Sophie looked down at her breasts. There they lay, pinkish in the pearly light, heavy for her small body. “They look well in the French style of gown,” she said uncertainly. What was she supposed to say? She’d never really given her breasts a second thought.

But then Patrick’s mouth descended and closed on her nipple, and without willful volition her body arched against his. A tattered moan tore from her throat. He thrust a knee between her legs and murmured something against her breast without stopping what he was doing.

It was only much later, after the sheet had finally given up the fight and lay twisted on the floor and the bed had settled back to the gentle rock of the ocean water, that Sophie thought to ask what Patrick had said. She was lying on her side, idly tracing a sweaty line down her husband’s chest.

“What did you say about my breasts?” she asked.

Patrick’s eyes were heavy lidded. He was trying to figure out why having sex with his wife would make him feel almost as if he would cry. It must be something about the ritual of marriage, he finally decided. Knowing that you’re going to be with one woman the rest of your life, and never with another. There must be something about it that tipped sex from good to wonderful.

“Hmm?” he said lazily, pulling Sophie up against his side.

She repeated her question, rather shyly.

Patrick opened one eye. “Didn’t I say they were glorious?”

Sophie nodded. “After that.”

Patrick opened both eyes. “I can’t remember.” His voice was honey thick. “Perhaps I’d better take a look and see whether it comes to mind.” Nudging Sophie back, Patrick slid down in the bed until his eyes were parallel with that exquisite part of her anatomy.

Irresistibly he reached out to touch her breasts, shaping their heavy, creamy perfection in both his hands. A slight relaxing of Sophie’s spine was her only response.

“Did I say that they are larger than wild apples?”

“No,” Sophie whispered.

“They’re not the same color as apples, of course,” he said conversationally. “Apples are red, as everyone knows, and your breasts are white as milk, with just a hint of rosiness under the skin.” His thumbs were dancing over her nipples, making Sophie’s breath press hot against the inside of his chest.

“Did I tell you that they taste sweeter than wine?” Patrick’s tongue was tracing an errant path around the circumference of one breast.

“No.”

“They taste of honey, as if I were eating peonies or poppies.” He was tracing small circles now, coming closer and closer to her nipple.

“I don’t think you said that,” said Sophie, her voice an aching wisp of sound.