He was sure he ought to get up, check the lamb again, make some effort to finish the dinner that he had invited her over to have. It would be the proper thing to do, the polite thing. Instead, he was watching her fingers in her hair and thinking about them in his own; thinking about the shape where her ankle met her calve; thinking about kissing the taste of lemon and wine out of her mouth and wondering if he could get her off a third time, right there on his dinner table.

He didn't think he'd ever let himself think quite so filthily about someone before. It was rather nice, in its own ways, even if he found himself getting a little embarrassed as well.