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I massage cream on your palms?”  How he ached to touch her, and the mere suggestion woke the beast below his belly button.
    “No, thank you.”  Alex plopped onto the sofa, grabbed the scissors, and attacked the stitches on a shirt.  “I can take care of myself.”
    “My dear, I do not doubt you in the least.”  And then he flinched and shifted in his seat, as she ripped apart two haphazardly joined swaths of fabric with violence of which he had not presumed her capable.
    With renewed focus on the quarterly maritime journal, Jason compressed his lips against laughter, as his heretofore-prissy debutante swore a blue streak that could make the crustiest sailor blush.  The remainder of the evening passed in an awkward mix of uncomfortable, tension-filled silence interspersed with spontaneous invective.  After a couple of hours, he yawned, stood, and stretched.
    “The hour is late, and I am for bed.”  To his surprise, she portrayed no outward sign of acknowledgement, so he bent and placed a kiss on the crown of her head.
    In an instant, Alex gasped and peered into his eyes, and what he spied in her blue depths had him reconsidering his intent to retire, as his loins erupted in flames.  Tempting fate, he nudged her nose with his, and she trailed her little pink tongue along the sumptuous flesh he loved to suckle.
    The walls fell away, the floor tilted beneath his feet, and the light from the fireplace and candles dimmed, as desire enveloped them.  Alex glanced at his mouth and then returned her gaze to his, in an unspoken invitation. And how he longed to take what she offered—and more, without hesitation.
    Warning bells pealed in his ears, and Jason retreated.  “You should put down your mending and rest, as I have other shirts, thus my need is not pressing.”
    “I will sleep as soon as I complete my work.”  She frowned, and disappointment weighed heavy in her countenance, as she gave her attention to her task.  “Goodnight, Captain of my heart.”
    And there it was, the familiar endearment he relished more than he was willing to admit.  “Pleasant dreams, Alex.”
    With that, Jason found safe haven in his modest quarters, as he threw the bolt, not that he expected his errant society miss to accost him in the middle of the night—he should be so lucky.  As a man on a mission, and he was most definitely of a singular mind, in seconds, he stripped naked, snatched a small towel from the washstand, and slipped between the sheets.  Reclining amid the pillows, he draped the cloth over his crotch, blew out the candle, closed his eyes, envisioned his lady, and put four fingers and a thumb to most excellent use.
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    It was early the next morning when Jason, preparing to depart for the docks, entered the great room and found Alex sound asleep, sitting in the same position on the sofa.  With her delicate features relaxed in repose, she could have passed for one of Botticelli’s angels.  But he knew better.
    At her side, in a neat stack, his clothing had been sorted and folded.  Without waking her, he picked up a shirt and examined her handiwork.  Though he fancied himself no authority on sewing, never had he enjoyed such expert repairs, and it pleased him beyond words that his lady had taken such pride in her work.  After pulling on his greatcoat, he bent, rested his palms at either side of her head, and studied the only woman who had ever inspired serious contemplation of a trip to the altar.
    Her long brown hair had loosened from the severe topknot she had sported the previous night.  The fine-boned, heart-shaped face, serene and sublime in slumber, often occupied his dreams.  Classical features, finely arched brows, and a cute little nose had snared his interest at first sight, as had her curvaceous figure.  And her mouth—now that exemplified perfection and begged for a kiss, something he had indulged on occasions too numerous to count.
    But it was her blue eyes, piercing in their potency and