Page 21 of A Scoundrel Under the Mistletoe
As heat suffused her skin and her senses were ensnared by the intoxicating blend of his scent and the smoldering embers from the stove, a growl, low and insistent, emanated not from the throat of her companion, but rather from the pit of her stomach. The sound, incongruous amidst their blossoming desire, caused her to draw back, the spell of their intimacy broken.
“Forgive me,” she said, her cheeks flushed with a heat that could be attributed as much to embarrassment as to the ardor of their kiss. “It seems my appetite is as eager to make its presence known as... well, as I was to return your kisses.”
Moses, apparently taken aback by the sudden retreat, regarded her with eyes still clouded with longing, yet glinting with amusement at the whimsical turn of events. “Indeed, it appears I am a poor provider. Let’s remedy that.”
Joy’s laughter cascaded through the kitchen like a stream of sunlight breaking through morning clouds. He watched her with an affectionate twinkle in his eye, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards into a smile.
“Shall we?” he suggested, gesturing towards the larder with a broad-shouldered shrug. “Perhaps our combined efforts will appease the ravenous beast that evidently dwells within you.”
“Combined efforts?” she echoed, arching a playful brow as she stepped toward the stove. “I wasn’t aware you had such culinary inclinations.”
“I might not have experience, but I follow directions well.” He bent to another cupboard where he took out a skillet. “I fear this is my only pan.”
“It’s perfect.”
Side by side they stood, Joy cracking eggs while Moses sliced some of the sausage he’d bought.
“Look at that,” she mused, observing his technique. “You wield a knife with such grace. Is there no end to your talents?”
“Endless, I’m confess. But for now, let us tame that ferocious appetite of yours.”
Their banter continued, light and teasing, as they navigated the small space with a grace Joy found surprising. One would think they’d worked together for a number of years.
“Careful,” she cautioned as he reached for the hot pan handle without a cloth. “We wouldn’t want the artist’s hands damaged.”
“Your concern for my well-being is touching,” he said.
“Someone has to look after you,” she retorted, then looked away quickly as she heard how intimate that sounded. Yet that’s what she’d agreed to, wasn’t it? Watching over him as he did her? Sharing all the tasks of a day.
It was all so sudden. She didn’t even know his full name. He knew nothing of her husband, or her marriage. And none of that mattered. Being there with him felt right.
As they moved about, their arms brushed occasionally, sending shivers of awareness down her spine. When she caught him watching her with an intense gaze, heat coiled inside her and her nipples tightened. He had such a profound effect on her, body and soul.
Finally, with plates filled and the table set modestly yet invitingly, they sat down to partake in the fruits of their labor. The repast was simple but made sumptuous by the company and the shared laughter that continued to spill forth as naturally as their breaths.
After they’d eaten, Joy stood at the sink, the sleeves of her gown delicately pushed up to her elbows, revealing the fair skin beneath. She scraped the fat from the frying pan into a jar, and wiped it clean.
Moses moved quietly about the room, bending to retrieve dishes from the table and carry them to the sink. As he gathered the last of the silverware, he caught sight of something green sitting on the sideboard—the sprig of mistletoe, forgotten in the bustle of their cooking. He smiled. With purpose, he picked up the small branch.
“Where are you going to hang it?” Joy asked, turning her head slightly to regard him over her shoulder.
He crossed the small space to where she stood, the air seeming to hum with something unspoken as he approached. He held the mistletoe aloft, not answering immediately, letting the moment stretch out like a well-spun yarn. He chuckled, a low rumble from his chest, as he looked at the sprig. “I think I’ll just hold it where I wish to kiss,” he announced, lifting his arm.
Joy’s breath hitched, a flush coloring her cheeks. She stood still as a statue, the water sloshing gently in the basin forgotten. With deliberate slowness, Moses raised the mistletoe above her head.
She tilted her face upward, watching him expectantly.
He leaned in, and his lips met hers, a light brush, gentle yet insistent, that left her grasping for support against the edge of the sink. Pulling back, he said, “Like that. Or this.” He lowered the mistletoe, his gaze trailing down to linger on the rise and fall of her breasts. The fabric of her gown did little to hide her body’s response to his proximity, her flesh beckoning him closer like a siren’s call.
Holding the green sprig above the soft mounds, his fingers brushed against the delicate skin exposed at the neckline of her gown. The touch elicited from Joy a gasp that mingled shock with pleasure, a sound that fluttered into the air between them. He growled and nipped at one breast, teasing the nipple beneath the fabric.
He suddenly hardened, his breeches becoming unbearably tight. This playfulness was pleasant, but he needed more. So much more of Joy.
Tossing aside the mistletoe, he wrapped his hands around her slender waist. In one fluid motion, he lifted her onto the worn oak table. The wood groaned beneath her weight.
“Careful,” she teased. “We wouldn’t want to break anything.”
“I’ve never been more careful in my life,” he said, meeting her gaze in all seriousness.
