soul too. Ann had listened, encouraging Rye to sort through his situation more thoroughly than he had when reporting the general outlines to Sycamore Dorning the previous evening.
More thoroughly than he had in quite some time.
Who benefits? A question that bore further study.
“You have been very generous with your time,” Rye said, “and this cat will soon think he owns me. I really should be going.”
“I did not even feed you.” Ann folded up the shawl that had been draped across her knees. “Some cook I am.”
Rye rose, yielding his place to the cat, and offered the lady his hand. “You do not need to feed me, Ann. I am fortified by your companionship and keen good sense.” He kept her hand in his when she’d risen, and she regarded him with a frown.
“I believe you have just pronounced my Hollandaise not bad.”
Whatever did she…? “I value you for more than your good sense, but I am trying not to make a habit of presuming on your person.”
She ran the fingers of her free hand through his hair, and how he adored when she did that. Felt it right down to his vitals and understood why some bold felines demanded affection from any passing human. Her touch felt that good.
“You are trying to be gentlemanly by limiting your compliments to only my good sense?” she asked, peering up at him.
“I am.” By application of great personal discipline, he did not allow his gaze to stray over her physical attributes. “I see you in my dreams, Ann, and they are very pleasant dreams.” Also disturbing, for a man who typically dreamed of vineyards, ledgers, and battles.
She leaned into him on a sigh, snuggling close like a cat. “I see you in mine too.”
Ann felt the shift in Orion, when inherent military bearing gave way to the posture of a man holding a woman he cares for. His arms enfolded her gently, and he bent near, drawing her into the curve of his taller body.
“I told myself that I would not presume this time,” he muttered.
“You aren’t presuming. To ignore such an attraction would be folly, Colonel.”
“Rye.” He nuzzled her temple. “If we are to kiss each other witless, please call me Rye.”
His version of witless kissing began with a sweet little buss to her cheek, then another to her brow. The scent of his lavender soap was stronger this close, and the warmth radiating from him was luscious.
Ann wrapped her arms around his neck and sank her fingers into his thick, dark hair. He needed a trim; she needed to kiss him, so she did.
The touch of his mouth to hers was gentle at first, though in no way tentative. He took his time, giving her precious moments to register sensations—his hands low on her back, his shoulders so broad and muscular. His breath a soft heat against her cheek.
She was melting inside, like caramel left near the hearth, going all viscous and warm. When she felt the first touch of his tongue, spices came to mind—cinnamon and nutmeg, a whisper of cayenne.
Orion Goddard was stealthy and subtle about his advances, while Ann wanted to plunder and pillage. She wedged a thigh between his legs to emphasize her demand.
He growled, and the battle was joined. By the time they broke apart several passionate eternities later, Ann’s blood was at full boil, and Orion was panting like a spent steeplechaser.
Also smiling, as if he’d just been granted the keys to the celestial kingdom. “My eye patch, please.” He held out a hand.
Ann surrendered the requested item. “I want to remove more than that from your person.” Much more.
He used the windowpane as his mirror, tying his eye patch back in place. “What I want at this moment shocks me.”
That was encouraging. “I am not without experience, Colonel. I assume you aren’t either. Nobody need be shocked.”
He snapped off a bloom from the bouquet on the windowsill and tucked the stem through his lapel. “The mechanics of intimacy, pleasurable though they are, do not occasion shock, Annie Pearson. It’s here,”—he tapped his chest—“where you wreak the worst havoc.”
“Do I?” She liked the sound of that very much, and she liked as well the sight of him, tall, weathered, a trifle disheveled, a fading rose on his lapel. “Do I truly?”
“You listened to me,” he said, bracing his hips against the windowsill. “Let me prattle on like a schoolboy retelling the Battle of Hastings. You ply me with soft cushions, a warm hearth, and