“You need a hobby,” Pandora said severely as she felt his erection against her bottom. “Have you ever tried writing poetry? Building a ship in a bottle?”
“You’re my hobby.” He pressed his lips to the back of her neck, having discovered it was a particularly sensitive place.
Gabriel was a tender and passionate lover, exploring every inch of her with ruthless patience. He taught her about the slow build of anticipation, about the infinite ways to heighten desire. For languid hours he would guide her from one erotic sensation to the next, until she was overcome with shuddering waves of pleasure. At other times, he played rough-and-tumble, teasing her into a state of wildness and satisfying her with deep, powerful thrusts. She was always a little disoriented afterward, euphoric and shaky, but he would hold and caress her until she relaxed into a dreamless sleep. She’d never slept like this in her life, all through the night and late into the morning.
When evening approached, they would order dinner up to their suite. A pair of hotel stewards, both wearing noiseless slippers, would come to the sitting room to cover the round table with spotless white linen, and arrange place settings of china, silver, and crystal. They would set out little bowls of water, each topped with a perfect sprig of lemon verbena, for rinsing one’s fingers between courses. After bringing trays of steaming silver-covered dishes, the stewards would leave to allow them to serve themselves in privacy.
During dinner, Gabriel was an entertaining companion, amusing her with an endless supply of stories. He was willing to discuss any subject, and encouraged her to speak frankly and ask as many questions as she liked. Whenever she jumped from one topic to another seemingly unrelated one, it didn’t appear to bother him. It seemed that no matter what her faults were, he was willing to accept her for who she was, and who she was not.
At the end of the meal, the house stewards would return to remove the dishes, and bring tiny cups of Turkish coffee, a plate of French cheese, and a tray of bottled liqueurs. Pandora loved the jewel-colored liqueurs, which were served in miniature crystal glasses shaped like thimbles with flared rims. However, they were deceptively strong, as she discovered one evening when she made the mistake of trying three different kinds. As she tried to rise from her chair, her legs wobbled dangerously, and Gabriel quickly reached out to pull her into his lap.
“My balance is off,” she said in befuddlement.
Gabriel smiled. “I suspect it was that extra glass of Crème de Noyaux.”
Pandora twisted to cast a perplexed glance at the half-filled glass of almond cream liqueur. “But I didn’t even finish it.” With effort, she leaned over to grasp it, downed the rest in a gulp, and set the empty glass on the table. “There, that’s better,” she said in satisfaction. Spying Gabriel’s liqueur, which he had barely sipped from, she began to reach for that one as well, but he hauled her back with a smothered laugh.
“No, sweet, you don’t want a headache in the morning.”
Pandora looped her arms around his neck and stared at him with owlish concern. “Have I had too many? Is that why I feel so swignorant?” As Gabriel began to reply, she interrupted him with her mouth and wrapped herself around him passionately.
In the morning, she awoke with a hazy memory of having done remarkably indecent things with him on the chair . . . clothes had been discarded or pulled to the side . . . and at some point she vaguely remembered squirming and bouncing on his lap while savaging him with kisses . . . oh, she wanted to die of embarrassment.
Also, she had a headache.
Mercifully, upon seeing her discomfort, Gabriel didn’t tease, although his mouth worked briefly as if to hold back a smile. He had a glass of peppermint water and a headache powder waiting for her, the moment she awakened. After she downed the medicine, he put her in a warm scented bath.
“My head feels like a threshing machine,” Pandora grumbled.
Gabriel bathed her with a soapy sponge while she rested her head back against the rim of the tub. “The Germans call it katzenjammer,” he said. “The way one feels the morning after an evening of drinking. Translated, it means ‘the wailing of cats.’”
Pandora smiled slightly, keeping her eyes closed. “I would be wailing, if I thought it would make me feel any better.”
“I should have stopped you after the second glass. But I overestimated your tolerance.”
“Lady Berwick says a lady always takes wine or spirits within a sober limit. She would be disappointed that I behaved badly.”