Marrying Mr. English:The English Brothers #7(16)

Tomorrow she would rationally explore what lay before them and try to  figure out how best to conserve what resources they had until Tom found a  job and they landed on their feet.

But today? Today she was Mrs. Thomas English-someone's wife, someone  wanted, someone precious . . . someone who, judging by the dark look in  her husband's eyes and the growly way he said he wanted to be alone with  her, wasn't going to get a wink of sleep tonight.

She couldn't have stopped herself if she tried.

She beamed at Tom as he helped her into his car.

***

It's not that Tom only wanted to jump his wife . . .

. . . but that Tom absolutely wanted to jump his wife.

From the moment he'd seen her, giving a wiseass tourist what-for in the  restaurant where she used to waitress, he'd wanted her. Eleanora Watters  English was young and stunning-her body slim but curvy, her hair a  natural blonde, her eyes a bright blue, and her lips a pink and pillowed  marvel. He'd kissed her more times than he could count now, but his  body was starving for more.

He wanted to kiss more than her lips. He wanted to touch his tongue to  every secret valley of her body until she writhed beneath him, begging  him to slide into her waiting heat and take her to paradise. He wanted  those gorgeous lips clamped around his swollen sex, her eyes soft and  dark as she sucked him to the point of madness and allowed him to finish  down her throat. He wanted her tits in his mouth, her nipples pebbled  and proud as he licked them into hard points. He wanted to hear the  noises she made as she came-and feel the way her body tightened around  his, squeezing him, milking him, taking everything he wanted to give  her, until they were both sated and exhausted, wrapped bonelessly around  one another until dawn.

But he also wanted her to understand how precious she was to him. How  his fists had clenched with the certainty of his renunciation of his  grandfather. How his breathing had almost stopped when he realized she'd  fled, and how his heart had swelled with protectiveness and gratitude  when he saw her small body at the gates of Haverford Park. She had asked  him-three times now-if he was sure about his decision to turn his back  on his fortune, and she couldn't possibly understand the sense of  freedom and satisfaction he was presently enjoying. She had given him a  reason to finally say no, to break the oppressive English yoke around  his neck and choose a different course for his life. She was his angel,  his reason, his salvation, and his partner.

Yes, he wanted to fuck her.

But more importantly, for the first time in his life, his mind, heart,  and body were one in the all-consuming need to make love to a woman.

To his wife, who, he realized, was riding along beside him in utter silence.

"Eleanora?"

"Hmm?" she murmured, turning her head to look at him.

And again, as always, his world was rocked by her beauty-the flawless  perfection of her skin, the dusting of freckles over her nose, the  alertness in her blue eyes.

I will never tire of this face, he vowed wordlessly. I will always strive to see happiness and pride in these eyes.

And love? whispered his heart.

He cleared his throat.

He wasn't ready to apply the word love to their situation yet.

"Yes?" she prompted.

"Umm . . ." His mind had scattered, love reverberating like an iron pipe  hitting an iron pipe behind his eyes. "Stores'll be closing soon. Need  anything?"                       
       
           



       

She glanced at the dashboard, where the clock read "3:45," and nodded.  "Can you stop at a grocery store? I'll get a few things for tomorrow."

He nodded, marveling at the simple domesticity of her request.

"I've never . . .," he started, then winced.

"Never what?" she asked.

"Never been inside a grocery store," he admitted.

"What?" Her jaw dropped, and she gaped at him. "How is that possible?"

Grinning at her, he shrugged. "Always had someone else to go, I guess. And most of them deliver."

"For a fee!" she cried, laughing softly as she shook her head.

To his shame, he had no idea what grocery stores charged to deliver  food. It had never really crossed his mind to find out either.

"Well," she said crisply, smoothing her black skirt, "at some point  soon, I will give you your first tour of a grocery store. But tonight, I  go alone."

"You'd deprive me of watching you shop?"

