hers.
Amazing, that she had fallen asleep in his arms. Amazing, that she had fallen asleep at all. She never slept after sex.
Well, yes. Of course she did, but never in a lover’s arms.
After sex she liked to lie quietly with her lover for a while. They might talk or cuddle, and then she’d say that it was getting late and she had a busy day tomorrow, or whatever it took to remind the man it was time to leave her bed.
At least she’d stayed true to form for that. This was a hotel bed, but it was hers for tonight. And when a relationshipreached the point where having sex was part of it, she wanted it to be in her own bed.
Not the man’s.
It wasn’t a rule or anything—it was just the way it was.
You brought a man into your bed, you remained in charge. You could tell him when it was time to go; you didn’t have to suffer the ignominy of walking past a doorman, of getting into a taxi at eight in the morning wearing what you’d worn the night before.
And you avoided the kind of situation that might lead to a lover thinking you wanted the forevermore thing.
Anna had seen the forevermore thing, close up. Her father dominating her mother’s very existence. Her mother living the life of a second-class citizen.
Start to finish, you were the one in control when the bed you slept in belonged to you.
Men had an intuitive understanding of that basic fact.
She’d once overheard her brothers talking as they lazed around in the conservatory of the Orsini mansion, drinking beer and BS-ing with an eye on the clock after some family occasion none of them had wanted to attend.
They were guys, and not married back then, so the conversation eventually got around to women.
Anna, hidden in the depths of an oversize wing chair, had started to stand up and tell them they might want to curtail the chatter until she was out of earshot, but before she could, Rafe had said he’d been thinking.
“Thinking,” Dante had said. “You?”
“About, you know, what would be the perfect woman,” Rafe had said, ignoring the dig. “Like, if she stayed the night, she wouldn’t help herself to my razor to shave her legs.”
There’d been murmurs of agreement all around.
“Right,” Nick had said, “and she’d carry her own toothbrush in her purse.”
“And she wouldn’t want conversation in the morning,” Dante had added.
That had elicited a grunt from Falco, Anna remembered wryly.
“What you guys mean is that the perfect woman would appear in your bed when you needed her, and disappear like Tinker Bell when you didn’t.”
The others had laughed like loons, which was the only reason Anna had risen from her chair.
“Whoa,” Nick had said, and Anna had said that
whoa
was exactly right, that what men really wanted were real-life versions of those vinyl blow-up dolls.
All her brothers had turned beet-red, and after she’d had a good laugh at the sight, she’d told them that she had a big surprise for them.
“Women want the same thing,” she’d said. “A guy who’d show up in bed when you needed him and then vanish.”
If there was a shade that went past beet-red, her brothers had achieved it.
“You’re just trying to embarrass us,” the usually non-embarrassable Falco had sputtered.
Well, no.
She hadn’t been trying to do that—she’d simply been speaking honestly.
Women liked sex, too. At least, most of them did.
It was just that women were brought up to think that good girls never admitted it or, at the very least, good girls wrapped sex with pink ribbons.
Not her.
She didn’t believe in sleeping around—talk about misnomers!—but that didn’t mean you couldn’t be honest about what you wanted. And what you didn’t want.
And what Anna didn’t want, ever, was one man, one woman, that whole foolish thing called forevermore …
Which brought her back to basics.
It was time to wake Draco, tell him this had been wonderful but it was late, she had a full day ahead of her tomorrow and it was
Amazing, that she had fallen asleep in his arms. Amazing, that she had fallen asleep at all. She never slept after sex.
Well, yes. Of course she did, but never in a lover’s arms.
After sex she liked to lie quietly with her lover for a while. They might talk or cuddle, and then she’d say that it was getting late and she had a busy day tomorrow, or whatever it took to remind the man it was time to leave her bed.
At least she’d stayed true to form for that. This was a hotel bed, but it was hers for tonight. And when a relationshipreached the point where having sex was part of it, she wanted it to be in her own bed.
Not the man’s.
It wasn’t a rule or anything—it was just the way it was.
You brought a man into your bed, you remained in charge. You could tell him when it was time to go; you didn’t have to suffer the ignominy of walking past a doorman, of getting into a taxi at eight in the morning wearing what you’d worn the night before.
And you avoided the kind of situation that might lead to a lover thinking you wanted the forevermore thing.
Anna had seen the forevermore thing, close up. Her father dominating her mother’s very existence. Her mother living the life of a second-class citizen.
Start to finish, you were the one in control when the bed you slept in belonged to you.
Men had an intuitive understanding of that basic fact.
She’d once overheard her brothers talking as they lazed around in the conservatory of the Orsini mansion, drinking beer and BS-ing with an eye on the clock after some family occasion none of them had wanted to attend.
They were guys, and not married back then, so the conversation eventually got around to women.
Anna, hidden in the depths of an oversize wing chair, had started to stand up and tell them they might want to curtail the chatter until she was out of earshot, but before she could, Rafe had said he’d been thinking.
“Thinking,” Dante had said. “You?”
“About, you know, what would be the perfect woman,” Rafe had said, ignoring the dig. “Like, if she stayed the night, she wouldn’t help herself to my razor to shave her legs.”
There’d been murmurs of agreement all around.
“Right,” Nick had said, “and she’d carry her own toothbrush in her purse.”
“And she wouldn’t want conversation in the morning,” Dante had added.
That had elicited a grunt from Falco, Anna remembered wryly.
“What you guys mean is that the perfect woman would appear in your bed when you needed her, and disappear like Tinker Bell when you didn’t.”
The others had laughed like loons, which was the only reason Anna had risen from her chair.
“Whoa,” Nick had said, and Anna had said that
whoa
was exactly right, that what men really wanted were real-life versions of those vinyl blow-up dolls.
All her brothers had turned beet-red, and after she’d had a good laugh at the sight, she’d told them that she had a big surprise for them.
“Women want the same thing,” she’d said. “A guy who’d show up in bed when you needed him and then vanish.”
If there was a shade that went past beet-red, her brothers had achieved it.
“You’re just trying to embarrass us,” the usually non-embarrassable Falco had sputtered.
Well, no.
She hadn’t been trying to do that—she’d simply been speaking honestly.
Women liked sex, too. At least, most of them did.
It was just that women were brought up to think that good girls never admitted it or, at the very least, good girls wrapped sex with pink ribbons.
Not her.
She didn’t believe in sleeping around—talk about misnomers!—but that didn’t mean you couldn’t be honest about what you wanted. And what you didn’t want.
And what Anna didn’t want, ever, was one man, one woman, that whole foolish thing called forevermore …
Which brought her back to basics.
It was time to wake Draco, tell him this had been wonderful but it was late, she had a full day ahead of her tomorrow and it was
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