What had happened in the middle of the night had been…extraordinary. From the moment he touched her she couldn’t—wouldn’t—stop him. She wanted to feel his arms around her, his lips on her skin. She had wanted him inside her—moving, caressing, breathing inside her. She’d never felt desire as sharply as that. There was no place she could go to quiet her mind, no room without a memory to confuse her even more. So she walked, her head down, her eyes on the carpet, thinking. How long she walked, she had no notion. She pressed her cool hands to her warm face as she recalled the way he’d stroked her body, so reverently, so provocatively. The memory of it stirred her again, snatching a small gasp of breath. One small touch, a single touch, and her body had raged with thirst for him. Yes, but when the sun rose, she was still furious with him for falling into her bed swimming in his cups. She was still furious that they lived like this—he and his friends, she in her rooms. How many times had his friends come to Eastchurch in the years they were married and diverted him, keeping him out, keeping him away in pursuit of tawdry sports?
