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Summary
The memory played as if on tape: when Nick had cornered her against the wall in the museum and held his jaws to her throat, close enough to feel her pulse and smell her fear and the copper tang of the blood on her leg. They had been distracted and scared, concentrating on maintaining an illusion. But there had still been some reflexive part of him under the veneer of civility that wondered and lusted after that sensation, and for that Nick always had to chase the fear and doubt in his own head away from their quiet moments together.
This wasn't supposed to hurt her, too.