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would be undertaken. “There’s a great cafe down the street for breakfast, then maybe,”—he pulled on my nipple gently—“I can convince you to take a midafternoon break.”
    Inwardly, I froze. Was he expecting that this would go on? That I’d spend more precious minutes of my research trip having sex with him? Having dinners and breakfasts and . . .
    That might have sounded good to me in the past, but now I was far more realistic. I understood what this was between us and I knew my priorities.
    “Listen, Seb,” I said, closing my legs finally and sitting up. “This was fun, but I don’t really have time for a repeat performance.”
    He closed his eyes. I wondered for a moment at the thoughts hidden behind his still features. Then those pale blue eyes focused on me, and he smirked. “Yes, it was fun, and as much as I would love a repeat, and very much regret that we didn’t run into each other a few months ago, I have something else I want to talk about.”
    I was curious what he wanted to discuss if not sex. After all, pretty much the entirety of our relationship, at least the part that had any lasting relevance, revolved around sex in some way. Him propositioning me or me propositioning him.
    “I was wondering, actually, if you’d be willing to help me with some of my research. I’ve never undertaken anything of the like, and I rather suspect you’d have a bit more success than I. I’ve come up against some dead ends.”
    “Your genealogy research?” I prodded, looking at him skeptically. Not that I was actually considering it. With less than two weeks left to conduct my own research, I could hardly take on another project. Especially a project that would require me to be in continual contact with Sebastian. All I’d ever think about would be sex, which was already at the forefront of my mind, lying here naked, wanting him again.
    He reached out and stroked the hair between my legs with the back of his hand, as if it were natural that he would touch me so familiarly, in the middle of a conversation that was supposedly not about sex. He tugged lightly on the hair, and I had to force myself not to close my eyes and give in.
    I didn’t make him move his hand.
    “It involves genealogy,” he amended. “It’s a bit more complicated than that. I’m trying to hunt down the history of a private club to which my grandfather belonged.”
    Brooks’s, White’s, Boodle’s—names of old, established gentleman’s clubs instantly filled my mind. But the history of most of those was well documented, so that was unlikely. Maybe it was something closer to the Lunar Society, the group of late-eighteenth-century intellectuals who had met on the full moon of every month to exchange information about their research. Something casual, only mentioned in letters and journal entries.
    His thumb found my clit, which was still sensitive from the attention of his mouth. I shuddered and shifted away from the almost painful sensation. There, languor gone. I twisted onto my side, disentangling from him, and pulled the towel down from the shower rod.
    “I’m sure it’s a fascinating story, Seb,” I said, getting to my feet, “but I doubt I’ll have time to take on more work. I only have these next twelve days to do my own research. If you need help, why don’t you hire a researcher?”
    Towel wrapped around me, I stepped out of the shower. Then I picked up the pile of my clothing.
    He was standing outside now, too, naked still, and so comfortable in his nakedness despite the water dripping down his skin. I could stare at him all day, explore his body, run my tongue down his stomach, his legs, down every indent of muscle. I thrust one of the extra towels at him.
    “I thought about it,” he admitted as he followed me into his bedroom. “But some of my family history is . . . sensitive. I’d rather not entrust it to a stranger.”
    He’d opened the window shades and, in the much brighter light of day, I could