She shot him a smile, and his cheeks, already rosy from the cold, bloomed a deeper pink. She gathered his coat to her chest. He glanced away and began attacking his cravat until he pulled it free and handed it to her.
“This, too, please.”
She blinked, staring at his exposed neck. He had a nice neck. Was that a thing? She hadn’t realized it could be. But her husband most definitely did. Corded muscles led down to more muscles where his neck met his thick shoulders and disappeared into the collar of his linen shirt.
Fitz cleared his throat. “Urm… Georgiana?”
She shook herself out of her daze and quickly took his cravat. “Apologies.”
She clutched his items to her and stepped back while he gathered his hatchet and set up at the base of the tree. He rolled up his sleeves, exposing even more tempting sinew and strength: firm, clearly delineated, muscled forearms dusted in amber hair. She sucked in a breath. And promptly found herself enveloped in the scent of parchment and ink and cedar. She brought his coat even closer to her nose. Her eyes fluttered shut.Shite. Her husband smelled delicious, like reading a book while wrapped in evergreens. And he looked delicious.
Georgiana hadn’t thought of how torturous this tree competition would be. She hadn’t realized there would be exposed necks, and rolled up sleeves, and—her eyes stretched wide on Fitz’s first swing with the hatchet—bulging biceps. Oh heavens. How was there snow out here when it was this hot? Because Fitz with a hatchet? She fanned herself. Which only wafted more of her husband’s scent into her nose. He was all bumbling and blushing and brawny. And she liked it. Very much.
The muscles in his arm and back pulled his white linen tight with every swing, his breath labored. He grunted. Georgiana’s breath caught in her lungs. Another hack at the tree. He grunted again. And again. And Georgiana nearly expired on the spot. Expired from lust. Because each time that hatchet connected with the tree, her core throbbed. Lord, those weresexgrunts. Or at least she could imagine them being sex grunts. And he was sweating—this time in a delicious way—sweat born from exertion, not anxiety. She wanted those muscles, those grunts, that sweaty exertion—all directed toward her.
“I’m close,” he grunted out.
Oh, dear.
“Just a little harder,” he panted out, his voice strained.
Heaven, help me.
She needed distraction. Now. Before she jumped on her husband and shagged him right here in the snow. Which probably wasn’t advisable. Especially when her husband was holding a sharp object.
She glanced at the tree, its branches shaking in time with Fitz’s grunts. Itwasawfully tall.
“Right there.”
Yes, right there between my thighs, please and thank you.
Oh, God. Distraction. “I’m nervous it’s not going to fit,” she yelped out.
He paused in his sex-grunting and glanced back at her, his ragged breaths clouding the air in front of him. He peered at her through furrowing amber brows. “Won’t fit?”
She let out a relieved breath, some of the lust tightening her muscles, fading away. She had been one grunt away from rucking up her skirts.
“Yes. I’m worried it’ll be too big,” she said, albeit a touch breathlessly.
He cocked his head at her. She cocked hers right back. What was he not understanding?
“We’ve never done this before, correct? Which means we have no idea if it’ll fit.” She gnawed on her lip. “I’m afraid we won’t be able to get it inside.”
Fitz gaped at her. “I-I-I assure you it will fit.” His face was turning an alarming shade of red. Especially considering it was already a deep blush from his exertion. His gaze skittered across the snow, and his throat worked frantically. Why was he so nervous speaking of the size of trees?
“I suppose if you’re sure… I wouldn’t want it to get damaged in the process of forcing it inside, though.”
A strangled sound escaped her husband. “I promise you that you’re-you’re-you’re…you’re”—he waved a hand in front of her—“won’t damage it. These th-things are made to accommodate each other. Regardless of”—he swallowed—“s-size.”
She blinked at him. What? And then it dawned. Her eyebrows shot to the top of her head.Oh, oh, oh.She choked down a laugh. He thought she was talking about penises? A breath burst through her lips, and she broke out in a grin. Oh, that was bloody fantastic. And potentially veryfun.
She schooled her expression and tapped her chin thoughtfully. “That is good to know. I suppose if we had to, we could coat it with something and see if that helped us get it inside. Would that be odd? Perhaps we could cover it in cooking oil. And then give it a good ole shove.”
He stared at her in horror, jaw nearly in the snow. A laugh bubbled up in her belly, and she clutched her stomach, pressing her lips together.Phewf. Almost let that one escape. But she had one more jest to torture her precious husband with.
“Though I suppose this will all be a moot point potentially. If Lord Bentley’s is bigger.”
“If-if Felix’s is bigger?” he sputtered.