"I don't shop," she said, her eyes serious. "I choose carefully-only  things I need-and then I pay for them before I can be tempted to buy  anything else."

"You don't have to do that anymore," he said.

She sighed. "You don't have a new job yet."

"But I will."

"I know," she said lightly, giving him a sweet smile. "But I have my own  reasons for going solo tonight." He pulled into a parking spot at an  A&P and kept the engine running. She leaned over the bolster and  kissed him quickly. "I'll only be a minute."

The door slammed, and he watched her go-her black boots barely touching  down on the wet pavement, her steps nimble and certain. And she was his.  His wife.

The word left him breathless, and his chest swelled with pride. He  looked to his right and left, hoping to see some other young husband  waiting for his new wife, with whom he could share a knowing grin and  wink that said Yes, she's mine. Do you know this kind of happiness,  brother? But the cars on either side of him were empty. Everyone was  inside, bustling about, buying Christmas groceries in an unknown store  the size of a football field filled with food.

It was absurd that he'd never been inside a grocery store, and he mused,  for just a moment, about the changes imminent in his life. For all of  his adulthood, Tom had had access to a trust fund that had allowed him a  truly luxurious lifestyle. A new car for New Year's? Sure! Skiing in  Zermatt at a week's notice? Absolutely! Purchases weren't  considered-they were made. Country club membership fees were paid; the  mortgage on his penthouse, which technically belonged to the English  Family Trust, had been paid in full over fifty years ago, when his  grandfather was a twenty-something financial wunderkind.

As much as he didn't want to think about it, let alone admit it, Eleanora was right. Things were going to change.

With his savings of several thousand dollars, they could find an  apartment in any city, pay the first and last months' rent, and live  comfortably, if not luxuriously, for two or three months. But the money  would eventually run out. Now, if Tom used his family and college  connections to secure a job on Wall Street or in one of the Hartford  insurance agencies that he'd dealt with professionally for years, he  could assume a lifestyle of wealth and comfort that wouldn't include a  new car every January, but wouldn't prohibit one every two or three  years, either. It would be a different life for Tom-more modest, less  luxurious, but still steeped in comfort. And anyway, Eleanora might not  like a stupendously rich lifestyle-surely modest wealth and comfort  would be more palatable to her.

Besides, it was a temporary lifestyle, wasn't it? He narrowed his eyes  as the snow began to fall, adding a chill to the warmth of his musings.  One day, when his grandfather arrived on their doorstep and begged  Eleanora's forgiveness on his knees, their fortune would be restored.

***

"And write ‘Happy Birthday, Tom' on it, okay?" she asked the baker. "Do you have candles?"

He nodded at her, his smile lazy and appreciative. "Of course, pretty lady. Aisle 12. With the greeting cards."

She nodded at him, ignoring his borderline-lecherous looks. A card was a  great idea. "I'll be back in a few minutes for the cake, okay?"

Without waiting for his response, she turned around, checking out the  contents of her wire basket as she walked briskly to the cards: orange  juice, a dozen eggs, shredded Cheddar, sausage, Wonder Bread, milk,  pancake mix, Crisco, bananas, butter, and maple syrup. She planned to  make a casserole tonight, soaking the white bread in whisked eggs and  crumbled sausage, then topping it with cheese. Tomorrow, when she baked  it, it would be as light and fluffy as a soufflé. And tonight, for his  birthday, she'd make banana pancakes with butter and syrup, so thin,  they could almost be crepes. They were her two best dishes, and for  Tom's birthday and their first Christmas together, she wanted everything  to be as perfect as possible.                       
       
           



       

Turning down the stationery aisle, she looked for the birthday cards,  finally stopping before the ones marked "Husband" with widened eyes. She  set her basket on the floor and rubbed her hands together, willing them  to reach out and take a card. Her fingers trembled as they touched  lightly over the cards on the top row, but she couldn't seem to choose  one.