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“No.” Her voice is sleepy soft. “I think you’d be a dream.”
That does something else to my stomach.
Also, to another area of my anatomy. “So, Mrs. Stirling.” I touch her stomach warily, happy when she doesn’t flinch. “How are you this fine morning?”
“I should be asking you.”
“Yeah. I feel loads better, but the headache is still alive and kicking.”
“That’s too bad. I have some Advil…” she trails off. “But that’s in my room.”
“And you are very much in my room.”
“Oh, no,” she mocks. “Whatever will you do with me?”
“That, my brand-new wife, is entirely up to you.”
This time, she does flinch; almost imperceptibly, but I notice because I’m watching her. “Or not,” I say, moving my hand.
“What? No.” She looks away almost bashfully. “It’s not that, it’s… I really don’t like guys asking what I want. You know, like in the bedroom.”
This is interesting. I put my hand back. “Why’s that?”
“It makes me feel silly and incredibly boring. Like they are expecting me to ask to be tied up with neckties and slathered in honey when all I want is a little more foreplay.”
I burst out laughing. “I can see about getting some honey from room service,” I offer. “But you may be sweet enough without it.” I trace patterns on her stomach, through the sheet, and her dress.
She slept in her green dress.
I’m not sleeping in much, which means Fiona undressed me. I wish I had more of a memory of that.
Fiona takes a deep breath and continues to stare at the ceiling. I continue to stare at her, memorizing the lines of her face. “I’m nothing like those—your other women,” she finally says.
I laugh. “That’s a good thing.”
She glances over with accusing eyes. “I’m boring.”
“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?” I slide my hand over the side of her stomach and try to pull her closer, but she’s as stiff and unyielding as the headboard. “Why would you say that?”
“Because that’s what I’ve been told.” She draws in a shaky breath. “I’ve never really been that enthused by… you know.”
“Sex? It’s more likely that’s because of who you’re having sex with. Maybe they’re the boring ones.” I keep my tone light, but inwardly I’m grinding my teeth with anger. Not at the thought of Fiona with anyone else—which doesn’t feel great, but no need to be angry about—but at the image of someone telling her that. Trying to hurt her.
No one will ever hurt her again.
“Maybe,” she concedes.
“More than maybe. No one who wears a dress like this can be boring.” I pull down the sheet to find Fiona’s limp and wrinkled dress. It’s definitely seen better days. “They didn’t bring their A game with you. Maybe they don’t have an A game. You don’t have to worry about that with me, you know. I’m A plus.” I’m relieved when she laughs. “Who are we talking about here?”
So I can go and punch them in the face.
Fiona rolls to her side to face me, tucking her hands under her cheek. “Is that your way of asking how many men I’ve slept with?”
I keep my hand draped over her hip. “Is that bad? It’s none of my business, I know.”
“I don’t think I want to know about all the women you’ve been with,” she whispers.
“If you’re going by what you’ve heard about, subtract half.” Even so, the number would be enough to put off many women, and I don’t want to do anything to turn Fiona off me. “I’d only tell you about the important ones.”
