parlour.” With that, she released his cock.
She’d dressed with great care and purpose this evening. She had on his favourite shoes. They weren’t just shoes, not just heels, they were a wide open ‘fuck me’ invitation.
Beth had all but poured herself into a pair of indigo jeans. Her red bra was a push up confection of lace and silk with a demi cup, and her cream-coloured sweater fit so snug, he couldn’t possibly miss any of the details beneath.
She’d taken a few extra minutes to make sure her lashes were long and lush, and she’d secured a clip in her long hair, sweeping it off her neck and shoulders.
Turning away, she headed for the parlour without so much as a glance over her shoulder.
Seeming at a loss, he followed her.
She moved towards the sideboard like she normally did, then changed her mind. “Actually, darling, why don’t you pour your own?” She smiled. “And while you’re at it, I’ll have one as well.”
He stopped on his way to one of the wingback chairs. “You don’t drink whisky.”
“You’re fond of telling me that Crown Royal is not just any whisky.”
“True enough.”
“Go ahead and add a splash of ginger ale to mine.”
“Yes. Well then.”
“You don’t mind, do you darling?”
“Not at all.”
While he poured the amber liquid into two crystal whisky glasses, she took a seat in the chair he’d claimed as his own. The wingback faced the fireplace and had a small table next to it for his drink and the daily newspaper, after all, a barrister always needed to know what was going on in the world, right?
Because of the weather, Beth had lit a fire an hour ago. The room was wonderfully warm, making it almost possible to ignore the wind beating against the windowpanes. “Thanks,” she said, accepting the drink from him. She took a sip. Mercifully, he’d added a lot more ginger ale than he had whisky.
“You’ve been alone a lot,” he said. His drink was served neat. It wouldn’t take long for the alcohol to soothe and take the edge of his rough day.
She could be patient, for a bit.
He took a drink from his glass, then crossed to the fireplace. Facing her, he propped his elbow on the mantel. “I know I’ve been neglectful, Elizabeth, and I appreciate you being so patient with me.”
“Patient?” She took a drink, then studied him over the glass rim. “Whatever gave you that idea?”
“Everything alright?”
“No, actually.” She slammed the crystal glass onto the small table. Whisky and ginger ale sloshed onto the wood and made a dark, growing circle.
He winced at the mess. “I know it can’t be easy for you. This weekend, I’ll make it up to you.”
Placating. He was trying to fucking placate her. No, thank you. She stood and devoured the distance between them in three, long, controlled strides. “You’re right.” She took hold of his tie by its knot. He’d been home five minutes and he hadn’t so much as loosened it. And she remembered a time he hadn’t been quite so uptight.
When she’d met him in the States, he’d been on holiday. They’d both signed up for the same white water river rafting trip on Colorado’s Cache Le Poudre river, and she’d admired him in shorts and a T-shirt that was soft from years of wear. They’d been shooting a class III rapid when she’d ended up in the water.
A hero through and through, he’d been the one to haul her back into the raft. He’d used the hem of his T-shirt to dry the water from her face when she’d shivered. And when the trip was over, he’d taken off his shirt and given it to her to wear.
She’d gotten goose bumps then, and they had nothing to do with the bite of the brisk wind on her cold skin. It had everything to do with how sexy she found his bare chest, and the dusting of light-coloured hair across its breadth. His stomach was tight, his thighs steely from the hours he spent in the gym.
She
She’d dressed with great care and purpose this evening. She had on his favourite shoes. They weren’t just shoes, not just heels, they were a wide open ‘fuck me’ invitation.
Beth had all but poured herself into a pair of indigo jeans. Her red bra was a push up confection of lace and silk with a demi cup, and her cream-coloured sweater fit so snug, he couldn’t possibly miss any of the details beneath.
She’d taken a few extra minutes to make sure her lashes were long and lush, and she’d secured a clip in her long hair, sweeping it off her neck and shoulders.
Turning away, she headed for the parlour without so much as a glance over her shoulder.
Seeming at a loss, he followed her.
She moved towards the sideboard like she normally did, then changed her mind. “Actually, darling, why don’t you pour your own?” She smiled. “And while you’re at it, I’ll have one as well.”
He stopped on his way to one of the wingback chairs. “You don’t drink whisky.”
“You’re fond of telling me that Crown Royal is not just any whisky.”
“True enough.”
“Go ahead and add a splash of ginger ale to mine.”
“Yes. Well then.”
“You don’t mind, do you darling?”
“Not at all.”
While he poured the amber liquid into two crystal whisky glasses, she took a seat in the chair he’d claimed as his own. The wingback faced the fireplace and had a small table next to it for his drink and the daily newspaper, after all, a barrister always needed to know what was going on in the world, right?
Because of the weather, Beth had lit a fire an hour ago. The room was wonderfully warm, making it almost possible to ignore the wind beating against the windowpanes. “Thanks,” she said, accepting the drink from him. She took a sip. Mercifully, he’d added a lot more ginger ale than he had whisky.
“You’ve been alone a lot,” he said. His drink was served neat. It wouldn’t take long for the alcohol to soothe and take the edge of his rough day.
She could be patient, for a bit.
He took a drink from his glass, then crossed to the fireplace. Facing her, he propped his elbow on the mantel. “I know I’ve been neglectful, Elizabeth, and I appreciate you being so patient with me.”
“Patient?” She took a drink, then studied him over the glass rim. “Whatever gave you that idea?”
“Everything alright?”
“No, actually.” She slammed the crystal glass onto the small table. Whisky and ginger ale sloshed onto the wood and made a dark, growing circle.
He winced at the mess. “I know it can’t be easy for you. This weekend, I’ll make it up to you.”
Placating. He was trying to fucking placate her. No, thank you. She stood and devoured the distance between them in three, long, controlled strides. “You’re right.” She took hold of his tie by its knot. He’d been home five minutes and he hadn’t so much as loosened it. And she remembered a time he hadn’t been quite so uptight.
When she’d met him in the States, he’d been on holiday. They’d both signed up for the same white water river rafting trip on Colorado’s Cache Le Poudre river, and she’d admired him in shorts and a T-shirt that was soft from years of wear. They’d been shooting a class III rapid when she’d ended up in the water.
A hero through and through, he’d been the one to haul her back into the raft. He’d used the hem of his T-shirt to dry the water from her face when she’d shivered. And when the trip was over, he’d taken off his shirt and given it to her to wear.
She’d gotten goose bumps then, and they had nothing to do with the bite of the brisk wind on her cold skin. It had everything to do with how sexy she found his bare chest, and the dusting of light-coloured hair across its breadth. His stomach was tight, his thighs steely from the hours he spent in the gym.
She
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