Page 49 of The Warmth of Our Closest Star

Mere seconds passed before Peter was pressed up against me and his mouth was on my neck. Laughing warmly, I poked at the stew in the pot as Peter fed at my neck like a ravenous man. Peter’s hands on my hips, his fingers playing along the waistband of my underwear destroyed my concentration, but I didn’t mind.

“I can’t finish dinner if you do that,” I said softly.

“I’m hungry for something else right now,” he mumbled against my flesh.

Turning in his arms, I affected a pout. Peter froze at the look on my face, but his arms stayed around me.

“Are you saying that I spent all of this time cooking such a nice dinner for you and you are more concerned with what is in my pants?” I asked, my bottom lip sticking out.

“Oh, babe,” Peter sputtered, “I didn’t mean to imply that—”

I couldn’t help it. I grinned.

“You little shit,” Peter growled at me before pulling me tightly against him.

With a laugh, I met his mouth with mine and Peter happily returned the kiss.

“We should really eat first,” I said. “It will get cold. And you will need your strength.”

“Oh, really? I like the sound of that.”

“It will be my first night home. For good,” I said. “We must celebrate it properly. And for the appropriate amount of time.”

Peter kissed me again. “I can’t really argue your point.”

“I got a text,” I said as Peter peppered my face with kisses. “The airline found my things. It will be delivered tomorrow. All of the clothes we bought were pointless.”

Peter immediately pulled back far enough to glance down at my body.

“I wouldn’t say it was for nothing,” he said.

I swatted at him before pulling him back into my arms to kiss him.

“How was work?” I asked.

“You know,” he said, glancing down to take in my body again, “not as good as being home.”

“Are you hungry?” I asked.

Peter sighed. “You know what?”

“What?”

“I always thought coming home to a husband, having dinner on a Friday night,” Peter said, “would be a little boring.”

“Yeah?”

“And maybe it would have been,” he said. “But if you find the perfect guy—”

“I’m not perfect.”

“Perfect for me.”

I gave him another kiss. When I pulled back, Peter was staring at me.

“What?”

“Are you happy?” he asked. “That you married me? Moved here? You know. All that.”