Watching her work was a thing of beauty, both because she was brilliant and because he simply liked looking at her. She was, in a word, magnificent. Her dark hair was tied back in a bun at the nape of her neck, the pale swan curve a sharp contrast that consistently drew his eye. He remembered what it was like to press his mouth against her pulse—to feel her so warm and alive beneath him. Daphne looked up from her task, errant strands of hair escaping her bun to fall across her cheeks. She smiled at him, tucking a few strands behind her ear before she bent back over her work. He loved the casual elegance of her movements, every gesture choreographed to perfection. Perhaps it was the time period when he was raised, but his favorite thing to watch was her legs. The delicate point of her ankle, the curve of her calf, the dip behind her knee—he wanted to know, if he kissed her there, would she laugh? Would her thighs part slightly and—He cut the thought off.
