Page 83 of The Billionaire's Christmas Bride

The overhead light flickers and comes on. I blink. Guess the alphahole kept his word. He managed to fix the power supply to the kitchen, which means I can bake. Yay. I bite down on the inside of my cheek, glance around the space. Why does everything seem so bright? The place is bigger than I realized. The candles I had lit earlier appear weak. Too bad the attraction I feel for him shows no similar signs of waning. Dark or light, morning or night… It’s a constant source of irritation that gnaws at my gut, forces me to act out of character. Like now. Why am I still on my hands and knees, on the bloody kitchen table, waiting for him?

I had said that I would obey him, but surely, this is out of bounds, even for someone like him. I mean, leaving me stationed here like I am his...possession? Am I his? Do I belong to him…? What hold does he have on me that I’d rushed to do his bidding? What would have happened if I’d gone against his decree? Hello… What am I thinking? Decree, huh? I snort. Like he is the master of all he surveys and I am his…Don’t think it; don’t think it. Slave!

Noooo, I can’t allow myself to think that.

I can’t allow him to have this hold on me.

But the money…the bloody millions that he holds over me? Well, he said he’d deposit the money for the nights I’ve already spent here…and Weston wouldn’t go back on his word. Well neither would I, and I am still here, right? I’m not leaving.

I am simply, a woman standing in front of the most dominant, hot-as-fuck, alpha male she's ever met, wanting to ask him to fuck her.

There you have it—the story of my life. That ol' perception-reality thingummy... The one I can't hide from when I face the mirror.

Guess there had been more comfort in the gloom of the morning light. Everything had seemed so much more intimate. Now—I glance down at myself—I see myself through his eyes. A stupid woman, who’d allowed this obnoxious, mean-ass to manipulate me… To use his money to seduce me, to coerce me to do his bidding.Where’s your pride, Amelie? Where’s that strength of character, that streak of obstinacy, that blind confidence in yourself that had you taking risks…and loans...and putting everything you have into this venture? Turning your passion into a livelihood?My bloody foot. What a pipe dream. I’d sailed along blissfully in my little boat, even though I was fighting against the current… Until Weston bloody Kincaid had unleashed a storm that threatened to engulf my teacup.He can dip his teabag in my hot water anytime.I giggle, then shake my head. That’s it. I am losing it, completely.

I straighten, scramble back, then off the table. My knees creak and my thighs spasm. Jesus, am I out of shape or what? I stalk over to the shelves by the oven, lean down and rummage around. There! I snatch up another large bowl—not a mixing bowl, but it could work. Thank God, we bought enough flour and chocolate and bananas to last me another round. I grab my provisions, measure out the flour on the old-fashioned scale. Seriously, it has weights and everything, I snort again. Lifestyles of the rich and famous, huh? They have all the time in the world… No, they have servants; that’s what it is.

I pour the flour into the mixing bowl, break the eggs, then begin to beat it together. When it’s smooth enough, I reach for the ripe bananas, peel the remaining three and drop them in. I mix them in too, then pour in the milk.

I hum to myself, shimmy my hips, taste some of the concoction. Yum.

Footsteps sound behind me, "What are you doing, Princess?"

His voice is all casual, nothing threatening about it, and that makes it worse. I straighten, reach for the pack of chocolate chips.

"You’re only making it worse by not answering."

His voice is right behind and above me. I yelp, lose my grip on the packet and the entire thing tips in. "Gah!" I place the half-empty pack to the side, then whirl on him, "Look what you made me do."

"I give you one thing to do." He holds a finger right front of my face, "One, and you disobey."

"You were gone a long time."

"Less than half an hour."

I throw up my hands, "Exactly. How long did you think I’d stay in that ridiculous position for you?"

He bends his knees, then peers into my face, "Until I gave you permission to move."

I toss my hair back from my face, "I couldn’t wait, I wanted to get back to the baking."

"Is that right?" His voice lowers to a hush and my nerve endings spark, "So eager to make your crumpets—"

"Muffins." I correct him.

"Same thing." He shrugs.

"It’s not." I gape at him, "Why do you constantly try to get on my nerves?"

"Because I can?" He looks me up and down and my belly quivers. He raises his gaze to my face, "Because you are mine for the next four days—mine to command, to order about, to play with as I see fit."

"I’m not your…fuck toy."

His eyes gleam, "Don’t bet on it."

I purse my lips, then tilt my chin-up, "You’re beginning to annoy me. You’re illogical as hell, full of yourself, totally obnoxious, and cannot decide what you want."

"Oh?" He peels back his lips and his teeth shine against his tanned skin.