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She wanted him.

He palmed her breast, then latched it with his mouth. The wet heat seared her. She arched her back, hips rolling, the soft flesh between her thighs split by the thick ridge between his. A moan pressed up from her belly.

Sweet, insistent friction thawed every chilled inch of her skin, reliquefied her marrow. She was melting around his hard contours, thighs spreading wider.

His teeth closed on her nipple, and she moaned again, kneading his shoulders.

He reared up, caught her face in his hands. His kisses came in waves, and she realized she was still rolling her hips, working herself over him, the tension torturous, trembling the flesh of her inner thighs.

And now one of his hands was gripping the crease below her hip. His thumb slid down and over, nudged through the slit in her drawers.

At the first slow circle, she dug her nails into his neck.

He paused, hand wedged between them.

“No?” He grated the word.

“No,” she gasped, falling forward, burying her face in his chest. His chest seemed so solid, curves of muscle hot and hard beneath damp wool. She found it difficult to imagine it had ever been a source of complaint.

His chin pressed the top of her head, and his arms wrapped around her.

“There are better places than the Serpentine, I’ll admit.”

“I don’t mean not now, or here.” Her breathing was unsteady. Her thighs still felt loose and sensitive, shivered by pulses of aimless pleasure, slowly ungathering from a tense knot of nearly unbearable sensation.

“I mean not ever,” she said. “Or anywhere.”

“Why?” Gently, he touched her shoulders, maneuvered her back so they could regard each other through the silvered shadows. “Because I’m still your boss? I could sack you, and then we wouldn’t have to worry.”

He gave her his crooked smile. Rejection made him wry, not wrathful.

“No, thank you,” she said miserably.

“That wasn’t a threat,” he said. “Nina, if you don’t want this . . .”

“I don’t,” she lied, looking down. His chest jerked, and she heard his harsh breath.

A droplet of water was rolling down her cheek. It had come from her hairline, not her eye.

“I’d rather continue on like before,” she said. “As a secretary.”

“Who also bakes.”

She lifted her head.

He didn’t look boyish now. His face was etched with lines. But the slant of his eyebrow was teasing. “We have to do something with those golden sultanas.”

Her laugh was half sob.

“I won’t speak of this again.” He repeated his words from the balcony, with a formality that pretended she wasn’t, right at this very moment, sitting on his rock-hard cock.

She scrambled up. Her legs felt stiff and shook queerly. They didn’t seem to belong to her body. A beat later, he stood as well and walked for the linens.

“I’m sorry.” She spoke to his back. He bent and turned, draping her in soft, dry cloth. She huddled into it.

“No reason to be sorry,” he said kindly, kindly and incorrectly.

She turned her face toward the shimmering black of the lake.