The right thing would have been to make an excuse, but she was wearing those damn pajamas, a confection of silk and sin, and she was looking at him with those wide eyes, her mouth was right there and—

With a soft curse, he took her face in his hands. He felt the softness of her skin under his fingers and heard her breathing grow shallow. “You want to know what I’m burning to do? I want to strip off those pajamas and smash down every boundary you’ve ever created. I want to explore all those places you’ve never let anyone go, and I’m talking about your mind as well as your body. I’m not like Neil. I don’t respect your boundaries. I want you open to me.”

Her eyes widened with shock, and her lips parted. “That will never happen.”

“If I wasn’t about to leave, I’d make it happen.” He lowered his head but kept his mouth just clear of hers. She was so close he could almost taste her, feel the short shallow breaths she snatched into her lungs.

“You wouldn’t, because—” Her face suffused with color. “The truth is, I’m not that crazy about sex.”

For a moment he thought he must have misheard. “You don’t like sex?”

“It’s fine. Nice.” With a whimper of embarrassment, she eased away from him. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation. You’re right. You should go. And I never should have asked.”

“Wait a minute—” He caught her around the waist and pulled her back to him. “Did you say ‘nice’? You think sex is ‘nice’?”

Her face was on fire. “Yes. What’s wrong with that?”

He drew in a deep breath. “Honey, ‘nice’ sex is for people in retirement homes with dodgy hips and a heart condition. At your age you should be having clothes-ripping, mind-blowing, animal sex that leaves you unable to walk or think.”

“All right, you should definitely go now.” She was deliciously flustered, and he dragged her back to him and slid his hands into her hair, feeling it tumble and curl over his fingers in a slide of soft silk. She smelled like blossoms and sunshine. Her lips reminded him of the strawberries that grew wild in Kathleen’s tumbling coastal garden.

“You have gorgeous hair. Is wearing it up part of your disguise, too?”

“I don’t have a disguise. Just because I choose to dress in a certain way doesn’t make it a disguise. And wearing my hair up is the practical option. It’s always breezy on Puffin Island. It stops it blowing into my eyes.”

“So, in New York you wore it loose?”

She hesitated. “No.”