"I have you. I don’t need anyone else." He turns to me, and the puzzled expression in his eyes tells me he wasn’t expecting to say that aloud.
"Is that good?" I ask slowly.
"It’s…" He hesitates. "I’m making up my mind about it," he says honestly.
Disappointment clenches my chest. I’m aware of him watching me closely, so I look outside. I nod in the direction of the pine trees. “You did say we could put up a Christmas tree and decorate it?”
He nods. “We have ornaments in the basement.”
“Oh good.” I blink away my disappointment and flash him a smile. “And I want to bake Christmas cookies.”
He groans.
“It’s one of my traditions to bake Christmas cookies at least once during the festive season. I haven’t had the time this year.”
He takes in the excitement on my face and his own softens. “Whatever my wife wants.”
That’s it. My pussy melted into a puddle because he said, ‘my wife.’
“What?” He frowns.
“You’re romantic.”
He seems taken aback then pretends to look around. “Shh, don’t let anyone else hear you say that.” He smirks.
I chuckle and pat his massive chest. “Come on, Bossman, let’s see if you’re as good at wielding an axe as you are a pen.”
Turns out, he’sverygood at wielding an axe.
He’s also stripped down to a thin white T-shirt which is stuck to his back because he was sweating freely as he chopped down the fir tree, we both agreed upon.
It's a seven-foot-tall Normann fir, which will fit perfectly in a corner of the living room.
Naturally, I've been unable to remove my gaze from my husbandas he brings his axe down into the trunk. His biceps flex. His shoulders seem to have swollen to twice their normal proportions. And I can make out the bricks of his abs, and the outline of his male nipples against the fabric of his T-shirt.
He looks good enough to lick up.
I give up any pretense of helping and watch him from the sidelines.
He brings his axe down again, then with a grunt, pulls it out. The tree shudders.
“Take a few more steps back,” he warns.
I obey him, without taking my eyes off his intent face. The muscles of his jaw tighten. He buries his axe into the trunk one last time and when he pulls it out, the tree topples over.
“Timber,” I cup my palms around my mouth and yell.
He eyes the fallen tree with a very masculine look of pleasure on his face. “Not bad, huh?”
“Why do I get the feeling you’ve done this before?” I point to the grove of Christmas trees around us.
“Not me, but I did watch Arthur cut down a tree when we were but young boys.”
“Oh?” I look at him with interest. “I can’t picture your grandfather doing something this physical.”
“My brothers and I get our build from him. Our father was slender in physique. We spent many of our Christmases with Arthur in this house.”
He thunks the axe down in the tree stump, then walks around the tree. He’s figuring out the best way to carry it back.
