Page 72 of The Billionaire's Christmas Bride

"What the fuck?" I turn to her, "What’s wrong?"

"I’m…c…cold." Her teeth chatter.

I frown. The temperature had dropped and the heating hasn’t come on yet.

She shivers again.

I turn, scoot over, then drag her to me.

She squeaks, "What are you doing?"

"Making the fuck sure that I can get some shut-eye."

I tuck her head under my chin, lock my arm around her waist, and pull her close enough for my dick to nestle between her arsecheeks.

She wriggles her hips, "You’re… Uh, you’re hard."

"Deal the fuck with it," I growl.

"But, I can’t—"

I close my palm over her mouth, "Sleep, Princess."

She draws in a breath, another, then licks my palm. My cock instantly lengthens. "Don’t do that, not unless you want to be brought to the edge of climax again…and left unfulfilled."

"You won’t," her voice is muffled against my hand.

"Try me." I snuggle her closer, throw my leg over her thigh. She stills, muscles wound up. I close my eyes, start my countdown.

Six o-clock.

Five o’clock.

Her chest rises and falls.

Four o’clock.

Her breathing deepens.

Three o’clock.

Her shoulder muscles loosen; her body twitches.

Two o’clock.

I lower my palm to cup her breast. Not intentionally, of course. It’s a logical resting place. Besides, the shape is a perfect fit for my palm. Sleep overcomes me.

Something cold nudges my face, a wet tongue licks my mouth, "Seriously, Buttercup, we need to talk about your morning breath." I crack open my eyelids. Max gazes soulfully at me. I am on my back; Max rides my chest. He flicks out his tongue, I turn my head to the side, then stiffen. The bed is empty.Where the hell is she?

I set Max aside, swing my legs over the side, and head out of the room. A crash reaches me from the kitchen, then a scream.The fuck?"Princess?" I race toward the commotion.

19

Amelie

"Aw… Hell… Butterfingers." I glance down at the mixing bowl I had overturned. I’d woken up early, determined to try a new recipe for chocolate banana muffins…and managed to drop the bowl.

No wonder he calls me Buttercup. But I admit, I prefer Princess. There’s a thud of footsteps, the sound of barking. I glance up as Weston barrels through the door and into the room, Max on his heels.