“Bless you, pater.” Claudia’s whispered benediction floated to the ceiling on curls of steam as she slowly sank into scented luxury. This private bath in the master suite had been her father’s one self-indulgence. Now it was hers, part of his legacy, and one of many things she loved about being mistress of her ancestral home, Dulcia—sweet indeed. With her head resting on the edge of the tub, she lounged against the slanted back and let all the tension of the day drift away. The water, hot as she could bear, lapped at her sensitive breasts. For the most part, widowhood agreed with her. Marcus was gone four years this month. She seldom missed him. Independence, another precious gift from her father, far outweighed any advantages she’d known as wife to a man who made his living at sea. No matter how good the living, a life lived waiting for her man to return had worn thin very quickly. Marcus had his good points, though. Fidelity being one she appreciated. In a time when a man’s loyalty to family, city, emperor was his greatest virtue, Marcus Portius Crassus was known from Tripoli to the Pillars of Hercules for extending his to his wife. A sailor with scruples, he was rumored to endure the good-natured ribbing with a knowing smile that earned his wife a reputation as the mysterious goddess who held him in thrall. A wistful smile crept over her lips. The goddess, in turn, gave him no reason to let his eyes wander. Her body had been good to her in that respect—slow to show her age despite bearing three children for him. Her skin shivered to her touch as she let her hands graze over her body in the rising steam. Even at thirty-eight, her breasts were still firm, stomach tight, thighs smooth and slender. What a waste. Claudia had no delusions. What Marcus loved was fucking her and the enthusiasm with which she welcomed him. When he was home, and he seldom was, they’d enjoyed each other—especially the homecomings. The last time, an eternity ago, he’d come to her from Hispania, if she remembered correctly. Rough, unshaven, he’d stormed into the house, swept her into his arms and to their bed without a word, right in front of the servants and children. Claudia sighed, sinking into the memory. He’d been mad with lust, tearing at her clothes until she lay naked and moaning beneath him. Gods, he’d tried to devour her. The memory chased up her limbs, through her, and centered in her loins. Tonight she missed him; her body missed him. The urgent roughness of his hands, the taste of his mouth flavored with the sour wine he preferred, the fullness as he plunged into her again and again. And his scent, oh, his scent—he’d smelled of the sea and the sweet balm he used in his bath. Even after four years, the memory of his scent would catch her unaware now and then. Like tonight. Every nerve in her body awakened. Her hips rocked, guiding her hand between her thighs, remembering. A door closed. Claudia froze. When her breath returned, she raised her head to find her secretary, Damon, standing just inside the room. He brought the correspondence from earlier in the day for her signature. The tablets trembled in his hands, but when she searched his eyes expecting fear, she saw fire. “Let me help you, Era.” His voice was low, husky with arousal. Bold. So very bold. A wave of lust swept over her. Claudia donned a disapproving expression and grabbed the towel from the stool beside the tub. She stood without shame. “I should have you whipped for that,” she said, stepping from the bath. “Yes, Era.” The words were meek enough, but nothing in his stance suggested he expected her to follow through. A quick rubdown with the coarse fabric eased the tingling in her sensitive flesh. She should have him punished, but what reason would she give? He caught me masturbating and offered to help. A smile crept its way into her thoughts. That would keep the servants amused for months. Let it go. After a lifetime of handling slaves, she was still hopelessly inept in the art of discipline. Turning her back to him, she waved him toward the small desk on the other side of the room and grabbed the first garment at hand. A robe, a gift Marcus brought her from one of his last journeys. The wine-colored silk irritated her heated flesh as she wrapped it around her and cinched the belt tight. Damon crossed the room to deposit the tablets and take his place beside the desk. “I knocked,” he said. “The right thing would have been to leave quietly and come back later,” she warned him coldly. She slid into the chair without looking in his direction. “I didn’t want you to worry about who had tried the door.” “Kind of you.” She should tell him to leave. He could wait elsewhere for the correspondence. Instead, Claudia tried to focus on the first letter. Damon’s meticulous transcription decayed to a blur on the tablet. She needed all her concentration to control the trembling in her hands. She heard a sharp intake of breath and glanced up to catch him staring at her breasts. Her body’s instant reaction stunned her. Her nipples grew taut against the slick fabric of the robe. A warm, liquid rush dampened her sex. The evidence of his arousal swelled behind the fabric of his tunic. She turned in the chair to face him. The robe didn’t turn with her. It slipped open, exposing her chest and all of one leg. She made no attempt to correct the problem. With one hand gripping the back of her chair, she returned his scrutiny. The boy was certainly a pleasure to look at. She’d admired his form often enough, but always with the appreciation one might give to an especially fine marble likeness—almost always. At the moment, there was no comparing him to any image carved from stone. His living heat radiated between them. She drank in his rugged charms—sweetly disheveled hair, black as night, worn longer than was fashionable, black brow, midnight eyes. The shadow of a beard darkened his face. He was slim but well fed and well muscled, and he was the most intelligent man she’d ever known. Yes, man, she reminded herself. “How old are you, Damon?” she asked. “Twenty-six, Era.” Titus, her son, would soon be twenty-three. “Why would you suggest such a thing? What do you expect in return?” The question clearly insulted him. He cast his gaze aside, but not fast enough to hide a spark of anger. “To watch your pleasure,” he said. As simple as that? Not likely. She read no dissemblance in his face, however. Against her better judgment, Claudia continued her examination of his beautiful body. She was playing with fire, but the fire in her loins and in his eyes compelled her. Without diverting her interest from the breadth of his shoulders beneath the loose fitting tunic, she amazed herself by asking, “If I said yes, what would you do?” A sudden gasp stopped the rise and fall of his chest. The quick glance with which she’d intended to judge his reaction became a prolonged gaze into his eyes when she recognized in them something she had not seen in a very long time. This beautiful young man lusted for her—for her, a woman twelve years his senior. “What would you do?” she whispered. His full lips parted for a sigh. “First, I would take down your hair.” His hand twitched. “Do you know how beautiful your hair is? How it shines in the sun? Why do you hide it in a knot behind your head?” “This is how matrons wear their hair.” “You’re no matron.” “I am a matron with two grown children, Damon. I’ve outlived a husband and a son.” Her words did not have the sobering effect she’d expected—on either of them. “Tell me, what do you want?” His gaze traveled over her exposed throat and chest. A little groan escaped him. “I want to feel your flesh quiver under my touch.” Again, his lips parted. His tongue slipped between to wet them. “I want the weight of your breasts in my palms. I want to drown in the sounds of your pleasure.” Every hair on her body stood on end. She shivered, as much at the sound of his voice as at the words he spoke. It was madness to encourage him. Death came to mind. Rome did not look lightly on her women having sex with slaves. “What you’re suggesting might be quite costly for either of us. Both, more likely.” Yet everyone knew the practice was as common as a man taking a mistress. “I have a mouth for your pleasure,” Damon said. “No one will know. I’ve longed to taste you from the first moment I saw you.” His breathy baritone purred over her skin, raising goose flesh. Once the possibility took root, it would not be wrenched free. Too far, she thought. I’ve let this go too far. She had invited him to seduce her and had willingly succumbed. “Show me,” she breathed.