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?Do you require anything else for Christmas?” He sat at her study as she asked him here to plan for the holiday.
“Let me see.” Her eyes downed to her notes. “Sam is coming.” She remembered.
“Time flew.” He commented, a wistful expression on his rugged face.
“He might bring a friend, who knows.” His son sounded more sociable in his letters.
“Did he write you about that?” He asked.
“Not really.” She mused. “But he has more contact with colleagues his age, so I would rather be prepared.”
“Oxford is doing him good.” The dainty chair dwarfed with him on it.
She tilted her head before she answered. “A dream come true for him.” The tartan wrapped around him gave the impression he was even bigger or her room even smaller.
“Another thing I have to thank you for, I admit.” His hair ruffled by the wind as he had come from the stables.
Fingal, a horse lover, would have liked to see them. A pity they must leave in so short a time.
“It is not a question of thanking.” She stood from her chair. “It is a question of making others happy.”
She rounded the table and leant on the desk. She called him here for the list, sure. But she wanted something else, too.
“I see it now.” He said.
“We could order those cakes from the baker’s in the village.” She suggested, coming back to the point.
Her eyes strolled over him, so manly on that delicate chair.
“Yes, Sam is very fond of them.”
Stare down at him, she started unbuttoning her spencer.
His eyes darkened. “What are you doing?” His tone became hoarse.
“It is a bit hot here, do you not think?” The comment came velvety.
“No.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “It is… pleasant.”
Spencer agape, her fingers caught the underdress. His scrutiny followed her fingers almost in affliction. “The cakes for Christmas will go to the list.”
Eyes fast on her hands. “Cakes?”
She started unbuttoning the dress. “Yes, for Sam.” She reminded him, unfastening the first.
His nostrils flared with a fierce intake of air. “Of course.” He growled.
“And wine, for the mulled wine.” The second undone.
“Wine.” An octave lower. Lost.
Her full breasts spilled from the clothes.
Unwavering, he ogled those majestic globes. “Aileen.” Barely a sound in it.
The appropriate effect achieved, she knelt on the carpet. Her hands found his knees and snuck under the soft woollen tartan. A tented tartan, she must point out.
Her mouth followed, tantalising. The hairs on his thighs teased her lips, his earthen scent gifted her nose.
