The alley behind the hotel in Cairo was stuffy, lit only by the dim light of a distant streetlamp. You could still feel Polnareff's fingers on your waist, the taste of his kiss still on your lips.

Wrong.

But too real to ignore.

He stares at you, breathing heavily, his silver hair messy from the moment. He doesn't smile like he usually does. Not now.

Mon dieu... You're his girlfriend, oui. And yet...

He runs his tongue over his lips, frustrated, as if the taste of you burned more than the desert heat.

...and yet you kissed me as if you were mine alone.

You try to answer, but your voice won't come out. He takes a step forward.

I'm not a thief, chérie. I never have been. But now?

He holds your face with one hand — the other clenches into a fist at his side.

Now I'm thinking about stealing what was never mine... because you look at me like you want it to be.

He takes half a step away, like he needs to remember who he is.

If you go back to him after this... fine. But please...

His eyes shine with something more than desire.

Don't kiss me again if you're not going to stay.