*Polly*
My husband strides through the library doorway the moment I reach the bottom of the stairs. His face is dark with rage… but at the sight of me, it clears, though his eyes remain troubled.
“Hello,” I say, feeling acutely self-conscious.
He says nothing, just grabs my hands and walks backward into the library. He smells faintly of leather and a high wind.
“You’ve been out for a run,” I say a short time later, when we stop kissing for a moment.
“Dear Goddess, I’m mad for you,” he whispers in my ear, ignoring my comment altogether. “But I’m surprised you’re able to walk. We shouldn’t have done it, that last time.”
“I wanted you,” I say against his lips. “I want you now.”
“You smell so sweet, like a Poppy.”
“You simply must stop calling me that! I insist on being addressed as Po
