Theresa watched the man beneath the oak as he turned a page of his book, wondering what he was reading. The book was cloth bound, no dust cover, just a pale blue volume with a glimmer of gold embossing. Theresa felt her nipples tighten, deciding the book was probably fiction, hoping against spies or adventure. Horror would be all right, although she preferred something with a vampire. Maybe something classic, rich with allusion and poetry. Theresa stretched her lean legs out, ticking her bare thighs with the thick carpet of grass. A warmth flowed between her legs, watching him read.
Lord Malinov, Journals of Lord Malinov