep."

"Why are you watching me."

"Because I forgot you for six months. I am paying attention now."

She closed her eyes.

"That is a good answer."

"Sleep, Aria."

She slept.

In the morning the curtains were open. The room was full of grey London light. Damien was still beside her. He had not moved. He had not gone for a run. He had not done any of the things busy men do in the morning.

He had stayed.

She did not say thank you. He would not have wanted her to.

She kissed his shoulder and got out of the bed.

In the bathroom she ran the shower hot. She stood under it for a long time. She let the water hit the back of her neck where his hand had been the night before, and she let herself feel, just for one careful minute, the rare and dangerous shape of being someone's again.

Then she shut the water off.

She was Aria today. She had a sister to confront, a mother to negotiate with, a daughter to protect, a stalker to stop.

Tonight she had been a woman.

In the morning she had to be a queen.