He remained where he was, his eyes inches from hers, probably still liquid warm. He certainly was, his breath stuck somewhere at the back of his throat for what seemed an eternity.
"I-"
"Lord Hawley, about-about me helping you-"
His throat tightened, so his breath came in tattered rags. "Miss Armstrong, when a moment's so perfect-"
"Perfect?"
"Yes, perfect."
Because it was. Well, apart from one moment there where he damn well nearly forgot to do a certain thing. So now, now when images still rocketed through his head of her, of him, of everything they'd done--must have--for him to so nearly forget, she just had to start, didn't she? This demand. That demand. Jab. Jab. Jab. Like a seamstress sewing a seam. In his brain. About where this went from here. Well, he couldn't hear it. He was done in he……
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