Sexy Time: Winter’s Morning

I am so proud to welcome today’s guest writer.  She is talented, funny and well, she gets my blood flowing in all the right places.  (She’ll thank me for that intro, I’m sure.  And you’ll be thanking me for introducing her to you.)

This is CDG from Move Over Mary Poppins.  She is a Nanny by profession. Married mother of one. Wrangler of an ill-behaved pug and a less than brilliant golden retriever. Culinary and music degree holder. Amateur home decorator. Perpetual remodeling victim. Aspiring romance novelist.  (These were her words.  I’d throw in fabulous, delightful and someone I’d love to share a meal with, preferably one SHE made!)

Please enjoy!

Winter Morning

The old farmhouse was always cold in winter. There was no escaping it. Whole sections of the rambling building were pre-Revolutionary, so the insulation was patchy at best. Her grandparents, like the generations before them, had simply endured the cold, feeding the voracious maw of the wood stove in the kitchen to stay warm.

When the livestock had gone to auction,  a half-century before, the barns had fallen into disuse, and had slowly crumbled on the outskirts of the door yard. Here and there, broken windows were patched with what materials her grandfather had foraged from the collapsing outbuildings. Money had always been tight, but there was always deadfall in the acres of forest that still remained on the homestead for someone cold enough to pull it home behind the old tractor for burning.

For the millionth time, she cursed her parents for neglecting the place, and the tough but fragile people who’d made their life together under the deteriorating roof.

She still wondered, looking at his pristine hiking boots on the rug next to the antique sled in the front hall, if bringing him here had been been the right choice. His black cashmere coat and ridiculous shearling hat kept him warm, certainly, but the arctic wind columns of the Ladder District were less wild, less primitive than the foothills of the Green Mountains, if equally as cold.

She kicked clumps of dirty snow from her boots, an ancient pair from L.L. Bean she’d found in the front hall closet the first time she’d come back to the house. The cold from the snowy logs seeped through the red and black plaid wool work shirt she’d thrown on over her long underwear and into her arms, standing the hair on her arms at attention.

She bent to stack the wood next to the stove, reached for the door handle with the wool wrapped around her bare, chilled fingers. She filled the stove, prodded the fire, opened the dampers to get the air flowing, and sat back on her heels to admire the crackling blaze.

“I like the shirt.”

She startled, nearly pitching forward against the hot cast iron. He was at her shoulder in a flash, arms around her to steady her. His hands were cold, but his body was warm, pressed against hers.

“Come back to bed,” he whispered.

Again she wrapped her fingers in the cuff of the wool shirt, damping down the stove to keep the flames from devouring the firewood too quickly.

She turned to him, tilted her head, offered him her mouth.

She slid her fingers under his fleece half-zip sweater, under his soft cotton tee shirt, laughing wickedly at his sharp breath. Her fingers were icy against his stomach. He grinned in reply, and kissed her, stealing her breath completely away.

This, oh, this, his clever lips playing hers like a woodwind, his clever hands in her hair, on her back, between the silk of her long johns and the jut of her hip bone, this was why she’d brought him here, far from conference rooms and coffee shops. She pressed up and into him, urging him back from the hearth towards the bedroom door.

He hummed appreciatively, ran his hands over her ass and hoisted her up. She held on gleefully while he carried her into the bedroom. The bed was a simple one, hand-carved, glossy with age, too high off the floor, small.

He set her down into a sea of goose down and worn flannel, kissing his way down her throat, stopping to taste the hollow between her breasts before drawing the silk top up and over her head. He paused to lay the shirt carefully over the footboard. She reclined back on her elbows to watch his face, shadowy in the light of the oil lamp on the bed side table. His meticulous care of objects was endearing, a reminder of his meticulous care of her.

He returned to her, kneeling on the braided rug, gently tugging off her rag socks, kissing her right ankle as he set the socks to one side. He came up between her legs, caressing the backs of her knees, the insides of her thighs through the silk, hands stopping just shy of where she so desperately wanted to feel them.

She let her body drop back when he lifted her to slip the bottoms down, baring her skin to the still, crisp air. Lifting her head, she saw his breath; hot clouds rose as he blazed a trail of open-mouthed kisses to follow the tide of cold air as it washed along her uncovered legs.

As he stood to strip off his clothing, she tucked herself under the ancient eiderdown, shuddering as much from anticipation as from the sudden warmth. He was beautiful in the amber light, taut skin rippling with shivers. He set his discarded garments over hers on the foot board, and she lifted the comforter to invite him in.

Left you begging for more, didn’t she? Yeah, me too.

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