But there was no protest. Sophie’s lips opened to his as if marital intimacy was old hat to her, as if the burning flood that rushed down her limbs was something to which she had become accustomed. A strong hand pressed her head closer, ruthlessly pulling out hairpins and scattering them on the carpet, pulling until locks of honey-blond curls suddenly tumbled over Patrick’s brown hand, whispering their softness against his arm.

He pulled her still closer, his mouth ravaging hers, tongue demanding the small cries which broke from her as his hand pushed down the gathered neckline of her bodice, freeing her breast. His thumb ran roughly over her nipple and Sophie’s body went liquid, her hands fiercely clenched behind Patrick’s neck, his mouth the center of her reality. The world dissolved into a spinning collection of senses, her body aching.

She pressed even closer, and when Patrick’s hand left her head and started a seductive caress up her leg she made no protest. Her eyes stayed shut and her head fell back as he whispered something down her neck, a tongue like liquid fire pausing at the base of her throat.

And then his hand stopped. Sophie’s eyes flew open. Was he horrified? Somehow she found that without even noticing, she had been moved and was now half lying on Patrick’s desk, crushing a pile of papers under her. Her husband was leaning over her, his white shirt falling open in front—had she undone his collar?—showing muscles almost hidden in a mist of black curling hair. Irresistibly Sophie spread her hand flat on his chest, her fingers delicately rolling over the muscled ridges, curling in the tangles of chest hair.

Patrick looked down at his wife thoughtfully as his hand continued its caress. Where was the small ruffled band under which he normally slipped his fingers?

Sophie tipped back her head again, another small cry erupting from her as he continued his languid dance.

“No drawers?”

Sophie gulped and opened her eyes, staring at him half blinded. How could he sound so calm while he … he … Her body involuntarily twisted under his hand.

“No.” Her voice quavered.

“Why not?” Patrick prided himself on his reasonable tone. Of course he knew why not. Today was Thursday; today was Braddon’s day. Bloody hell, Sophie probably never wore drawers on Thursday. His hand stilled again, and something about the fierce silence which descended on the room made Sophie suddenly alert, like a fawn that hears a strange noise approaching, the unknown but dangerous sound of belling hounds. She gulped.

Patrick stared down at his wife, his beautiful wife. His! His, his, his: The word pounded against his ears, a drumbeat in his blood, a fire in his veins. Not his.

His wife sat up and wound her arms around his waist, hiding her face as her lips skimmed the hard ridges of his chest.