Page 83 of Just Say Christmas
“No,” he said, and she smiled.
He got on the bed with her and took the brush from her hand. “Let me,” he said, and she did.
Rhys’s hand on the side of her face, the brush slicking through her hair. Her eyes closed, and he said, “You were beautiful today.”
“Should’ve bought a . . . new dress,” she said, and sighed, because he’d set the brush down, and now, he tipped her chin up and took her mouth in a gentle kiss.
“Nah,” he said. “Beautiful now, too.” His hand drifted down, explored the delicate chain of the necklace he’d bought her, then the tiny strap of her nightdress, and his mouth was moving down her neck, following the path of his hand as it stroked over her shoulder. “This is new.”
“Yeh. I . . .” Her voice hitched. “Found it. When I was meant to be shopping for you, for Christmas. Thought you might like it.”
“I do like it.” He had the duvet pulled back, his hand around her ankle. Her dress today had reached to just below her knee. Her nightdress didn’t come halfway down her thighs. The fabric was gray, the velvet burnout pattern was the deepest blue, the hem was edged with lace, and the back was cut all the way down to her bum. Now, Rhys traced the strap to the back of her neck, first with his hand, then with his mouth, and she had a hand on him, too, tangling in his hair, pulling his mouth down to hers, as hungry for him, suddenly, as if this were the first time.
He had his hand under the fragile fabric of the gown, running up her thigh. She felt the moment when he discovered that she wasn’t wearing anything under there. That was when his hand stopped moving.
* * *
Rhys
His heart, beating hard. At the window, the filmy white curtains bellying out in the cool breeze. The soft sound of laughter from below, a murmur of voices. The scent of roses from the flowers Zora had cut and put on the tiny bedside table, making his life softer once again. Making it beautiful. The smooth skin of her hip under his hand, and when he moved that hand just a bit, the curve of her bare bum.
He said, “Sit up,” and then couldn’t wait for her to do it. He pulled her up with him to their knees, so she was facing him across the bed, her hair across her face, that nightdress barely reaching her thighs. Her hands went to his waistband, were pulling at the tie of his cotton trousers, shoving them down, and he got rid of them fast and came back to her.
A woman made for rubies and pearls, dressed in a slip of a thing that you could pull straight off her. When he got his hands under there and did it, when it slid up over her belly, over her breasts, her shoulders, and revealed her, naked before him . . . he felt the way she always made him feel. Like the provider, and the conqueror. If that was wrong, he’d live and die wrong.
Silken skin, soft curves, full mouth. His temptation. His Bathsheba. He ran his hands all the way down her arms, slowly, to her fingertips, then back up again until they touched her mouth, and her lips parted for him like she couldn’t help it.
His thumb under her jaw, his fingers wrapping around her head. His lips on hers, and the fire licking into his belly. His hand moving down to find a breast, then, slowly, on down over her belly, around to her bum. Pulling her up against him hard, then, and the noise she made into his mouth when he did it. Taking her down with him, onto her back. Kissing his way down her body, making love to her like they had all the time there was, drifting through space on this white iron bed, on the scent of roses, the touch of the breeze.
Her hands in his hair, her thighs in his hands. The taste of the sea in his mouth, and her desire all around him.
And, finally, when he was on his palms, his eyes all but rolling back in his head from the pleasure of it, moving as slowly as he could possibly do it, because he needed this to last, the clutch of her hands on his hips, and her body rising into his like a song. Her voice as she lost control again, the cry of a seabird, fading into the dark.
* * *
Zora
She was very nearly asleep. Just not quite. Her head on Rhys’s chest, her leg tucked between his, his hand running down her back, then up it again. She said, “I had a thought today.”
“Yeh?” he asked. “What kind of thought?”
“What would you think,” she asked, picking her way carefully, “if I stopped doing weddings?”
His hand stilled on her back. “I think I’d stand up and cheer.”
“I could get an assistant instead,” she said. “That was my first thought. Same thing, though. Weekends. Schedules. Deadlines. I thought . . . I want to drop it away. Drop it over the side of the boat, let it sink down to the bottom. Let it go.”
“You could do it again later,” he said, sounding careful himself, “if you wanted to. Keep your hand in with the subscriptions.”
“I could. And I could do weddings like this, for people I know. At times I choose. I think it’s . . .” She trailed off, and knew he was waiting. Patient, always. “It’s that habits are hard to break. You think they’re good habits. Working hard. Getting up early. Pushing through. But maybe they can get in your way as well. Maybe there’s a habit of mind, too. Thinking that it’s all up to you. Thinking you have to do it alone. Thinking that you have to do it no matter what, because there could be a cliff out there, and you’d better have your parachute ready. Thinking that, even when your parachute is right here, and his arms are so strong. Not realizing that you can trust him enough to let go.”
She felt his sigh all the way through her body. “What does that mean?” she asked.
He laughed, low and soft. “That,” he told her, “is the sound of sweet relief.”
40
Reasons to Stay
