I find it hard to concentrate. Her scent wafts past me, tingling in my nose. Any pretense I had of getting work done today is just that.
She works around me. She calls a girl to refill my goblet while she attends to the bed linens herself. I try to get up from my seat where my husband's account books are open before me, and she fixes me with a stare. "I don't need help with the bed; he, however, needs help with his books."
The impertinence irritates me for a moment, but then I see the quirk of her lips, how her dark eyes sparkle. I smile in spite of myself, of my own silliness, and that is when she leans down, puts a hand on my arm and squeezes it gently.
I think about that strong and graceful hand until the image consumes me. I contemplate its course down my body, slipping between my legs. Involuntarily, I press my thighs together, shifting in my seat. She looks over at me, raises her eyebrows. I shake my head, and slowly force myself to separate my legs, thinking about those clever hands and the way that later they will spread me open and the fingers that will explore me deeply.