Buying the Virgin novel Chapter 89

CHARLOTTE

He looks like a god. My bronzed, blond Apollo. I gaze on, for the sheer pleasure of watching him move, male beauty in motion, sheer poetry.

Having reduced one tree core to usable pieces, he moves to pick up the next, placing it on his timber anvil. And now, he sees me, his face lighting up.

“Charlotte!”

Dropping the axe, he strides over, sweeping me into his arms, his eyes alight.

“I didn’t hear you arrive. I was trying to have everything ready for you.”

“I can see that.” I grin. “Looks like you’ve got the house toasty warm for us.”

“I wanted you to come Home.” His expression is a puzzle; longing, love, hope, enthusiasm, sadness. “I wanted you to…. to have a place to call your own.”

And then he is on me, his arms encircling me, his mouth fastened on mine.

I love him. I want him. And my body wants him.

He breaks the kiss, looking down at me, a speculative look in his eye. “Yes?” he says.

My heart pounding - I have seen too little of my Golden Lover in the past few weeks - I cast an eye over our surroundings. “Um, yes, but here?”

He grins, beckoning me with his eyes.

“Er, no, not here….” Taking me by the hand, smiling all the while, he leads me back into the kitchen, opening the unidentified door I spotted. And beyond is….

The chamber is basic in the extreme; four walls, a ceiling and a bed. But a fire burns brightly in a hearth, on the wall to the rear of the kitchen range when I think about it, and there are candles everywhere. Only one or two are lit, but Michael moves around the room with a taper, lighting one candle off the last, until light glimmers golden with candle and firelight.

The bed is huge and thickly blanketed.

“I couldn’t get the house properly ready for you,” he says, apologetically. “I wanted to, but there simply wasn’t time. But I was able to get it to the point that we can eat, and sleep and make love.”

The room, bare though it is, is beautiful. And I see from the hope in his eyes that he wants me to like it.

“It’s lovely,” I say. “Um…. have we a bathroom?”

He hesitates. “You see all those trees and bushes out there?”

I’ve got to pee outside?!?

Then he cracks out laughing. “Gotcha!” And I laugh too, wondering how much of a joke I am laughing at.

He straightens his face. “It’s not great,” he admits. “But you can walk right through to the hotel and use the bathrooms there if you want to. Or there’s an old privy out the back. I’ll have to dig a new pit for it though until we get some proper plumbing in.”

“Right…. Um… A shower?”

“Did you see the tin bath hanging off a nail in the kitchen?”

This should be interesting….

“Hope you’re happy roughing it for a bit?” he asks, anxiety in every word. “I so wanted it to be perfect for you, but….”

Words won’t do for this. I step close, flowing into him, my fingers in his hair, my lips on his. “It is perfect. You’re here. I’m here. And….”

“Yes…” he says. “James will be here too, later.”

Then he stops to kiss me, and the world is a warm and wonderful place.

Despite the fire, the room is chilly. “Don’t get cold. Get into the bed,” he mutters, his voice husky. “I’ll just go bolt the door. Don’t want any interruptions.”

By the time Michael returns, only a minute or so later, I have peeled off layers of winter clothes and am between the sheets, having found waiting for me, half a dozen hot water bottles.

He smiles, sheepishly. “It’ll be warm enough once we’re both in there.”

I lie back, watching him as he undresses, unbelting his jeans, shrugging them off to climb between the sheets with me.

He looks embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I should have been able to shower first,” he says.

“Don’t be silly.” I stretch out a hand to him. “You’ve been working, hard, on building our home. You’re fine.” And he is. He smells wonderful, of hard work, clean sweat and warm masculinity.