Page 29 of Christmas with the Billionaire

A slow, drowsy, utterly satisfied smile spreads across her kiss-swollen lips. She nods, her eyes still hazy. “Francine may have mentioned you were having… a particularly shitty one.”

A groan rumbles in my chest, part exasperation, part profound approval. Of course, my terrifyingly efficient assistant is in cahoots with my deviously brilliant wife. I should give her another raise. A massive one.

I slowly, reluctantly, pull out of her completely, making her sigh at the loss. Tucking my spent, sensitive cock back into my trousers, I fasten them with clumsy fingers. Then I straighten the ridiculous apron, my thumbs smoothing the fabric over her hips.

“I like the apron,” I say, my voice finally my own again, the grumpy edge sanded down to something softer, something only for her. “It’s… cute. We might have to get another one.”

As she lets out a laugh, we’re disturbed by a timer. Those fifteen minutes felt like nothing.

Trading one meal for another, I’m the one to pull out the casserole dish from the oven before I return to her. Plucking her up, she clings with a laugh.

“Need to let it cool off. Let’s get you cleaned up.” Humming my contentment, I carry her off. The thought of getting her clean is already giving way to the temptation of getting her dirty all over again. A challenge, indeed, and one I have no intention of winning.