Desmond had always been a tactile personality, raised on warm affection beyond the regular sting of training on the Farm. There was nothing affectionate about the Templars, nothing pleasing in the suffocating heat or the clash of steel. Whatever gentleness he remembered the last time he'd taken a woman to bed felt remote, almost alien and forgotten. Maria's hesitant touch was invigorating, cool water to a parched throat.

He opened his mouth to her, tasting her bottom lip with the warm press of his tongue. Encouraged, he hummed his approval to her, and let any remaining trepidation fall to the wayside when he brought his other hand up her side. His hands were calloused from soldiering where they once first blistered against the grip of a sword, snagging oh so lightly on her tunic when he boldly cupped her breast, thumbing her nipple through the layers of cloth.

God, he wanted her.