The McRae Series 01 - Twelve Days Sam and Rachel
enjoying every moment. She'd always taken such pleasure in anything he'd ever given her. He'd worried that he'd never have enough to give, whether material or emotional, and watching her now, he remembered. She'd always seemed so excited by anything he had to give her.
Finally, she pulled the top off the box and pulled out the robe. It shined in the light of the fire and slipped through her fingers like water, the midnight-blue color setting off her eyes perfectly, just as he'd known it would.
"Emma told me you needed a new robe," he said.
"I doubt this is what she had in mind."
"She picked out what she thought you needed, and I picked out what I wanted you to have." And then he'd hidden it away, not sure if he'd give it to her, but he did.
Rachel leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. He caught her by her hair, tugging gently to bring her back to him when she would have pulled away.
"You can wear hers tomorrow," he said, pushing the afghan off her shoulders and leaving her bare once again. "And tonight, you can wear mine."
He put it on her himself, wrapping it around her, pulling her hair out from beneath the collar, smoothing the lapels together, tying the belt at her waist, and then sat back and admired her in it. He'd been right. It was the exact color of her eyes, and he liked the way the silk felt on his skin, loved imagining the way it would feel encasing her naked body, and thought of how easy it would be to get it off of her when he wanted her again. Which he did. Already.
He reached for her, and she smiled. God, she was beautiful when she smiled like that.
"We have so much to do," she protested. "And I've always wanted to do this. To sit down here by the fire and the tree and listen to Christmas music and dig out all the presents we've hidden around the house and wrap them."
He took the ribbon from the chair behind him, a bright red velvet one, and wrapped it around her.
"Sam!" she protested.
"Don't worry. I'll unwrap you."
And she laughed. Rachel, he told himself, laughing, wrapped up in silk and tied with a ribbon into a slightly mussed, thoroughly beautiful package. His once again, at least for the moment. He sat back and admired what he'd done to her, admired the smile and savored the laughter.
"Now all we have to do is put you under the tree," he said.
* * *
On Christmas morning, Rachel woke with an arm wrapped firmly around her waist and anchoring her to the big, warm, blessedly familiar body of her husband pressed against her from head to toe. She was lying on her side, as he was, her head pillowed on one of his arms, his other arm hanging on to her.
She was still wearing her robe—kind of. He liked having it wrapped around her, liked the fact that it was easy to push it away and get inside of it. The fabric was cool and slick, still cinched around her waist, but most of her legs were bare, as were her shoulders and her breasts.
She knew she wore the look of a thoroughly disheveled woman and a very happy one. When she felt Sam's prickly cheek moving slightly against hers, she shivered. The things he could do with his mouth...
"Cold?" he whispered.
"No."
"It's still early. We don't have to get up yet, do we?"
"No." She slid around in his arms until she could face him, give him a slow, steamy, good-morning kiss. "I don't think I said thank you for my present."
"You didn't?"
"Not the robe," she whispered. "For you."
She looked at him and saw dark, smoky eyes, sleep-glazed and lazy with satisfaction, but the heat was still there. She saw the blackness of his hair, the breadth of his shoulders, and she wanted her hands all over him again.
Sex really was an amazing thing, a powerful thing, a healing thing, a thing to bind them together, to strip away the pretense and the images they all carried with them to get down to the elemental nature of a relationship. She felt bound to Sam, felt as if no one and nothing could come between them this morning. If they could hang on to that feeling, remember it, savor it, surely they'd be okay.
She slid closer, feeling the little hairs on his legs tickling at hers, feeling hard muscles in his thighs and his chest and his arms, the first stirrings of arousal in his body and hers. How could she have ever given this up? Forgotten how much she needed him? Wanted him? Wanted this?
"Merry Christmas," she whispered, rolling onto her back and pulling him along with her.
It didn't take much that morning for either of them. They'd been in a state
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