The penthouse felt different with him inside it. The glass walls, which usually felt like a cage, suddenly felt like the boundaries of a private universe. Dante didn't let her go when the kiss broke; he kept her pinned against the wall, his forehead resting against hers, both of them breathing the same ionized air of the high-rise.
"You're trembling," he whispered, his voice a low, jagged vibration.
"I'm cold," Anna lied, though her skin was burning everywhere he touched.
Dante's eyes, dark and bottomless, searched hers. He reached down and caught her hand, his thumb tracing the callouses she'd earned from weeks of typing his manifestos. "You're not cold. You're terrified of how much you wanted me to walk through that door."
