Page 150 of The Billionaire's Christmas Bride

"Yeah," I swallow, "this once."

He fixes his left palm around the nape of my neck, then lifts me up by the hold on my pussy, and plants me on the pie. I squeak, wriggle my hips around, trying to evade the moist filling. He tightens his grip on my pussy. He pushes down with his other hand, and I still.

"Look at me," he growls.

I glance up, trace his features with my gaze—that patrician hooked nose, those clear eyes, the lush dark hair that flows about his shoulders, that pouty lower lip that I want to suck on. I lean up, he holds me in place with his hold on the nape of my neck. His strength is awesome, like really awesome. Why didn't I realize how he could overpower me with minimal resistance?

I reach for his cock, but he clicks his tongue, "So impatient." He snickers.

I scowl. "But I want to touch you."

"Not yet."

"You made a promise."

"And you know what kills me?" He shakes his head, "You actually expect me to keep it too."

"Won't you?" I peer up at him, "Won't you let me take the lead?"

"Nope." He shakes his head.

"But you said—"

"I lied."

Of course, he did.I mean, if he'd allowed me to actually set the pace, I'd have... Thrown myself at him, climbed him, impaled myself on his dick like he'd fucked that pie. The pie... Hell. I wriggle around, and the filling sticks to my behind. "Weston, uh, the filling is getting into all the places it shouldn't," I mumble.

"On the contrary." He grins, "It’s filling up exactly the right areas, which I am going to enjoy licking."

"Oh," I gulp; my core clenches. Jesus, is he going to enact the picture he painted right now in my mind?

"Oh, yes." He mocks my strangled exclamation. "And that's only the beginning... Once you are clean, I plan to fill you up with my dick in your pussy, my fingers in your arsehole, and my tongue in your mouth. I am going to make sure every hole in your body bears my imprint. Then I am going to fuck you so hard, you won’t know where you begin and where I end, you'll lose sight of what day it is, what time—" he swallows, "what time—" His voice roughens, "What time—"

"What time of day it is," I supply, "whether I am indoors or not, what the weather is like outside, what—"

He releases my pussy, only to plant his big body between my legs, forcing my thighs to widen.

"What ingredients I use in an apple pie—" What the hell am I warbling on about?

He thrusts his dick inside of me, filling me, stretching me, packing me to the brim, with such confidence that I gasp.

"Wes, I... I..."

"Complete the sentence." He glares at my features, "Do it."

"I..." I swallow, "I...want..."

"What?" He brings his free hand to my breast, squeezes it. Sensations radiate outward from the contact. My pussy clenches around his dick and his grin widens. "You were saying?" he prompts, "Something about the apple pie—"

"Fuck the apple pie," I mutter.

"Did that already." He chuckles.

"Sheesh," I grumble, "are you for real?"

"Does this feel real?" He pinches my nipple and I yelp. He bends his head, sucks on it, and I feel the pull deep down in my womb. Everything he does seems to awaken parts of me that had hitherto been happy to exist without communicating with me.

"Weston," I gasp, "you're forgetting something."