Devlin suggested, as another enormous clap of thunder rattled the rooftop. He traced the curve of his wife’s bare shoulder with the tip of his finger. “A bedtime story. Something distracting. Something to keep us warm on a wicked night.”“What sort of a story?” Maeve turned her head, hiding her eyes but not her smile. His wife knew exactly what he had in mind.“Oh, an erotic story, to be certain.” Dev’s finger traced her collarbone to the hollow in her throat. And then down. A thousand and one times he’d touched her, and still he felt the heat. “Those are the ones that warm and distract me best.”It was a challenge. It was a game—a game he and his lovely Maeve had played before. Never quite the same, but always exciting.Maeve plumped the pillow behind her and sat up. The candlelight caught the twinkle of her glass, half-full of sherry. Dev watched her take a long swallow and lick her lips. The storm whistled outside. She made a point of snuggling deeper under the bedclothes, tucking the sheet around her.“Tonight I’m Scheherazade?”“And I’m your king.”
