*Tia*
I lean forward from my comfy pillows, snag a grape from the tray that rests near my knees, and pop the dark red fruit into my mouth.
Lounging at the foot of the bed where a short time ago he’d taken me with such unbridled enthusiasm, my husband sips his burgundy wine. His gaze drifts to my chest. Perhaps because I haven’t pulled my dressing gown as tightly around me as I might have and I’ve left a good bit of flesh visible. I don’t know why I take such delight in teasing him with flashes of skin.
“Be sure to send word to your Blackrock city seamstress that you’re in need of another blue gown,” he says.
I shake my head. “I have enough gowns.”
His jaw tautens for a heartbeat before relaxing, and I know he’s taking exception to my frugality, that he’s insulted by the notion that he
