“You’re coming to London,” he said flatly. “You’ve become a habit. If you’re not with me, I’m afraid of what I may start doing to replace you. Tobacco. Knuckle cracking.” Kathleen twisted in his lap to face him more fully, her hands coming to the shoulders of his morning coat. Her smiling gaze locked with his. “You could take up an instrument,” she suggested. Slowly Devon brought her forward and whispered against the sweet, full curves of her mouth, “But you’re the only thing I want to play.” Her arms reached around his neck.
