The Billionaire’s Christmas Bride by L. Steele

10

Weston

"What the fuck do you have in them, stones?" I’d hauled her bag over the threshold of the house, and into the bedroom.

"Did you pack for a month?" I glower.

"I believe in traveling with everything I need.”

"Clearly," I mutter.

Grabbing a bottle of beer from the kitchen, I return and prop myself on the bed.

"What are you doing?" She drags her second suitcase into the bedroom.

"What does it look like?”

She dumps the bag in the middle of the floor of the room, "Why don’t you drink in the living room?"

"My house."

"It’s not yours," she huffs. “You co-own it with the Seven.”

"Semantics,” I grumble. “It’s more mine than yours, at any rate.”

She opens her mouth.

I shake my head. "What made you decide to become a pastry chef?"

She blinks. "Why do you want to know?"

Good question. Why the hell do I care?Except I am intrigued… Fine, I want to understand what makes this bundle of energy tick.

"I don’t care either way," I take a healthy swig of the beer, "but it’s the kind of conversation you women seem to love."

She opens and shuts her mouth, then straightens, "So this is your idea of being polite?"

"Nope," I finish off the beer, place the bottle on the sideboard, "but this is." I yank my shirt over my head, toss it aside.

"What are you doing?" she squeaks.

"What do you think?" I rise to my feet, drop my pants, along with my boxers.

Her indrawn breath fills the space. I don’t stop the grin that tugs at my lips. Buttercup can deny it all she wants, but the attraction between us is alive and kicking. It’s making this entire exercise a hell of a lot more interesting. It’s definitely the reason I’m allowing her to stay. If nothing else, to see how far I can go before I stop resisting her. I get back into bed, pull the covers up to my waist, then switch off the lamp on my side, leaving the room in darkness.

Silence for a beat, then another.

"How is this polite?" her voice cracks. She clears her throat, "Seriously, can you enlighten me here?"

"I’m sleeping on my side of the bed, aren’t I?"

"Gah." She makes a sound deep in her throat.

A chuckle rumbles up my throat. I swallow it. "You’re welcome."

I hear her moving around, then, "Why is this clock not working?"

I glance up to find her holding the digital timepiece in her hands. She turns it over, fiddles with the little compartment at the back, "Huh, it has no batteries." She turns to me, "Did you do that?" She frowns.

My heartbeat begins to race. "I don’t know what you’re talking about." I sink back into my pillow, close my eyes.

"The clock in the living room, too, had been dismantled."

What the hell does she want to know? Why can’t she leave it alone already?

"Do you have something against clocks or something? Maybe you don’t like the idea of time running out?" She chuckles.

I turn my back on her.

I hear her open the drawers, "Okay I found the batteries. I am going to—"

"Put it back." I snap.

"What?"

"Put the bloody clock back where you found it."

There’s a pause.

"If you don’t do it, I swear I’ll come there and make you do it."

She huffs. There’s a click as she places the timepiece back on the table.

"I’ve returned the batteries to the drawer," she mutters. "So don’t get your dander up about it."

The breath I’d not been aware of holding rushes out.

Shit, the hell is wrong with me? Why the hell am I getting worked up over this little thing?It is a clock—a functioning clock. Doesn’t mean anything. Why the hell can’t I bear the thought of it counting down the time as I sleep?

The numbers mounting, the hands moving, the tick-tock-tick-tock of the countdown as he’d watched me closely, peered into my face, searched for a reaction, anything to show I was afraid, that I’d give in and break, ask for help. Ask it, do it. My heart thunders in my chest. Close your eyes. Count down the time.

Twelve o'clock.

Eleven o’clock—

I hear the sound of something connecting with that massive suitcase. Then a howl, "Bloody hell!"

I switch on the light. "What are you doing?"

She sits on the ground, nursing one booted foot. "Taking out my frustration, you oaf." Her hair flows about her shoulders. Her cheeks are pink. From anger? From embarrassment at seeing me naked? Considering she’s already had her mouth on my dick… Well, isn’t that cute.

"There are better ways of dealing with it." I lower my gaze to her heaving breasts.

"Aargh, stop that." She yanks off one boot, then the other. "Turn away."

"Why?"

"I want to undress, you… you neanderthal."

I laugh, "Running out of insults?"

"Oh, I have plenty where that came from." She pulls off her other boot, then rises to her feet. "Some privacy please?"

"Not happening." I lean back against the headboard, fold an arm behind my neck. Her gaze darts to my biceps; she swallows. I scratch my chest and her breasts heave. A glimmer of sweat gleams over her upper lip. "Is it too hot in here for you?" I grin.

