The McRae Series 01 - Twelve Days Sam and Rachel

recoiled as if she'd slapped him and then turned and walked away from her, that she realized he might think she meant absolutely everything.
    Marrying him.
    Having a baby with him.
    Loving him.
    Every moment of their lives.

Chapter 7

    On the fourth day of Christmas, Sam woke on the sofa in the family room feeling raw, all his emotions exposed in the harsh light of day.
    His wife was driving him crazy. She'd touched him. He couldn't remember the last time she'd touched him. And then, when she'd kissed him...
    He swore softly, and when he looked up there she was standing in the doorway wearing a familiar terry-cloth robe in a soft pink color, her hair caught in a careless knot on her head. Her face was totally bare, her toes, too. He could see them sticking out from under her robe, her nails painted a soft pink, too.
    He took the sight of her, all rumpled and soft and so touchable, like a kick in the gut. Once more, he feared he was a split second away from grabbing her and locking his arms around her and kissing her as if he'd never, ever let her go. He'd barely gotten a sweet, familiar taste of her the night before, when she'd pulled away, looking every bit as surprised and uneasy as he'd been.
    She didn't look so uneasy this morning, just surprised and a bit self-conscious as she held the robe together with a hand between her breasts. Now that he looked closer, he could see the damp tendrils of hair that escaped to unfurl against her neck, that flushed look to her skin, and that faint smell of lavender that told him she'd just gotten out of the bathtub. Looking closer still, he thought she must not have a thing on under that robe.
    "Hi," she said.
    He nodded, unable to get a word past his too-tight throat. God, he wanted to touch her so badly.
    Crazy as it sounded, he'd actually decided it was better that they'd hardly touched at all in weeks. He thought he might wean himself off of her little by little, but still here so he could see her, sometimes smell her delicate lavender scent, still hear her voice. He was backing away one step at a time, doing all he could manage.
    And now he wanted to grab her so bad he clenched his hands into fists, then didn't dare move a muscle.
    "I... That last load of laundry wasn't quite dry when I went to bed, and my favorite pair of jeans are in there. I wanted to wear them today, but—"
    "What?" he asked. What did laundry have to do with anything?
    "Nothing. I just came down to get my clothes, and... Well, I'm surprised to find you still here."
    Surprised he wasn't still avoiding her, she meant.
    It was late for him to be getting up. He hadn't slept well at all. He'd been thinking of her, her soft, sweet mouth on his, her curled up under the quilt on their bed, her body all warm and soft and ready for him. And he thought it was a good thing to wean himself of her slowly? It was hell. Especially after last night.
    "I'll just grab my clothes," she said, backing out of the room and disappearing through the laundry-room door.
    Sam just stood there. He couldn't seem to do anything else.
    She was back a moment later with her jeans in her hand and one of her favorite sweaters, a fuzzy blue thing that cupped her breasts in a way that used to make him ache to touch her, as well.
    Every time he looked at her now, he thought about kissing her or touching her or even more than that. Loving her. There was a time when the best thing in his entire world had been loving her.
    She disappeared upstairs as if someone were chasing her and she had to get away. Sam stood there for a full two minutes. He watched the time go by on the clock on the kitchen wall, and then he headed for the stairs. Their bedroom was the last door on the right. He walked in like a man who had every right to be there, caught her in the middle of tugging on her jeans, giving him a gut-clenching view of her bottom encased in a little pair of pink panties and long, smooth thighs that had him nearly groaning out loud.
    She glanced over her shoulder at him, her cheeks even more flushed, and tugged on her jeans, her bra, her sweater, and even when that was done, she didn't turn to face him.
    "What is it, Sam?" she asked, sounding as weary as he felt.
    "You kissed me last night," he said, and it came out sounding like an accusation.
    "Yes."
    "Why?"
    "Because I wanted to," she said carefully.
    "You haven't wanted me near you in months."
    "I know. I'm sorry."
    Which meant what? That it had finally registered in her head that he