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didn’t often think about her – bittersweet wasn’t his flavor – but he remembered her now and those fairytales full of brave deeds and romance. She’d given him that much at least. He may have felt hungry back then, but he’d never felt unloved while she’d lived.
    Okay, okay! So he did believe in love! He believed in romance . He couldn’t escape it. His mother had named him after a famous romantic writer, for godssake. Right from the start, he’d never had a chance.
    “Mmm…” Sophia stirred. Her eyelids fluttered open, and a hazy blue stare met his, then cleared, like sunlight breaking through clouds. She smiled. “Lord Byron.”
    His mother’s favorite poet.
    Byron’s throat constricted. Pain stabbed him in the chest, sharp but sweet, an arrow piercing his heart – Cupid must have shot it. He felt his gaze going misty tender and an answering smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
    “My mother would have loved you,” he whispered.
    “Really?” Her eyes widened, then half closed in angelic provocation. Sultry innocence. “And what about you?”
    God help him…
    The pain struck sharper. Deeper. Those bedroom eyes pierced him to the core, swamped him with sweetness. Warm blue pools to jump into and drown…
    Byron took the plunge.
    “I, um…I think I love you, too.”
    “Good.” Her voice went husky. “Then I think you’d better kiss me.”
    And she passed out again.
    No! Not this time.
    He leaned over her and landed a kiss on her lips that would have done Prince Charming proud. Instantly reviving, she lassoed his neck with her arms, pulling him flat on top of her.
    “I was just testing your resolve,” she murmured against his mouth.
    Oh, he was resolved all right. He was unbridled passion on a stick. In moments, Byron turned the kiss into a steamroller resolution of lovemaking, a blazing extravaganza of epic romance. He was Mt. Vesuvius, and Sophia was “The Last Days of Pompeii.” He exploded all over her, covering her with lava-hot licks and caresses.
    “Yes… oooh yes ,” she moaned – Miss Melodrama, but on her the guise looked good. “Burn me…”
    He was doing his best.
    Clothes scattered on the floor.
    Sheets tangled.
    Flesh sweated, and the air steamed.
    He used every trick he knew – and devised some new ones along the way. He might not be a famous poet, but he was creative. If she’d read the Kama Sutra , she probably expected a lot. He wanted to impress her.
    He took her breath away.
    Then he took her virginity.
    Slowly.
    Carefully.
    Almost giving himself a rupture holding back so he wouldn’t hurt her.
    “Byron, for godssake, just shove it in!”
    “Sophia, I’m trying to do this romantically .”
    “Screw romance! I want sex!”
    She got it.
    So did he.
    Gasp! Fiery tremors rocked his world as Sophia squeezed him in a silken vise. How had a virgin built up that set of muscles anyway?
    Oh, right, she’d been practicing with cucumbers.
    He was so in trouble.
    “Vatsyayana calls this hold ‘The Pair of Tongs,’” she panted out. “What do you think?”
    Who could think? Byron could barely see through the smoke. Flames engulfed him.
    “Vatsy what?” he rasped.
    “Not what. Who. Vatsyayana wrote the Kama Sutra .” She squeezed him again. Harder. “Like it?”
    “ Uhhh ,” he groaned.
    “I’ll assume that means yes. There’s also ‘The Top,’ ‘The Swing,’ ‘The Blow of a Bull’—”
    “Sophia, Vatsyayana may have written the book, but he didn’t invent the subject. I know what I’m doing, baby.” He nipped her lower lip, hoping to hush her.
    “Oh! Did you know the Kama Sutra lists biting as a sensual art? Vatsyayana devoted a whole chapter to it. One on scratching, too.”
    Her nails raked down his back.
    His breathing went ragged.
    “Byron, I’ve waited forever for this. I want to try everything !”
    Tonight?
    He was a dead man.
    What a way to go.
    With infinite care he slid out and pushed in again…and again…setting a creamy