Gwen's mouth opened.
"Bastard." The word came from her with a flatness that was not actually flat—it had too much breath in it, too much awareness of the heat radiating off the body pressed against her side. "Don't you dare touch me."
His arm moved.
It curved around her waist with the slow, deliberate certainty of something that had already made its decision three sentences ago. His palm settled against her stomach over the borrowed cloth of her borrowed clothes, warm and wide and heavy, and he drew her back against him in a single smooth pull—her back to his chest, her hips to his hips, the full length of his body against hers in the close, enveloping darkness of the cot.
She felt it immediately.
