They reached the chair.
Liam lowered her into it carefully, her back finding the carved back of it, her hands releasing from around his neck and settling on the arms.
The wood was dark and smooth under her palms, worn that way from age rather than polish, the carving along the arms detailed and specific, the kind of work that came from someone who had made things like this their whole life and had learned to stop rushing.
She sat in it and looked at him standing in front of her and then her whole body tightened and she came, right there in the chair, her head going back against the high carved back, her hands gripping the arms, a long broken sound leaving her into the quiet of the museum room. Her hips pressed forward and then she was still, breathing, her eyes closed.
Liam stood in front of her and watched it happen without saying anything.
When it passed she opened her eyes.
"Okay," he said. "Rest."
