He doesn't even have time to pull back and start to apologize, because the second his lips touch hers she's practically launching herself at him, sliding into his lap like she sits there all the time, her hands framing his face, her tongue pushing past his lips to turn this kiss a lot dirtier than he intended.

He is not complaining.

His hands settle at her waist, clutching her to him, squeezing tightly before one slides up the silk of her blouse to press between her shoulder blades, keeping her close as he parts his lips eagerly for her.

This may be rash, may be foolish, may turn out to be a mistake. But he doesn't care.