She huffs, then undoes the button of her coat and pushes it off her shoulder. She glances around, then walks to the closet and pulls it open. She surveys the contents, then hangs it up. "You didn’t bring too many clothes, did you?" she grumbles.

"Worried about me?" I smirk.

She throws up her hands, then steps back and slams the closet doors shut, "It’s pointless making any conversation with you."

"You were the one who declined to answer my question."

"Whatever." She pulls off her jeans, giving me a flash of pink underwear. My groin instantly tightens. Fuck. She is more modestly dressed than women wearing skimpy bikinis on the beach… So why does she seem so much more alluring, so attractive…? So fucking gorgeous, as she folds her jeans then places them on the chair near the bed. She lifts a corner of the cover, then slips inside. She stays on the far end… Right at the end. "Any further and you’ll slip off."

"I’ll manage."

"I won’t bite."

"Ha," she snorts, "famous last words."

"Unless you want me to?"

She stills. Tension pours off of her to fill the space between us on the bed. I switch off the light, then fold my arms over my chest. "If you stay that stiff, I’ll have to tickle you."

"Wh…what?" she squeaks.

"Not good for your muscles to be so bunched up. You’ll have a headache when you wake up."

"Like you care?"

"A deal is a deal, Buttercup."

"I wish you wouldn’t call me that."

"I wish you’d relax a little."

If anything, she tenses further. I turn away from her, close my eyes. The stress that rolls off of her slams into my back. My shoulders bunch, My muscles coil, ready to spring… Fuck. I turn back to her, scoot over.

Her gaze widens, "What are you—?"

"Hush." I pull her to me, so her back is pressed into my chest, then I spoon her.

She makes a noise of alarm.

I tighten my arm around her waist. "Raise your head."

"What?"

"Do it, woman," I snap.

She does as I ask. Fuck, finally. I slip my arm under her neck, throw my leg over hers.

She doesn’t say a word. Nothing. Her entire body goes stiff… As hard as my dick, which instantly lengthens. It nestles against the curve of her hip. Well, someone’s happy, at least. I tuck her head under my chin.

"Weston," she whispers.

I sigh, "Now what?"

"What is it with you and clocks? Do you have a phobia or something?"

Or something.Not that I am going to tell her about it. I’d already given away enough with that half-arsed fit I’d thrown. Shit, do I have my balls about me or what?

"Weston—"

"Goodnight, Princess."

She huffs, but stay’s silent.

Thank fuck.

I close my eyes, count back the time on the hands of a clock. Restart the stopwatch.

Twelve o’ clock.

Eleven o’clock.

Her shoulder muscles relax.

Ten o’clock.

Nine o’clock.

Her breathing grows more uniform.

Eight o’clock.

Seven o’clock.

She wriggles her butt. The blood rushes to my groin.

Six o’clock.

She thrusts her feet in between my legs. The coldness from her toes shivers over my skin. I swear aloud, "Did you dip your feet in ice?"

"Sorry," she mutters.

Five o’clock.

Four o’ clock.

She pushes her body into mine. My cock lengthens, stabs into the valley between her butt cheeks.

Three o’clock.

She rubs her cheek against the pillow. Then digs her toes into my calf. "The hell are you doing?" I grouse.

"Can’t sleep," she mumbles.

I turn her over to face me. Mistake. The moonlight floods in from the open window, highlighting her baby blues. Her hair clings to her forehead; her nose turns up above those gorgeous pink lips. My heart stutters. It fucking stutters. The fuck? "What is it?" I grumble.

"I forgot the chocolate."

"Chocolate?"

"And I need fresh eggs, cinnamon, butter—"

"You’ve lost me."

"To make breakfast."

I shudder and mime throwing up in my mouth. "Who has chocolate for breakfast?"

She laughs. "Chocolate pancakes, dummy." Then she adds, "What do you like to eat in the morning?"

"Anything but chocolate." I grumble.

"Wh-a-a-t?" Her eyes go all round, "You don't like chocolate?"

"Why settle for chocolate, when," I drag my gaze down her body, "there are other things that make for a tastier breakfast."

She gapes, "Do you only think of sex?"

"Do you only think of desserts?"

"What else is there?" her voice cracks.

I scan her pink-tinged features. "Are you blushing?"

"Of course, not." Her face grows fiery.

"What are you thinking?"

"Nothing."

Oh, it was something all right."Go on, you can tell me."

She shakes her head.

I glare at her, lower my voice to a hush, "Say it."

She trembles. "I… I was thinking how much I’d like for you to eat me out."