His back was to the wall, a body against his. That body was pressing him into that wall. That body was doing its best to disarm him. That body was doing a damn good job. The sword was biting into his back, so furious was the assault. But he couldn't even begin to care, too preoccupied with the other mouth assailing his, with the fact that he was pushing back just as hard...pressed flat against the slab of plaster that he was, being tugged at.
The sound of a door opening, two pairs of eyes met black shadowed gold beneath red. The tugging stopped, grip loosened, fingers slid from his waistband, emerged from between the teeth of the zippered tank. Silence.
"I'll come back." Black and crimson flowed from the room. The door shut.
Fingers once again found their homes and lips and tongues clashed with renewed fervor. His hands made purchase on her elbows, supporting, encouraging, asking for more, and begging never to stop.
He took back what he ever said about Turks.