Page 41 of The Twelve Days of Christian
I feel the slightest stiffening of the compliant body in my arms. She lifts her head, tilting it up at me, and I see the wariness return to her gaze.
“About that.” Her throat pulsesas she swallows. “I didn’t go.”
“You didn’t go?” I draw back, my brows flying upwards. There’s a tick in my jaw as I try to restrain my shock.
“There was someone I needed to see.”
“Someone you needed to see?”
Why the fuck am I parroting everything she says back at her as a question? She’s caught me off guard. I can’t imagine what was so important Haley would blow off her exam, not when I know how much this whole vet stuff means to her.
“Look,” she says, pulling away and shrugging off her coat. It’s a casual action, like there’s nothing out of the ordinary, but why the hell do I feel something bad is coming my way? “Go sit in the lounge and I’ll bring you a coffee,” she directs, as she hangs up her things. “I’ve got a lot to tell you.”
“It’s me who should be making you coffee,” I protest. “After all, I’ve just been lounging around here all day.”
“Just lounging?” One dark brow tips upward.
“OK, lounging, worrying, and text bombing you because of it.”
“Yeah, I think twenty texts could be classed as bombing.” Her lips purse, and both brows dip, as if she’s about to growl at me like the parent of a naughty toddler. But, just as I can’t be mad at her, Haley seems to have difficulty scowling at me, and she relents, her mouth lifting in an amused smile. “It’s fine. You were probably right to be concerned, but I assure you the car is as perfect as when I left.” That’s good to know, but I’m more concerned that she’s as perfect as when she stepped out that door. “Just don’t tell Ollie, OK,” she adds, tapping her nose with a finger and tossing me a conspiratorial grin.
“No way,” I say. “He’d be pissed I didn’t fling myself in front of the car to stop you.”
“An odd hood ornament?”
“Odd?” I adopt a hurt expression.
“Cute,” she offers. “Especially when you’re giving me those damn puppy dog eyes.” Her voice has the faintest touch of breathiness. She’s flirting with me. If she’s flirting, I’m flirting right back.
“Like this?” I exaggerate them more.
She tilts her head to the side, sweet dimples bracketing her lips as they curve into an amused smile at my expression.
“Works every time.” My mouth slants up in a sly grin. “Learned from Mularkey and Tully.”
“Yeah, where are they?” she frowns.
“Oh, shit. I need to let them in.” I turn to head down the hallway. “Locked them out. They’ve been in and out about ten times this afternoon. Camped around that big tree in the corner, scratching at the bottom. They seem to think there’s something up there. A squirrel maybe?”
“Squirrels,” she laughs. “Three of them. Smart ones. They come into the yard when they’re bored and mess with the dogs for entertainment. I worry they’ll get it wrong one day and become lunch, but they never seem to slip up. Drives the dogs crazy.”
“Them and me too,” I sigh, thinking of the afternoon spent tracking up and down the hallway in response to pleading paws scraping my knee and urgent whines. “Anyway, I figured you wouldn’t want their muddy feet leaping over you. I’ll go get them.”
I leave Haley in the kitchen. Grabbing up the now mud-smeared old towel I found in the laundry from where I left it on the hall floor, I head for the back door. The moment I open it, the dogs come barrelling towards me, tongues lolling happily, although casting reluctantglances back towards the tree.
I deal with their muddy paws one dog at a time. I dab at Tully’s first, the easier to clean with her shorter, more club-like feet. Once done, I open the door a crack, letting her through and then close it immediately to stop Mularkey plunging after her with her filthy brown paws. It’s like drafting cattle, something I know how to do well, and the second dog eyes me, frustrated.
“Look, you, if you want to be first, you need to stop doing this to yourself.”
I gently lift each of her wide paws, wiping at the webbed feet with hooked claws, perfect for gripping snow like her sled dog ancestors. Also perfect for gathering mud. She sighs and stands more patiently than she’d prefer and lets me clean them. Once finished, I open the door and Mularkey blasts through the narrow gap like a rocket, a blaze of red in her jumper with its pattern of dancing Santas. It’s freezing out here; maybe snow tonight. I shiver a little and seek the warmth of the house.
Passing Haley’s room, there’s the creak of the door and she appears, hair a little wispy and dishevelled. She’s changed out of her day clothes and donned pyjamas. They seem to be her favourite thing to wear. I swear she’d go to work in them if she could. Damn it, if I was her boss, I’d let her.
There’s something about the intoxicating mixture of child-like innocence and very adult allure that turns me on when I see Haley in pyjamas. Maybe it’s the way the tops reveal the slight movement of bare unbound breasts beneath, freed of a bra. I’d love nothing better than to slip my hand inside, work my way over the soft skin of her stomach, cup each one, and reverently pay homage to the peaks of those nipples that even the wildly-patterned fabric—a riot of puppies in Christmas hats—can’t obscure.
The plain red pyjama bottoms hug her neat curves, leaving no doubt there’s all woman underneath, begging my hands to cup that beautiful arse, press her body against my blossoming erection and grind myself against it. Fuck, I’ve had a near permanent hard-on since I walked in the door of this house.
I pause to let her go ahead of me. It’s not only the gentleman in me. This way I can watch the sway of her hips as she pads along the wooden floorboards, footsteps muffled by bright red slippers with reindeer faces on the toes. And she can’t see the hunger in my gaze, the look of a man desperate and starving, with the thing to sate his need there in front of him, but still beyond the reach of his hand.
