In the small hours of morning.
Sprawled in an armchair in the corner.
Waging a war with himself.
Would it be inconceivably rude to wake her?
Yes.
Was he already being inconceivably rude just by being here?
Also,yes.
Was that wrongness enough to make him leave?
No.
She’d become his muse. He needed her.
For his music.
That was what his mind kept repeating.
But his body had a different idea.
It needed her.
End of.
So, here he sat in the corner, hoping against ridiculous hope that she would wake herself.
He cleared his throat.
She didn’t stir.
He shifted noisily in the chair.
She remained obstinately asleep.
He shot to his feet, and before he had a clear idea of what he was doing, he was standing beside the bed.
A hiss sounded from the foot of the bed. A tiny gray ball of fur had shot to her four paws, ready to pounce. He’d come prepared for the kitten who Juliet had dubbed Miss Hiss—a name that would likely stick. He tossed her a link of raw sausage. That should keep the bloodthirsty little creature busy for a while.
He returned his attention to Valentina. The feel of her parted mouth against his…of her waist in his hands…echoed through him. He had to clench his hands at his sides to keep from touching her.
Though only seconds had passed, the longer he stood here, the more wrong it felt. He must wake her.
“Valentina,” he whispered, opting for the non-tactile approach.
Her dark fringe of eyelashes fluttered open, and she blinked. “Are you real?”
“Very much.”
“I was dreaming of you,” she said on a lazy, indulgent stretch.
He liked the sound of that. “And what was I doing in your dream?” He very much wanted to know.
Her eyes widened, and she came fully awake, pulling the covers up to her chin. “What is it that you want, Lord Archer?”
