She’d wanted to give it to him, that moment, the ones that followed. She wrapped close, needing to seep into him as he did to her. Take him over as she was taken.

Tonight, all night, she would give everything and anything in celebration of knowing she could love.

All night, she thought again, to savor.

She pressed her cheek to his, then eased back. “It’s nice”—she began unbuttoning his shirt—“to have so much time. Lingering time.”

“Just tell me, were you wearing that all along?”

Her gaze slid up to his, sly as her smile. He wondered if women knew that look could make a man a slave.

“It was more efficient. And I liked knowing I’d come in here, take off my dress.” She eased the shirt off his shoulders. “Call you in. I liked knowing you’d see me, and want me.”

“I want you every time I see you. I want you when I don’t see you. I just want you, Clare.”

“You can have me. I like knowing that, too.”

She drew down his zipper, making his belly quiver.

“Lingering’s a challenge when you look like you do.”

“I’ll help you with that. You should lie down. You worked hard today.” She gave him a playful nudge.

He thought it might kill him to let her take the reins and take it slow—but he’d die happy.

He lay back. She slid over him, straddled him. Shaking her hair back, she set her hands on his shoulders.

“I can feel the work you do here.” She kneaded them gently, working toward his neck. “And here,” she continued as she stroked down his biceps. “It’s exciting. And in your hands.” She took his, pressed their palms together. “Hard and strong. It’s exciting to know they’ll be on me, touching me, doing things to me only you and I know about.”

She interlaced their fingers, then leaned down to drown them both in a kiss.

He wondered how the body could relax so utterly and churn so madly at once. She soothed him, aroused him, untied every knot of tension all the while lashing new ones as her lips brushed over his jaw, trailed in slow, silky kisses down his throat.

“I need to touch you.”

“You will,” she murmured. “I want you to. Soon.” But she kept her fingers twined with his as she glided those lips over his chest, and slowly, torturously, down to his belly.

It was a gift, she thought, this lazy feast of his body. A gift for both of them. How good it was to have him under her, to know the shape of his body, the scent of him, the feel and taste of his skin.

To indulge herself, to gorge if she pleased, as long as she pleased. The more she consumed, the more her appetite sharpened.

Strong hands, strong arms, strong back, she thought, yet he trembled for her. His breath quickened; his workingman muscles tensed. For her. That, too, was a gift.

She took him to the edge, held him there until every labored breath burned. Then she rose up, bringing his hands with hers to breasts thinly covered with midnight lace.

She arched back at last, at last letting him touch. Sighing out her pleasure as the candlelight bathed her.

His fingers found hooks. He willed himself not to rush, not to tear and tug but to release each one carefully. And to watch the midnight shift over her skin, slide down to reveal more.

She drew him in when he bowed up to sample and to relish, pressed him to her, urging him to feast.

The air pulsed, heady with candle wax and flowers, and in the fragile light once more she eased him back, braced her hands on his shoulders. Watching him, she took him into her.

Her breath released, something like a sob. Again she laced her fingers with his, and she began to move.

Rocking, almost gently at first, her eyes on his until he saw nothing but her, felt nothing but her. Only Clare.

Time spun out, long, slow beats. Once more she took him to the edge, held him there. Held him, then drove him over into shattered dark.

In the morning, he turned the tables and brought her breakfast in bed. It wasn’t pot roast with all the trimmings, but he knew how to put together a fairly decent omelette.

Her stunned surprise made him wish he could have offered her more than a couple of eggs with cheese.

“You’re eating pie for breakfast?”

“It’s fruit.” He sat across from her so he could watch her eat. “Danishes are an accepted form of breakfast. Why not pie?”

“Don’t pass that logic on to the kids. God, I’m sitting in bed drinking coffee and eating eggs. This must be an alternate universe.”

“If it includes this pie, I want to live here. What have you got going today?”

“Full slate. Helping my father harvest herbs—which means I’ll get some. Quick swing by the market on the way home. Some paperwork, a few things to do around the house. And so on. You?”

“I have paperwork and shop work I should get to. I’d rather spend the day with you.”

“You could meet us for dinner tomorrow. We’re going to grab something at Vesta before we hit the streets to beg for candy.”

“I’m in. I could pick you guys up.”

She shook her head as she finished the eggs. “After I pick them up from school, get them home and into costume, we’re going to my parents so they can trick-or-treat them. We’re Skyping Clint’s parents from there, so they can see the boys in full gear. I’m hoping to get to Avery’s around five, get some actual food in them.”

“Okay then, I’ll meet you.”

He didn’t want to let her go, but didn’t feel right about horning in on her time with her parents. And he had told Owen he’d try to get into the shop around noon.

So he thought about her after she’d gone, and all along the drive.

She heard the three-part harmony version of the sleepover from her boys before they raced back outside to burn off yet more energy with the puppies.

“Did they behave?” Clare asked her mother.

“They always do.” At Clare’s arch look, she shrugged. “Grandparents have different scales for good behavior than parents. It’s our due. Those dogs are adorable, and make those kids so damn happy. Beckett’s a sweetheart.”

“Yes, he is.”

“How did your date go?”

“Absolutely perfect. Pot roast never fails. He brought me breakfast in bed this morning.”

“He sounds like a keeper.” She got another look. “Don’t tell me you’re not thinking about it.”

“We’ve only been seeing each other like this since the summer, and I don’t want to—I’m so in love with him. Mom.”

“Sweetie.” Rosie stepped over to hug Clare, to hold and sway. “That’s a good thing.”

“It is. It feels good. I’m happy. We’re happy, but that doesn’t mean . . . I’m not making plans. A new approach for me—just take it a day at a time and enjoy it without thinking about . . . all the rest. I love being with him, the kids are crazy about him—and it’s mutual. So I’m happy, and I don’t need to make plans.”