He was drunk off the taste of her, eagerly and passionately craning forward to deepen their kiss, his tongue tangling with hers. The fingers in his hair, that gentle tugging sparked a flare of... something, within him, something primal, the hint of a memory that lingered at the edge of his awareness that was quickly pushed away as she dragged her kiss against his jaw and trailed fire down his neck. He muffled a swear against her shoulder, his voice a jagged, hoarse whisper as he whispered affirmatives to her questioning, a rare note of entreaty in his tone as he dragged his fingertips against her bottom and curled them into the fabric of her undergarments.
He was barely coherent when his gaze locked with hers, a sharp hiss drawn through his teeth as she worked herself against the obvious evidence of his arousal in a tantalizing, pulsing tempo. "Violeta," he gasped, her name a warning, and with a quick jerk of his wrist he easily ripped the lace scrap of fabric away from her; he very nearly lost all control at that point, but maintained enough of it to carry her the short way down the hall to the bedroom, the kick he aimed at her door enough to knock it off one hinge.
He kissed her again and, to his credit, gently set her down on the bed to begin wrestling his shirt off and over his head. He eyed her dress. "Take it off or I rip it off," he growled, his voice having dropped to a new, lower, and decidedly more feral timbre.