For years, I’ve made her believe I am more competent than I am. More knowledgeable. More worldly.

The truth is, everything I know about the art of making love I learned in books. And, shockingly enough, books are a rotten substitute for the real thing. In most things, it’s true, but especially in this.

“’Course I am,” I say. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because you’re acting like a loon,” Ana says, but there is no heat to the words. She has never said an unkind word to me. Well, that’s not entirely true. She has—she’s only human, after all—but she has never meant those unkind words.

My palms have gone suddenly clammy. I rub them on the thighs of my breeches and turn away. Step one: Get to the damn room. Everything else will come later. Inside, there is already a fire crackling in the room’s modest hearth. Good old Santiago. Ready for anything.

Ana has slept in my bed a thousand times. When we were younger, it was nearly habitual. She was given her own room as soon as my father welcomed her into our home, but she claimed it was too big. Too grand. She couldn’t fall asleep surrounded by the high ceilings or the tall windows or the fine furnishings she was terrified to break. And so, she slept with me, slipping under the ample covers and burying herself amid my jungle of pillows.

I never minded. I don’t think I even realized how lonely I was until then.

But now … Things are different now.

“I’ve just…” I turn back to her, not bothering to hide the embarrassment I feel. “I’ve never done this before.”

Ana giggles before clapping a hand over her mouth. “I know that, silly.”

“Please don’t laugh at me,” I say, though I’m fighting back one of my own. “I’m trying very hard to be suave.”

Another giggle. Well, more of a chuckle. And at my expense. Smiling, she says, “It’s not going very well.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake—”

Ana crosses to me with a single stride and slots her mouth over mine, her hands coming up to cup my cheeks. She holds me in place with such aching gentleness as she kisses me that I almost want to scream right into her mouth. I don’t, but the urge is there, and it is powerful.

When we break away, I forget to be embarrassed by anything at all, least of which how much I want her.

I reach for her coat and push it off her shoulders. It slides to the floor in a heap of thick green wool. Ana tenses as my hands rest on her shoulders.

Her scars, I think.

“If you don’t want me to see, that’s fine. We can even snuff out the candles if you like…”