Chapter 15 Nancy
FIFTEEN
NANCY
The sound of Karl laughing pulls my attention from the room service menu I’ve been distracting myself with.
I look up to see him leaning on the bathroom doorframe, hands in the pockets of his blue and green flannel pants.
The white t-shirt he’s got on may as well not be there at all because, much like Karl, it hides nothing.
I stand still as he approaches, nervous energy zinging up and down my body.
When he reaches me, he pulls me to him without a word.
One hand splays across my lower back while the other slides up my neck into my hair, sending goosebumps skittering across my skin.
I love the way his body feels against mine.
The way we fit together as if we were made for this.
A silly romantic notion that has me smiling like a fool against his chest.
“This exceeds every expectation I had,” he says, his warm breath brushing the tip of my ear.
“Want to know something funny?”
“Always.”
“I bought these before I met you.”
“Really?” He leans back to study me. “Holsteins and everything,” he marvels softly as his fingers trace one of the cows on my shoulder.
I never would have thought that I’d feel sexiest while decked out in a matching flannel pajama set covered in cows, but I have a feeling I could be in a paper bag and Karl would make me feel the exact same way.
“You are the actual woman of my dreams,” he mutters, drawing back. “Thank you for stepping in shit.” We both laugh as he holds my hand above my head and has me spin. “Goddamn,” he curses under his breath.
“Karl Hore, you are going to be very easy to please,” I tease, dragging him down for a kiss that we become lost in immediately.
“Favorite Christmas tradition?” I ask, popping a red Wine Gum into my mouth.
“Pajamas on Christmas Eve.” He points at his pants. “These were last year’s. My mom insists on wrapping them and having us open them together and then change so we can watch White Christmas in matching PJs.”
My eyes snag on the flannel, and I hold myself back from reaching out to run my hand down his leg closest to me.
After tomorrow, his family traditions will be mine.
I wonder how often thoughts like this will creep in.
Things that were just his, becoming ours.
These are probably thoughts engaged people have over many months, thoughts I’ll probably be having long after we’re married.
“Yours?” he asks, pulling me from my thoughts.
I have to think about this one because we don’t have anything like that.
Christmas at the Walker home is picture-perfect.
It’s all for show, and there isn’t a lot of warmth.
Well, that is until my aunt shows up. “This is going to sound awful, but it’s when my aunt arrives on Christmas Day and manages to loosen up my mother.
It’s the first time all year we get to see her relaxed.
I don’t know how she does it, but it’s awesome. ”
Karl’s looking at me like I’m speaking a different language. “Does she bring the booze?”
“Surprisingly, no. She gets my mother reminiscing.” They talk about their parents and various adventures. It’s the one time of year I get a break from her judgment and disappointment.
“They don’t see each other much?”
“In a professional capacity only. My aunt has a sport horse import business.”
“That doesn’t sound legal.”
“There’s too much paperwork for it not to be legal,” I groan. I know because I am the one filling out a lot of that paperwork. “She travels a lot in Europe, finding the best horses for riders over here. It’s a very niche career, but she’s good at it.”
“Could you see yourself doing something like that?”
“No. But then again, I can’t really see myself doing anything. Maybe something a bit more stable than the constant travel. I like being at home.” That’s not exactly the truth. I like the idea of being at home. Just not the home I grew up in.
A knowing grin spreads across his face.
“What?”
“You’re marrying a farmer, so”—he leans forward so his face is mere inches from mine—“it’s a good career if you like being at home.” Then he erases those inches with a kiss that feels like he’s touching me everywhere. Damn, I want him touching me everywhere so badly.
His fingers weave their way into my hair, and before I know it, I’m sliding into his lap, his back against the padded headboard, his lips on my neck.
I run my hands through his hair, tugging until he tips his head back so I can kiss him.
Wine Gum and Orange Crush kisses. Tomorrow, I get to call this man my husband.
Tomorrow means I get to do this every single night.
I cannot imagine there will ever be a day when I don’t crave his lips against mine or his tongue in my mouth, his hands everywhere, as if claiming me.
Tomorrow, I officially get to be his, and he’ll be mine.
I should be more freaked out. I keep expecting to feel that tug deep in my belly, but the only tug I feel is the one that brings our bodies closer together when his hands move to grip my ass.
“I love your body,” he confesses into my mouth.
I leave one hand in his hair as my other trails down his body, tracing the lines of muscles through his shirt. He tenses under my touch, his lips stilling against mine as his breath stutters.
“I love the way you respond when I touch yours,” I whisper, bringing my other hand down to his chest, where I can feel his heart beating wildly. Knowing that rhythm is because of me is such a thrill.
“Me too,” he chokes out as I drag my knuckles across the waistband of his pants. His body responds immediately to my touch, and I wonder if I could become addicted to this kind of power.
“Karl?” I look up to see his eyes glued shut, his lips parted the tiniest bit. Leaning forward, I whisper his name again, nipping his earlobe.
A strangled, airy “yes” brushes my cheek as his whole body shudders.
“May I touch you?” I ask. He nods, and I shake my head. “I didn’t hear you,” I tease.
“God, yes,” he croaks, his hips rising as if to tell me exactly where I should touch him.
I spread my hands slowly across his tight abdomen, then dip under his waistband.
He sucks in air as my fingers wrap around him.
Watching his expression to gauge what he likes, I begin working my hand down his length.
When I squeeze harder, his hips jump, and a little whimper escapes, like he’s desperately trying not to make a sound.
His hands knead my body and then grip harder as he takes over, flipping me onto my back in one swift motion.
The sound of various snacks being crunched below me is wiped from my mind when I take in his lust-filled gaze, hair falling over his forehead.
My hand automatically reaches out to continue what I started, but he captures my wrist.
“I’m too close. Just let me look at you for a minute.” And look, he does. I’m fully covered, and yet you’d think he had x-ray vision by the way his eyes devour me. “You’re perfect, did you know that?”
“It’s the pajamas,” I tease.
“No”—his eyes meet mine, and he shakes his head—“it’s all you.
” Nothing about what he said or how he’s looking at me makes me doubt his words, but I look away as my face heats.
“Look at me, Nancy,” he pleads like a wish, so I do.
“Hi.” His smile is gentle, in direct contrast with how his gaze burns into me.
He guides my hand to the top of my pants and then sits back on his heels. “Show me.” The intensity in his expression lets me know he’s not asking.
I nod, my hand disappearing beneath the elastic waist. Normally, I’d have my eyes closed by now, but I can’t take them off of Karl as he watches me, his attention going from my face to my hand, his chest rising and falling like he’s just returned from a run.
I love the way he looks at me when we aren’t doing this, but right now, my god.
“Feel good?”
“Mmmm,” I hum, gaining more confidence with every stroke of my fingers. “You know what would feel better?”
His eyes snap to mine. “What?”
I lick my lips, doing my best to be seductive. “If it was your fingers making me feel good.”
“Yeah?”
“Mmmhmmm.” I smirk.
He crawls forward, his body covering mine in the blink of an eye, and my hand stills. His kiss steals my breath and leaves me floating. His fingers glide down my body, pausing to tweak my right nipple, his lips curving against mine when my body reacts to his touch.
“Touch me.” This time, I’m the one not asking.
I don’t need to convince him any further as his fingers thread through mine. “My turn.”