With a shy smile, she shook her head.
“Are you tired from your restless night?”
“Not anymore.” She clasped her hands behind her back. “And you?”
“I know I ought to be tired. But in truth, I’ve never felt more awake.” He moved closer, studying her face. “What’s wrong? You seem on edge.”
“Nothing’s wrong. Only…” She sounded bashful. “I suppose it feels a little strange.”
“What does?”
She made an encompassing gesture. “This. Us being together like this.” His deepening confusion must have shown on his face, for she hastened to explain. “We’ve only ever had stolen time together. It was always sort of...forbidden, and rushed, and—well…”
“Exciting?” he guessed.
“No—well, yes, of course.” She gave a self-conscious laugh. “But that’s not what I was going to say. Rather…spontaneous? But now here we are, and you’ve just strolled into my bedchamber with the full knowledge and approval of—well, everybody. And they all know exactly what we’ll be doing, and we’ve got all night to do it, and it just seems…”
“Less exciting?” he guessed dryly.
“No!” She cuffed him on the shoulder. “More daunting.”
He considered her words. “If it helps, we could try a thing or two nobody will expect us to be doing.”
The corners of her lips turned up. “And would they disapprove?”
“Undoubtedly.” Taking her face in both his hands, he placed a kiss on each corner. “Quick and spontaneous is all well and good, but there are advantages to having all night. I think you’ll find slow and tender to also be nice. For example…”
He demonstrated in the form of a slow and tender kiss, by the end of which they were wrapped around each other in a way that made Jonathan very aware a single, flimsy layer of linen was all that came between them.
“That was nice,” she said breathlessly. “Shall we douse the candles?”
“Or don’t,” he suggested, walking her back toward the bed.
A gleam of scandal came into her eyes. “You wish to keep them lit? How improper.”
“I warned you I’d be removing every stitch of your clothing. Would you deny me the right to inspect the fruits of my labor?”
“What labor?” she countered. “I’m wearing only one garment, which you shall hardly find taxing to remove.”
“Are you sure? Let’s see…” Drawing away from her a little, he whisked her nightgown off in a single motion. “How right you were. That was…quite…easily…done…”
He swallowed hard, his eyes drinking in the sight of her.
“Have you overtaxed yourself?” she asked coyly. “You seem a little out of breath…”
Absently he shook his head, far less focused on her banter than on her pert rosy-tipped breasts, her curvy flared hips, her long, long legs. She was a work of art, like a Venus sculpted in marble.
Had he left Rome less than a month ago? It seemed impossible he was with the real Claire, right here in flesh and blood. Real, not a phantom he saw in every statue. Real, not a memory taunting him nightly in his dreams.
“You’re breathtaking,” he told her, his hands drawn to all that lovely, satin-smooth skin.
At his touch she melted into him. For both their conveniences, he lifted her into his arms and gently laid her on the bed. She gazed up at him, shivering.
“You must be cold.” He reached across her for the counterpane.
“I’m not cold,” she protested, catching his hand to draw him down beside her. “Your eyes are keeping me warm.”
There was a vulnerability in her position, in her graceful nudity beside his larger, still-clothed form. But when his gaze raked her nakedness, when he rose to an elbow to loom over her, when he pinned her to the bed with his weight…she liked it.
