By afternoon, he’d found himself in the library once more, deep into the scotch, seated in the chair where he’d had her the night before, torturing himself with the memory of her exploring the massive room with exhilarating pleasure, eating her tart with the same. It occurred to him that he would think of her that way now, laughing with the servants, sighing over pasties, facing him in the dining room. He’d think of her with passion. She was all passion and strength and perfection, and stopping himself from taking her there, in that chair, on the floor, against the shelves of the library,
...more
