Longinus laughed and sipped the wine. “Were his words quoted by you for me ... from you? Remember that Catullus later wrote of his Lesbia:
“A woman’s words to hungry lover said
“Should be upon the flowing winds inscribed,
“Upon swift streams engraved.”
She leaned out from the shadow into which the retreating moon had pushed them. “Maybe they were quoted to spur your asking, Longinus, or”—she paused and smiled demurely—“your taking.” Then quickly she sank back against him. “You think I’m a blatantly bold hussy, don’t you?”
“No, Claudia,” he smiled, “just experienced. And beautiful, and ... and very tempting.”
“Experienced, yes, but believe me, not promiscuous, Longinus. By the Bountiful Mother, I’m not that way, in spite of my experience.” The teasing was gone from her eyes. “In spite of everything, not that.”
She snuggled against his arm outstretched along the back of the couch, and gently he half turned her to let her head down upon his lap. Her eyes were wide, and in each he saw a luminous and trembling small, round moon; her mouth was open, and against his thigh he felt the quickened pounding of her heart. As he bent over her, she reached up and drew him, her hot palm cupping the back of his cropped head, down hard upon her lips tasting sweet of the Campania and desperately eager and burning.
He raised his face from hers and lifted her slightly to relieve the pressure of her body on his arm. She drew up her feet and, with knees bent, braced them against the end of the short couch. Her robe slipped open, and she lay still, her eyes closed, her lips apart.
His throat tightened, and he felt a prickling sensation moving up and down his spine, coursing outward to his arms and past tingling palms to his fingertips. Deftly he eased his legs from beneath her; lowering her head to the couch, he stood up.