The reason Patrick didn't pull Shelagh onto his lap when she sashayed into his office in the new pencil skirt - episode 3.1
Patrick Turner looked up from his morning newspaper as Shelagh walked into the kitchen. The news story he'd been reading dropped completely from his mind. He stared at his new wife, a wave of heat rushing through him.
"Good morning, Patrick," she said, her face lighting with her beautiful, 1000-watt smile. "Timmy's getting dressed. He'll be down at half past."
Bloody hell! She had on some kind of slim, hip-fitting skirt that hugged her form, made him want to caress the curve of her derriere. As she moved toward the sink, her hips swayed in a way he'd never noticed when she'd been swathed in the habit. His trousers suddenly felt uncomfortably tight.
"Morning," he croaked. Her soft sweater somehow twisted and formed across the front, suggesting the swell of her breasts just beneath. The color made her eyes amazingly blue.
He knew he was staring.
She turned to the cabinet, reaching up for a teacup, the curves beneath her sweater moving softly.
Patrick pushed back his chair. In four strides he was behind her, slipping his arms around her waist and pulling her gently against him, burying his face in her hair.
"You look beautiful, my love," he whispered.
"Patrick!" she protested, the teacup clinking down on the counter, but her voice sounded weak and she didn't try to escape. She pivoted in his arms and just before he captured her mouth with his, he saw the flare of desire in her eyes.
He couldn't help himself. One hand strayed down the curve of her back and across the swell of her bottom, gently caressing, pulling her a bit closer. She started in surprise, moaning beneath his lips. But she didn't pull away.
The thump of footsteps in the hall and the loud shout of "Dad, where's my bookbag?" pulled them apart. For a moment their eyes burned into each other. Shelagh's lips were red and glistening, her breathing quick. So, he realized, was his.
They moved apart, Patrick back to his newspaper and Shelagh back toward the sink just as a certain young man thumped noisily into the room, his sharp eyes narrowing at sight of them.
"Bloody hell," Timothy muttered. His eyes rolled and he looked at his father. Patrick read the knowing message in those eyes—distracted again.