*Tarquin*
Of course Isolde is no stranger to flirtation, let alone lust, I say to myself. It makes complete sense. One doesn’t need to conduct a third experiment to prove this hypothesis: for whatever ignoble reason, I am particularly vulnerable to she-wolves who have a liberal relationship with the concept of chastity.
Even worse, I am more besotted now than I was with Evangeline.
Evangeline fascinated me: I wanted to bring her home, cherish her, and make love to her. I thought the curl of her hair and the tinkle of her laugh enchanting. But I cannot remember feeling this sort of overwhelming sensuality, a wild madness that tangles up my reason and sends all the blood in my body to a place between my legs.
I don’t even have to look at Isolde to catalog her features. Her eyelashes are
