Achilles was looking at me. “Your hair never quite lies flat, here.” He touched my head, just behind my ear. “I don’t think I’ve ever told you how I like it.”<br />My scalp prickled where his fingers had been. “You haven’t,” I said.<br />“I should have.” His hand drifted down to the vee at the base of my throat, drew softly across the pulse. “What about this? Have I told you what I think of this, just here?”<br />“No,” I said.<br />“This surely then.” His hand moved across the muscles of my chest; my skin warmed beneath it. “Have I told you of this?”<br />“That you have told me.” My breath caught a little as I spoke.<br />“And what of this?” His hand lingered over my hips, drew down the line of my thigh. “Have I spoken of it?”<br />“You have.”<br />“And this? Surely I would not have forgotten this.” His cat’s smile. “Tell me I did not.”<br />“You did not.”<br />“There is this too.” His hand was ceaseless now. “I know I have told you of this.”<br />I closed my eyes. “Tell me again,” I said.