"We'll pull the shade," Jean-Pierre said. He nuzzled his nose in her hair.
"No," she said, planting herself firmly. "Not now. Not with him this close."
"Then when, Greta? When?"
This had been a mistake. She had to get away. "Tomorrow," she said, pulling away from him. "Tomorrow, Jean-Pierre." She tugged at her dress, putting some more distance between them as she rearranged herself. Her expression was final, forbidding. She wanted to remember him just like this, standing before her with his arms at his sides, his bright white teeth and eyes, the silvery sharp edges of his muscled chest.
"Where?" he asked, taking her by the elbows.
"Matthew is going to New York. I'll call you." Afraid that the gentle yet firm and alluring touch of his powerful hands would stall her, she forced herself to pull away.
He handed her her jacket, and followed her into the light of the living room. She opened the door, turned around, and slipped on her jacket, zipping it firmly.
He clasped one hand on the door's edge. With the other he gripped her wrist and pulled her close. She gasped. He kissed her long and deeply. The cold night air chilled her back, while the heat of his mouth warmed her insides. She drew away with a frustrated moan.
He raised her good hand to his lips and brushed it lightly. The stubble of his beard on the silken material caused a sound that had an extraordinary effect on her lower regions. She pressed her upper thighs together.
"Tomorrow," he said, and released her.