He contemplated the ceiling, his body languid and sated, stretching like the cat that he was. She came back into the room, her body fluid and graceful, very feminine, and both he and his leopard admired her as she crossed to his side and sank down onto the bed.

Conner lay on his side, one elbow propping him up while his other hand stroked caresses through her wild mane. She was right about her hair. The strands had dried into a riot of curls he found intriguing. She usually wore her hair sleeker, hiding her untamed look. He liked her wild side.

“I’ve been thinking, Isabeau,” he murmured, watching the moonlight play across her face. “Neither of us have family anymore.”

“You have a brother.”

It was an unexpected body blow. “I do. I didn’t think about that aspect—of what I’d be asking of you.”

Her lashes veiled her eyes. “And what would that be?”

“Well, of course I have to take the boy in. Raise him myself. He’s only five years old. If you were with me, I’d be asking you to be a mother to him.”

She made a small sound, much like a sigh. “I’m way ahead of you, Einstein. Of course we’ll raise him, what else would we do? Your mother would haunt us forever if we didn’t. Besides, I’ve met him. He has your eyes and mop of hair. He’s a darling boy. Now go to sleep.”

He continued to play with her hair, watching her breathe. The long expanse of her skin looked soft and tempting in the moonlight. The ache in his groin was pleasant, not painful, and he rather enjoyed just lying there, his body spooning hers, his cock tight against the crack of her butt, his thighs pressed against hers. This would be his nights. Isabeau in his bed. He looked down at her breasts, the nipples soft and inviting. Someday a child of his would nestle there and feed and it would be the most beautiful thing in the world.

“Marry me, Isabeau.” His hand left her hair to cup her breast, his thumb brushing lazily back and forth across her nipple, knowing he was sending tiny sparks of arousal straight to her clit. He kept his touch gentle and undemanding.

She kept her eyes closed. “I already said I would. Now go to sleep.”

“Marry me tomorrow, Isabeau,” he whispered, his hand stilling, his palm curling around her breast to just hold the soft weight.

Her lashes lifted then. She blinked and turned her head enough to look over her shoulder at him. “Tomorrow?”