Chapter 17 #2
He drew his finger back across her lower lip, as though he hadn’t gotten enough of the feel of it the first time. Then he traced her upper lip.
The waves inside her belly crashed again, harder.
His pupils widened, turning his eyes darker with desire.
She’d noticed his desire a time or two when he hadn’t realized she’d caught him watching her.
And each time, seeing that craving had filled her with wonder.
But today, now, it sent more than just pleasure through her body.
It sent an echo of her own desire—desire she didn’t quite understand but that she knew had everything to do with him, because suddenly she wanted to be close to him, to hold him, and to press against him.
In fact, she wasn’t sure that she would feel satisfied or complete until she did.
Of course, being together like that wasn’t possible and wouldn’t be right. Not when they hadn’t decided on the course of their relationship and whether they were obligated to remain with their original choices of partners or if they were now obligated to stay together.
She didn’t realize she’d stopped breathing until he lifted his finger away from her lips. Then she expelled a short burst, almost of protest.
Would he at least kiss her? There wouldn’t be anything wrong with sharing another kiss, would there?
Before she could suggest it and embarrass herself, he was rotating her and guiding her to the table. He pulled out her bench, waited for her to sit, then pushed her in. “No peeking at the present.” He winked at her as he started back to the stove.
For a few minutes, he was busy dishing up the eggs he’d cooked, slicing them each a generous piece of stollen, then pouring coffee. While they ate, they shared memories of past Christmases, and he made her laugh, as usual, with the tales of his boyhood mischief.
When they were finished and their mugs empty, she jumped up before he could and poured them each a second cup. As she returned to the table after putting the coffeepot back on the stove, he reached out and snagged her hand.
“Did I tell you yet today how beautiful you are?” He intertwined his fingers with hers as his gaze lingered over her face, caressing her forehead and cheek and then her chin and neck.
She loved his compliments. He was always so sincere, and she knew he truly believed she was beautiful even though she’d just crawled out of bed and hadn’t taken any care with her appearance.
His laced fingers slid into hers more deeply, and then he tugged her closer. “I have a present for you.”
“You already gave me a coat. That was more than enough.”
“I got it on the same day but made myself wait for Christmas for this one.”
“You can’t give me anything more.” Her protest was weak, though, because he was still drawing her forward until she bumped into him where he was seated on the bench. Then before she knew what was happening, he was pulling her down onto his lap.
“Thatcher.” She laughed at his silliness and tried to stand back up.
Not letting her get away, he wrapped an arm around her waist and settled her more securely on his lap. “Open it right here, where I can see you.”
“You can see me if I sit in my spot.”
“I can see you better here.”
He released his hold of her hand and swiped up the present from near her plate on the table. He set it on her lap, then combed some of her long loose strands back over her shoulder before brushing a thumb over her upper arm.
She loved his touch, loved his fingers in her hair, loved his thumb on her arm. It didn’t feel intrusive or demanding. Instead she felt cherished, as if she was precious to him, a treasure he wanted to both protect and admire.
Sitting on his legs like this was a new experience for her as well.
Even though she was slightly embarrassed by it, she didn’t want to get up.
She could admit she relished the closeness and the warmth of his presence.
And with her growing attraction, she found the little things about him appealing, like the veins running through his strong hands, or the scruff that covered his chin and continued down to his neck, or the leathery lines next to his eyes.
His head was only inches from hers, and she wanted to lean into him, press a kiss to his messy hair, run her fingers through it, and then kiss his neck.
At the brazenness of her thoughts, heat circled through her and rose to her face.
“Open it,” he persisted softly, his voice near, making her insides tumble.
She fingered the pretty white bow and the brown paper covering the small box. Even without opening it, she realized she was happy—happy sitting with him, happy being on his lap, happy with his breakfast, happy that he was giving her a present even though he’d already given her the coat.
She started to untie the bow. The truth was that she was really happy for the first time in her life because she was with him . . . because she loved him.
Her fingers halted even as her heart began to race with the realization of her love for Thatcher. She wasn’t quite sure how she knew that it was love, but she did.
Before timidity could creep in, she reached up both hands, cupped his face, and forced him to look at her. “I love you, Thatcher.”
At her declaration, his eyes widened, and the blue filled with warmth and sunshine.
She didn’t want to wait to hear what he would say in response. She didn’t want him to feel obligated to make any declarations in return. Instead, she leaned in and pressed her lips to his, needing to show him how much she truly cared about him and how loath she was to let him go.