“It is,” he agreed. And then: “But you’re meant to eat it, you know. It won’t do much as a face cream.”

And before she could raise a hand to her face, he leaned toward her and licked the corner of her mouth clean. Just that simply every muscle in her body flexed toward him, and her mouth opened on a silent sigh.

For a long time they kissed in that awkward position. Plates on their laps, side by side, his body turned toward hers and his head canted. Daniel smiled against her mouth and broke away to take the plates and put them aside. Then in one fluid movement he turned back to her and took her down onto the bed.

And this was what she had hoped for. Kissing Daniel was something wondrous and strange; serious business, certainly, but not a humorless one. Even now his smile drew her in, and she caught herself laughing.

At one point he left her for what could have been no more than three seconds, long enough for her to take stock of the way her body was reacting to him; the heavy thud of her pulse in her wrists and throat; her mouth, already swollen, and most disconcerting, how damp she was in places that had never perspired before. Then he was back, two fingers thick with butter.

“What—” she said, but he had already smeared it over her lower lip and down her neck to the base of her throat. When he kissed her this time his tongue touched hers and the bright taste of new butter blossomed between them.

He worked his way down and down, nipping and licking and drawing her flesh into his mouth. His amazing mouth, so warm and tender and fierce. It robbed her of her ability to draw a breath. She moved to push him away—just for a moment, just for the chance to let her mind catch up to her body—and then froze when her right hand encountered the jut of a shoulder beneath the sling he wore to protect his ruined arm.

She looked into his eyes and for that moment the playfulness was gone. He said, “As long as I don’t put weight on it or lift anything heavy I should be equal to—this.”

“I should hope so,” Martha said, and then blushed and blushed again when he laughed. He rubbed his face against her breast, and why did it seem so natural? If anyone had described such a thing to her she would have been—

Intrigued.

“Don’t,” he said. “Don’t look away. You never need apologize to me. I like that you’re curious. Do you want to touch my arm? You can, you know. You can touch me anywhere.”

It was something he wanted her to do, and so Martha ran her fingers lightly from elbow to wrist, tracing the shape inside the sling. “That doesn’t hurt?”

“Oh, no,” he said. “You couldn’t hurt me, not like that.”

Impulsively she bowed her head to kiss the injured hand. Then Daniel pulled her back up so they were face-to-face.

The next kiss was so deep that Martha thought she might melt into a puddle. The soft, often washed cotton of her night rail felt like sackcloth against her skin, so that it seemed the most natural and important thing in the world to rid herself of it. Daniel helped her, nudged her this way and that until he could lift the gown up over her head and raised arms.

“You have beautiful breasts.” He used the tips of his fingers to trace around a nipple in a hypnotic circle that made her arch toward him.

“I have freckles,” she said, breathlessly.

“And I intend to make myself familiar with every one of them. For example, right here.”

Oh, the things he did with his mouth. The licking and tugging and soft suckling went on and on until she gasped and would have turned away, except he had spread his hand on her back to hold her there, where he wanted her. She was the sole object of Daniel’s attention, and she burned with it.

Martha found herself lifting her hips, something that surely must mark her for a wanton. Except he liked her like this; he had said so. She needn’t pretend.

The feel of him, the rough beard and the calluses on his fingertips and the muscles that clenched and rolled under his skin, the expanse of his back, these things wound her up in a fog that she might get lost in. And still she wanted more. She wanted everything.

“Come,” he whispered against her mouth. “Will you come to me now?”

She nodded, though the truth was she was sad to have the kissing part over so quickly. Men didn’t much like kissing, her newly married friend Sally Roth had told her. Oh, they would kiss if that’s what it took to put a wife in a receptive mood, Sally said. But once that goal was achieved there would be no more kisses until he wanted to start over again.

“Like a highway toll,” said Sally. “One he will shirk if he can.”

Daniel pulled away suddenly and looked her in the face.

“Where is your mind?” he asked. “You went away there suddenly.”

So she told him about Sally and Sally’s pronouncements on the proclivities of men.

Daniel laughed out loud.

“It’s not true, then?” Martha said. She was embarrassed to sound so eager for an answer.

“It’s not true,” he said. “Or maybe it’s true for some men, but not for me. I like kissing. Or better said, I like kissing you. A lot.”

“Oh,” Martha said. “Good.”

His mouth twitched as though the effort not to laugh cost him dearly. “While we’re talking,” he said, “are there other mysteries you’d like cleared up?”

“Dozens of them,” Martha said. “But I’m happy to wait and see if I find the answers on my own. I’ll let you know if I run into any difficulties.”