“I . . .” She shook her head, but none of the thoughts inside it fell into place. “You don’t want to go to bed with me?”

“I am going to bed with you. To sleep with you because you need sleep.”

“But—”

He kissed her, soft and slow. “I can wait. Now, pajamas? I hope you say yes because otherwise one of us isn’t going to get much sleep.”

“You’re a strange and confusing man, Carter.” She turned, opened a drawer to pull out flannel pants and a faded T-shirt. “This is what I call pajamas.”

“Good.”

“I don’t have any in stock that’ll fit you.”

“I don’t actually wear . . . Oh. Ha.”

He’d change his mind when they were in bed, she thought as they undressed. But he got points for good intentions. Yes, she was tired, her feet ached and her brain felt dull, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t find energy for sex.

Especially really good sex.

When he slid into bed beside her, she curled into him, trailing her hand over his chest, lifting her mouth to his. She would arouse and seduce, and then—

“Did I tell you about the lecture I’m planning on methodological and theoretical analysis of the novel, with a specific emphasis on home—both literal and metaphorical—as motif ?”

“Ah . . . uh-uh.”

He smiled in the dark, gently, rhythmically rubbing her back. “It’s for seniors in my advanced classes.” In a quiet monotone designed to bore the dead, he began to explain his approach. And he explained it as tediously as possible. He gauged it would take five minutes, tops, to put her to sleep.

She went out in two.

Satisfied, he rested his cheek on top of her head, closed his eyes, and let himself drift off with her.

SHE AWOKE WITH THE WINTER SUN SLANTED OVER HER FACE. She awoke warm.

Sometime in the night he’d spooned her, and now she lay snugged back up against him, wrapped close. Cozy, she thought, rested and relaxed.

He’d wanted her to sleep, so she’d slept. Wasn’t it funny how he managed to get his way without demanding, without pushing?

Sneaky.

Well, he wasn’t the only one.

His arm wrapped around her waist. She took his hand, pressed it to her breast. Touch me. She pressed back against him, sliding her leg between his. Feel me.

She smiled when his hand moved under hers, when it cupped her. And when his lips pressed to the nape of her neck. Taste me.

She turned so they were face-to-face, so her eyes could look into the soft blue of his. “I feel . . . refreshed,” she murmured. And still looking into his eyes, let her hand glide down his chest, over his belly until she found him. “Hey, you, too.”

“It often happens that certain parts of me wake up before others.”

“Is that so?” She shifted, rolling him to his back to straddle him. “I think I’m going to have to take advantage of that.”

“If you must.” In a lazy morning caress, he ran his hands down her torso, over her hips. “You even look beautiful when you wake up.”

“I have bed hair, but the part of you that wakes up first doesn’t notice.” She crossed her arms, gripped the hem of her T-shirt. Pulled it up, off, tossed it. “Now that part doesn’t know if I even have hair.”

“It’s like the sun set on fire.”

“You’ve got a way, Carter.” She leaned down, caught his bottom lip with her teeth. “Now, I’m going to have my way.”

“Okay.” As she leaned back, he sat up. “But do you mind if I . . .” And closed his mouth on her breast.

“No.” Her belly clutched in response. “I don’t mind a bit. God, you’re good at this.”

“Anything worth doing.”

Soft, firm, warm, smooth. She was all those things. He could feast on her, break his fast with the enticing, alluring flavors of her. She pressed him closer, urging him to take more while her hips rocked him into heat.

She bowed over him, back from him, wriggling out of the flannel pants. She pushed him back, rose up, her body lean and pale, dappled by the thin light that eked through the windows. She took him in, surrounding.

She arched, trapped in her own web of pleasure, and moved to the beat of her own blood. Slow and thick and deep, gliding silk to silk, steel to velvet. In that morning hush, there were only sighs, a tremble of breath, a whispered name.

And the beat quickened while pleasure tipped toward ache. She watched him watch her, watched what she was fill his eyes as that ache spread, swelled. The beat pounded—urgent now, faster now. She rode him, rode them both until the ache peaked, tore, and shattered.

When she went limp, he drew her down and held her close as he had in the night.

Floating, she thought, it was like floating down a long, quiet river where the water was warm and clear. And even if you sank, he’d be there, to hold on to you.

Why couldn’t she have this, just enjoy this, without creating obstacles, digging up problems, worrying about mistakes, about tomorrows? Why let the maybes, the ifs, the probablies spoil something so lovely?

“I’d like to stay right here,” she said quietly. “Just like this. All day.”

“Okay.”

Her lips curved. “Are you ever lazy? Do the serious sloth?”

“Being with you isn’t lazy. We could consider it an experiment. How long can we stay in this bed, without food or drink or outside activities? How many times can we make love on a Sunday?”

“I wish I could find out, but I have to work. We have another event today.”

“What time?”

“Mmm, three o’clock, which means I have to be over there by one. And I have to upload the shots from yesterday.”

“You need me out of the way.”

“No, I was thinking shower and coffee for two. I might even scramble some eggs instead of offering you my usual Pop-Tart.”

“I like Pop-Tarts.”

“I bet you eat the grown-up breakfast.”

“I rely heavily on Toaster Strudels.”

She lifted her head. “Those are great. If I can provide hot water, coffee, Pop-Tarts with a side of eggs, would you consider hanging out for today’s event?”

“I would—if a toothbrush and a razor get tossed in. I don’t suppose you have a spare pair of shoes.”