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A pleasant lethargy stole over Ophelia as she lay in Apollo’s arms. The night was still around them, aside from the occasional thumping of footfalls in the corridor beyond as houseguests moved to various different bedrooms in their mutual pursuit of pleasure. It was fortunate indeed, she thought wryly as she listened to the steady beats of his heart beneath her ear, that the house party would be over in just a few days. Otherwise, she would grow far too accustomed to spending all night in his bed.

She felt his finger moving softly on the bare skin of her back.

“What am I drawing?” he asked, his voice a deep, pleasant rumble.

Ophelia concentrated on the movement of his fingertip. No easy feat when he left a trail of sizzling heat in his wake. Her skin felt as if it were collectively aflame.

“A triangle?” she guessed.

He chuckled. “Not even close. Pay attention, love.”

She renewed her efforts, holding still as his finger traveled over her shoulder blades. “A book?”

“No.”

“A letter?”

“Definitely not.”

She sighed. “Tell me, then. I’m abysmal at this game.”

“It was a rose,” he told her.

Ophelia tilted her head back to look at him. “You’re bamming me.”

He raised a brow. “I never lie about such serious matters.”

“How many people do you go about drawing on with your finger?” she countered.

He smiled. “Only you.”

“Oh,” she said softly, feeling the weight of those two words as they lodged themselves in her heart.

The revelation filled her with warmth. Warmth that felt too large, too dangerous, as if it might burst at the seams. He had told her he had come here to Wingfield Hall specifically because Aphrodite had told him she would be here. That knowledge had lit a fire within her soul, one that was steadily growing into a raging conflagration.

“Let me try again,” she said, needing the distraction.

He nodded, his expression shifting. “Once more, but remember the rules. No looking.”

She obeyed, resting her head back on his chest, which was no hardship. His body was delightfully honed and defined in a way her husband’s had decidedly not been. Apollo was, himself, a masterpiece.

His fingertip returned to her back, drawing slowly as she concentrated and struggled to remain impervious to his touch. An impossibility, that. Wherever he touched her, she came to life, and all she wanted to do was beg him to continue touching her everywhere else.

His finger moved slowly, creating arches around her spine and making her shiver.

“A cloud,” she guessed.

“Something more substantial than that.”

“A house?”

He laughed. “Phee, a cloud and a house are shaped nothing alike.”

“Did you never lie on your back and watch clouds go by to see what shapes they made when you were a child?”

“No.” His voice softened, growing tender. “Did you?”

“Of course. On many occasions, my sister and I would wander outside when we were given a break from our studies, and we would lie on the hill at my father’s country estate and argue over what the clouds best resembled. Mother would be vastly displeased when we returned with grass stains on our dresses, our hair hopelessly undone.”