Page 54 of The Twelve Days of Christian
“I can deal with that.” I turn and head into my bedroom, tugging him along behind me. I stand beside the already messed up bed, where the dogs have twirled the covers into nests.
“Off!” I point a finger at their cosy baskets on the floor in one corner. They avoid my eyes, so I repeat the command. “Off.”
“I feel bad,” Christian says as they grumble to their feet and slither off the bed.
“Don’t. Those dog baskets cost a fortune.”
“I presume I can get rid of this?” He grips the Christmas jumper, bunching fabric in each hand, poised to remove it.
“Sure,” I grin back at him. “I think you’ve done your time.”
He lifts it up over his head with a brisk tug. I’m not prepared for what happens as a result. The smile falls from my face. As the jumper pulls up, the t-shirt underneath moves with it and I’m treated to the sight of bare stomach, taut muscles, and a dusting of dark hair trailing downwards to disappear beneath the waistband of those hip-hugging sweatpants. I should look away, but I’m paralysed.
My breath hitches. What I can see of Christian is beautiful, all lean and hard. But it’s what I can’t see that causes warmth to flood my body, radiating out from the centre. My imagination fills in the details, as I picture my hand following that happy trail of dark hairs downwards, before deviating off to trace the groove of those hips, the skin Iknow to be so soft.
I attempt to compose my face into what I hope is a passable version of normal, just in time. He tosses the jumper onto the stool by the dresser and the t-shirt settles. But my torture isn’t over.
He points at the t-shirt. “How about this? I run hot.” A swallow works down my throat and he must see my eyes widen. “Sorry,” he says with a bemused expression. “I really do. Especially if there’s two in the bed.”
“Fine by me,” I squeak out. His smile broadens at my obvious discomfort. I should look away. I have to look away. But I don’t.
I’m treated to a repeat performance, the fabric sliding up, the bare skin—oh my god, the bare skin—and then his arms emerge. Now I have a valid reason to stare. This is the first time I’ve fully seen Christian’s tattooed upper arms and shoulders in the light. They’re even more incredible than I remember.
He notices the direction of my gaze.
“Can I—” I stutter, my hand rising of its own accord, begging to not only look, but touch. There’s something about the artwork on his skin that draws me in, inviting exploration with more than my eyes.
“Sure,” he says, as casually as if it’s the sort of request he gets every day. He steps towards me and takes hold of my fingers. Placing them on his biceps, right where the wolf peers out between the trees, my eyes lock onto the creature’s, its gaze mesmerising. I think of Rachel’s words this morning. Now the wolf isn’t just in the house. He’s in my bedroom. I invited him in. And I’m not sorry.
“How come you never show them?” I ask. “Except in that magazine shoot—” I realise my mistake immediately, and heat flares on my cheeks. I’m suddenly overly conscious of my hand on his body, a body I’ve seen an awful lot of, if onlyin pictures. Then I remember I’ve also seen way too much of it in the flesh, and the memory of him on that first night flashes—Christian in the half-dark, without a stitch of clothing. In the drama with Tully, I’d pushed it aside, but now it comes back in a searing rush. I swallow audibly.
Christian’s brows fly up, and his mouth slants in that way-too-sexy crooked grin. “I didn’t know your reading extended to men’s health magazines.” His voice is low and teasing.
“It doesn’t. I don’t.” The words of explanation tumble out in a splutter. “Pierre does—Rachel’s boyfriend. She brought it over.”
He laughs, a deep rumble. “So, Miss Buttoned-up Rachel has a secret love of ogling pictures of half-clothed men.”
He chuckles to himself and I relax, allowing my hand to wander, tracing the indigo lines of plants and trees, running a thumb over the head of the badger, almost feeling the soft fur although it’s merely etched in ink.
“The reason I never show them,” he says, as I explore the other arm, the fox and the deer peering from their woodland hideaway. “Is because in my world, it feels like nothing is secret. There’s nothing you can hide. They want every damn piece of you; and I decided I wouldn’t give it all.”
“But the magazine…”
“Yeah, it pissed me off. Our publicist, who set it up, told me it would be all dim light and moody tasteful shots. And when it didn’t quite come out that way—” He pauses and his mouth tips up a little. “She assured me people would be looking at my arse, not my arms. She seems to have been right.”
“I wasn’t,” I lie.
“Really?” he laughs. “I don’t know whether to be pleased or disappointed.”
My face blazes and I tip my head down, concentrating on the tiny mouse hidden beneath a bramble bush. He pulls me into him, and I lay my face across his bare chest. Inhaling the scent of his skin, beautiful musky maleness overlaid with spice and wood smoke, I know I’ll never be able to smell the tang of a fire again without thinking of him.
“Come on, let’s get to bed before those dogs stage another takeover bid,” he murmurs against my hair.
I head to the bathroom, and he follows, the two of us companionably going through our bedtime routine at the twin basins, side by side like a couple who’ve been doing this every night for a long time.
Back in my room, I sit on the bed, stripping off my socks. The little bells are cute, but not helpful for peaceful sleep.
Meanwhile, Christian loses his sweatpants, allowing them to pool on the floor in a grey puddle. At my eye level, I’m confronted with black boxer briefs clinging to wide thighs. My gaze drops below them, noting the dark-haired muscular legs sculpted from the running he says he loves.
