Page 112 of The Billionaire's Christmas Bride

She shakes her head.

"One after the other, maybe?"

She swallows; her chest rises and falls.

"Maybe I should decide, huh?" I tap a finger to my chin. "Perhaps I should surprise you?"

I lean over, grab her by her ankles.

She squeaks.

I pull her forward, until her hips are almost at the edge. I kneel on the bed, draw her legs over my shoulders, position my dick at her entrance.

Her belly quivers, her thighs spasm, and goosebumps flare on her skin. Good, I am not the only one who’s not going to be able to walk away from this unaffected. "You ready, Princess?"

She tips her chin up, opens her mouth. I plunge inside her. Her entire body bucks. She flings out her arms, grabs hold of the sheets. I wait, wait for her to adjust to my size. Her eyelids flutter and a bead of sweat trickles down her temple. "Eyes on me," I order.

She looks up, holds my gaze. The pleasure and hunger, and that edge of desperation in them, mirrors the strange confluence of emotions inside of me. I grip her thighs and hold them further apart.

Her breathing grows shallow, but she jerks her head, and I begin to fuck her in earnest. I plunge into her again and again. The bed shudders with each thrust. The headboard slams into the wall, punctuated by her cries, her moans, her gasps, her whines, her wails. Each sound from her beautiful lips sinks into my blood, curls around my heart, hacks away at the walls I have built up against the world.

My God, this woman… She tears me apart. The scent of her, the taste of her, the sweet poison of her cunt...will be my death. I pull back, stay poised at the edge of her channel, move over her, until my face is close to hers. My lips above hers, breathing in her perfume, her essence. The very breath that we share ties us together.

I kick my hips forward, sink into her. "Come," I command, and she arches up and off the bed. I fit my mouth to hers, draw from her scream as she breaks apart under me. I sink in and out of her, drawing out the aftermath of her orgasm, reveling in her complete submission. My chest hurts, my temples throb, my balls draw up and I let myself come inside of her.

I collapse forward on my elbows. A bead of sweat trickles down my chin and plops on her cheek. Her eyeballs move behind her closed eyelids. I pull out of her, tie the condom, then walk over to the waste basket and toss it in. When I return to the bed, I pull the covers over her, slip in between the sheets and pull her to me.

I spoon her, our bodies in sync from throat to chest to hips. I throw my leg over hers and fall asleep.

When I wake up, I am on my own.

I glance at the dent in the pillows, the mussed-up sheets, the scent of sex, of chocolate and cinnamon, is heavy in the air. Her scent. My dick lengthens. Shit, haven’t I had enough of her? My fingertips tingle. Why the hell do I want to touch her, pull her to me and hold her, then bury myself inside her again and again? I shake my head. The fuck is wrong with me?

I sit up, swing my legs over the side of the bed. I head for the walk-in closet, step in and pull on a pair of sweat pants. When I step out, I hear a sound from behind the door that leads to the kitchen. I head toward it and the scent of chocolate deepens. I wasn’t dreaming then? I step inside, come to a stop.

She stands at the counter, back to me, wearing a shirt—my shirt. It falls to half-way down her thighs, clings to the swell of her butt. The valley between her arsecheeks is a dark shadow that calls to me. I curl my fingers into fists. Fuck, get a grip on your desires, asshole. I take a step forward. She throws her head back, sways those ample hips from side to side, bumps, grinds. I reach down adjust the thickness that tents my crotch. Jesus H Christ, what is she up to now?

She flicks her head from side to side, holds up her spatula—that same infernal spatula she’d threatened me with the first time I saw her at the cabin. I move toward her. She lowers her chin and screeches. What the fuck? I stare as she croons under her breath, then rotates her body in a figure eight. Huh, is that what they call twerking? I grab my very interested dick, pull on it as she moves her butt in the opposite direction. Sweat beads my forehead. Fuck, she only has to twitch that gorgeous arse and this asshole will come running. Fuck.

I stalk to her. She angles her body, lowers her head and sings into the spatula, the lyrics from a famous Christmas anthem—so famous that even I recognize it.

I shake my head. "Are you singing Last Christmas by Wham!?"

She howls out the next set of lyrics in answer.

I wince. As gorgeous as her pussy is, as sassy as her temperament is, as beautifully sharp as her mind is… Her singing voice...? Well, let’s just say I sing better, and I’ve been asked not to sing.

I close the distance between us, place a hand on her shoulder.

She screams, turns, and brings the spatula down on me.

33

Amelie

The spatula connects with his hand… His injured hand. His shoulders bunch and the color fades from his cheeks. To his credit, he doesn’t cry out in pain. His big body goes solid; his chest planes seem to expand and grow bigger as he draws in a breath. Then he takes a step back, another, until the backs of his knees connect with one of the stools at the breakfast bar. He sinks down into it, brings his hand up to his chest and cradles it there. Sweat beads his forehead.

"Ow," he mumbles.