Page 309 of The Christmas Wife

"Don’t you?" I murmur.

His nostrils pulse. His blue-green eyes take on a midnight hue, a tell-tale sign he’s aroused. A cloud of heat wafts off of his chest. It slams into me and seems to pin me in place. I gasp, unable to move, unable to do anything other than appreciate his sheer assuredness—this complete sense of rightness that fills me whenever we are together. He must sense some of the emotions running through me, for he closes the distance between us. He wraps his arm about my shoulders and pulls me in. I rest my forehead against his chest, then after a second, fold my own arms about his waist. We sway in place, as the haunting notes from the classical ditty fill the space.

"La fleur que tu m'avais jetée from Carmen, otherwise known as The Flower Song," he murmurs.

"It’s beautiful." I close my eyes, and for the first time since I woke up in my bed and found him gone, my muscles relax. The stresses of the day fade away, and I lean closer. His arm tightens around me. He tucks my head under his chin. The thump-thump-thump of his heart is a reassuring vibration against my cheek. His dark scent is as familiar as my own. Some time, over the last few months, he crept under my skin, into my blood, and occupies my every thought and dirty fantasy. He’s become a part of me, without my realizing it. Or maybe, I was very aware of it and did nothing to stop it. Either way, I can’t deny the fact that I’ve come to depend on him. When I opened the door earlier and saw him, a flush of joy spread through my chest. Oh, I hid it behind the smart words I lobbed at him, but deep inside, I felt as if it were Christmas all over again. Pun intended. He rubs his palm over my back in slow circles, and a tingling grips my limbs.

Neither of us speak, and the notes of the aria replace any lingering stresses that may have hidden in my cells. The last strains fade away, and we continue dancing, slowly…slower…until we come to a stop, arms about each other. Neither ofus seems to want to move. I wish I could capture this hushed silence, so full of everything in my heart, so I can take it out later when this moment is gone, as time inevitably does.

"Baby, I think we need to feed you." His voice rumbles under my cheek.

I shake my head, not wanting to pull away. Not wanting to separate from him yet.

Then my stomach grumbles.

"Definitely need to feed you." His eyes flash, and I wonder if what he’s thinking of putting in my mouth is something more than what’s in the basket.

I slide my hand between us and place it on the thickness between his thighs that made itself known a little earlier.

His nostrils flare. Then he leans down and presses a hard kiss to my lips. "First food, of the nourishing variety." He pulls back, then urges me to sink down onto the picnic blanket

"That was some spread." I pat my mouth with the paper towel that was packed into the basket. We ate from plates of the ceramic variety, with cutlery that wasn’t plastic. He offered me champagne, and when I declined, he didn’t push it. Or asked questions. He simply poured me some sparkling apple juice, which was delicious.

"I still can’t believe you arranged for all of this." I place my now empty plate on the blanket and glance about the room.

"It had to mean something to you."

I narrow my gaze on him. "Am I that easy to read?"

"You trained to be a lawyer, then got into PR because of your love for the media. And you come into your element when trading arguments with me. You’ve also taken on some high-profile politicians as clients and prevented their names from being marred by scandals. It doesn’t take a genius to realize you love politics."

I look away. How can he see me this clearly? When my own family, and perhaps, many of my friends have not.

"Hey, don’t hide from me." He reaches over and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. "Why didn’t you get into politics yourself?"

I shoot him a startled glance.

"I’m sure the thought crossed your mind." He holds my gaze.

"I did think about it," I concede. "But the timing didn’t feel quite right."

"When you marry me, you’ll have the chance to set that right."

I place my glass on the blanket and scowl at him. "I haven’t agreed to anything."

"You will."

"A-n-d there he is. Just when I thought we were getting along so well."

"Don’t change the topic. You were born for a political career. With your communication skills, your intelligence, your background?—"

"You mean my working-class credentials will complement your privileged one and portray a more holistic dimension to the voters."

He frowns. "I meant you are a product of modern British society. You stand for everything that is right with the system. You are a role model for so many young girls. Your being by my side will send a positive message across parties."

I shake my head. "It will never work."

"Why won’t you give us a chance? Just once, why can’t you open your mind to the possibility that this could work?"

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