Mark grabbed at her waist as her sneakers slipped, once again, in the slush. "Next time you decide to run half-naked through the streets, you might want to consider more practical footwear."
"Oi!" Bridget looked up at him, all indignance, then realized he was staring at her legs. She paused, then did a fancy kick that almost landed her bottom-first in a puddle.
His arms banded around her back, and she could feel his laughter against her neck, little snuffles of heat that felt delicious.
"Next time you could leave a note," she suggested. She wiggled her toes. The damp was seeping through her sneakers. "Or perhaps just wait until I return to the room? As dramatic romantic gestures go, popping off to the corner shop isn't the stuff of legend."
He hummed, his lips descending the side of her neck.
"Also," she said aloud, hating herself, "I think I'm getting a bit of frostbite."
"God." Mark disengaged before she finished the second syllable of "frostbite." He crouched before her, ran his hands roughly over her bare legs. "Stupid of me."
A stuffy-looking couple stared as they walked past, and Bridget giggled. "You look like a complete pervert."
"Do I?" He looked up at her, eyes narrow, before sliding his hands a little higher, the slick leather gloves cool against her thighs.
"Mark!" She blushed and knocked his hands away from bits that were, she conceded, much warmer than a moment ago. She raised her chin, prim as a princess. Well, prim as a princess from another country, maybe. "Mark Darcy, I never imagined you were that sort of gentleman."
He rose, almost loomed over her, then gathered her into the confines of his coat. "You should have asked," he murmured against her lips. "I could have told you years ago."
She clutched his lapels. "Years?"
His hands tightened on her hips and he looked up, towards her flat. "I hope you remembered to bring your keys," he said, his voice filled with promise.
"Shit," Bridget said, and he started to laugh.