“But one day I’ll have seen seventy summers, my love. Perhaps then you’ll be tempted.” He couldn’t stop his own insecurities from cropping up like weeds among their banter. There were seventeen summers between them. How he’d managed to capture her interest in the first place was a mystery, and he was sure she’d realize her error in judgement at any moment and choose someone far more worthy.

Janeva’s eyes were intent on the line of his mouth now, though. “You know I belong to you, Dox.”

Her hips were beginning to melt against his in that way, and he found his fingers twisting up into the raven-dark waves of hair at the nape of her neck. With a tug, he had her face tilted up so he could drink in her eyes, pupils dilated now at the promise of his grip, silk-smooth olive skin beginning to flush, lips parted.

“Yes,” he said, as though he’d only just remembered, “You do belong to me. Don’t you.”