Page 22 of A Daring Mistletoe Kiss
His body twitched again. “What cursed insects are in this garden?”
“Shhh.” Pippa placed a finger of her husband’s lips. “Forget about the garden and insects, just look at me. Focus only on me.”
He blinked, casting her a disgruntled look.
And then Pippa did what Pippa did best. She seized the moment of his distraction and kissed him without holding anything back. No chance for protest. No chance for complaint. And certainly, no chance for escape. Granted, the setting was not as dreamy as she had imagined in her mind. She would never admit to it, but her legs were being attacked by wily bugs, too. Still, she refused to give up this moment. Because perfect had never been the goal.
Cherish every moment.
Love even with discomfort.
Live without regret.
This was the holy grail. The ultimate dream.
***
The first rule of being an exemplary husband: Never, ever, under any circumstance, read your wife’s journal.
Nicholas shouldn’t smile. He shouldn’t even be feeling this fulfilled. His back ached. The inside of his thigh still itched. And he had a bruise on his arse that stung every time he sat down. Still, his lips found a way to quirk upward.
He stretched out his upper body before leaning back into his chair, surveying the account books on his desk. He’d taken hiswife on this desk only a few days ago. The memory still made him flush with heat.
Insatiable wench.
Not that he was any better. He couldn’t help but embrace her every time she appeared in his presence. If he were a moth and she were a flame, he’d be dust by now. Admittedly, sometimes the most imperfect situations made for the most perfect memories.
Because it’s her.
Best not reveal this to his wife. Who knew what ideas she might get into her head next? His gaze fell on the red leather-bound journal resting on the corner of his desk.
Pippa must have forgotten to take it after spending the morning with him in the study. A woman’s mind was a minefield of wild imaginings. Yet, he could not deny, he’d always wanted a glimpse into hers.
Curiosity pulled at the muscles of his arms.
No.
A husband does not read his wife’s journal. Not under any circumstance.
But . . .
He could pick it up. He could stroke the soft leather. He could . . .
A piece of paper escaped from the pages of the journal, floating onto his lap. He pinched the paper between his fingers. This folded paper couldn’t be considered her journal, right?
Ha!Pushing the boundaries, are you?
Well, it could merely be a placeholder.
He unfolded the note with no shame. No guilt. But surely with a pinch of regret. His eyes widened as he poured over the content. Or a list, to be more exact.
A list . . . of all the places his wife wanted to make love?
Bloody, bloody hell. He couldn’t stop heat from rushing all over his body.
The garden where they had made love—if one could even call it that—had a tick. The desk in his study had a tick. Their carriage had a tick.
Well, the carriagehadbeen fun.
