The passion on the desk had burned hot and fast, a sudden storm that left them both breathless and spent in the quiet sanctuary of the study. But as the adrenaline faded, the chill of the late winter night began to creep back into the large room, seeping through the stone walls.
Derek lifted Marissa from the hard, polished surface of the oak desk. His arms were strong, scooping her up as easily as if she weighed nothing more than a feather. He held her high against his chest, her legs dangling, her skin flushed against his.
Marissa let out a small squeak of protest, tapping his shoulder with her hand.
"Derek," she whispered, her voice still husky from their cries. "I can walk. Put me down. I am not an invalid."
"No," Derek said simply. His voice was a low rumble against her chest, vibrating through her. "The floor is cold. Your feet are bare. I will not have you freezing on my watch."
