The Billionaire’s Christmas Bride by L. Steele

13

Amelie

"It’s me; it’s only me," I squeak.

His chest heaves, his color pale. He glares at me as if he’s seen a ghost.

"Weston?" I prompt.

His gaze fixes on my face. His jaw tics. The tendons of his throat move. The skin across his knuckles stretches tight. If his control had been less than perfect, I have no doubt, I’d be on the ground, with his fist buried in my face. Hell, I wouldn’t mind other parts of him buried inside of me, given what had transpired between us earlier. It’s clear that we are as compatible as cheese and biscuits. WTF? Enough with the cheesy comparisons… Noooo, now I am punning on my own poor jokes? Gah!

"Wes?" I take a step forward; he watches me. I raise a hand; his gaze stays on mine. I reach up on tip toe and cup his cheek. "You okay?"

He blinks, lowers his fists.

A breath I hadn’t realized I was holding whooshes out. At the same time, he draws his in.

"Wes?" I step close enough for my boots to kiss his. His gaze intensifies. Those colorless eyes seem to mirror every emotion, every confusion, every screwed-up, mixed-up thought that I feel inside.

"Everything okay?" I ask.

"Why wouldn’t it be?" He steps back from me and the heat of his big body recedes.

A hollow feeling coils low in my belly. What had I been expecting? That after the way he’d made me orgasm earlier, he’d…be more tender toward me? Maybe throw me down and decide to forget about our 'arrangement' and make love to me? Hell, I want him to fuck me… There, I’ve said it out loud. Well, not really out loud, thank God. I’d settle for him having me any which way—frontways, sideways, bent over, with my arse up in the air for him… My cheeks heat. Jesus H, something about this man brings out the filthy girl hidden inside of me. The one who wanted to hold onto more than his ears as I rode him off into the sunset. Huh? That picture… It’s hot… And all wrong.

"What are you doing here?" He frowns.

"I, uh, woke up and you were gone—"

He looks me up and down, "Is that a… What are you wearing?"

I glance down at my pullover. "What?"

"Is that a reindeer with glitter on his nose?"

"Oh, you mean my Christmas jumper?"

His features take on an expression best described as loathing.

"Let me guess." I push a finger into my cheek, "You hate Christmas-themed sweaters."

He grunts, "And reindeer, and Christmas carols, and mulled wine…"

"What?" I stare at him. "You’re joking."

"Nope." He rolls his shoulders, "Can do without that shit, and anything to do with the festive season."

"But it’s the silly season." I stare at him, horrified. I mean, Mr. Grumpy McDick here is surely just trying his best to scare me off. "It’s not working."

"Huh?"

"This entire, alphaholish, man-about-town, who sacrifices baby goats to the devil and screams at little kids—"

"And kicks kittens," he adds, "don’t forget that."

"That’s what I mean," I slap my palms on my hips. "You’d never do that."

"Because you’ve seen me tolerate Max?"

"More than tolerate." I scowl, "Why are you so intent on putting yourself down?"

"Why are you so intent on believing I am something I am not?"

"And what are you? Billionaire—"

"Gazillionaire."

"Doctor."

"Surgeon," he corrects me.

"Someone who’s hiding away from the world because he has some deep-rooted hurt."

He laughs—a fake, hard noise that prickles over my skin. My stomach clenches. Shit, this is the not the man who had pulled me on top of him and stroked my hair until I’d fallen asleep. This is not the generous lover, who’d dived into my pussy and eaten it out like it was creme brûlée.

"What happened?" I frown. "Why are you like a chef with a hangover."

"Maybe because I don’t like the look of your face this morning?"

My heart cracks a little; it fucking splinters. Asshole, jerk, clod. I glare at him, "Oh, you seemed to like me well enough last night."

"I was proving a point."

"What?" My heart begins to race and sweat beads my palms. It can’t be... He can’t be this…arrogant and mean, this ready to hurt me... Not after how he’d kissed me and touched me like I belonged to him. Does he do this to every woman he’ takes to bed? Does he make them all feel that special? Maybe, whichever female he’s with for the moment is made to feel like the center of his universe. "What point?" I insist, "Tell me."

"That you won’t get through the holiday period without sleeping with me. That all I have to do is look at you and you’ll open your legs for me. That you’re so needy, you’ll do anything for a touch, a kiss, little bit of attention, to make you feel special—you—"

My hand connects with his cheek before the thought has time to form in my brain. Pain shoots up my arm and my palm stings. I lower my arm, my breath coming in pants like I’ve run a mile to get here… When I’d walked over to the shed in search of him, and overheard the last of the conversation... I don’t mean anything to him. Fine. I’m a transaction. That’s all right too. But this… Insulting me just out of spite… No, this is unacceptable.

I step back, "The deal’s off, you horrible man. All the money in the world isn’t worth putting up with the lies that pour out of your mouth."

He tilts his head as the outline of my fingerprints blooms on his cheek. "Leave then," he drawls.

"You think I can’t?"

"Do it. See if I stop you." His features close; those colorless eyes seem to grow darker. Is he hurt? Why should he be hurt? He provoked me. What did he expect? That I’d simply take it…because…of this attraction to him…that I’d hope would deepen into something else? Ha! How stupid could I be. Or maybe, he thought I’d stay because of the money. Think again, asshole.

I pivot to walk away, and that’s when the world seems to explode. I slap my hands to my ears as a clanging sound overpowers the space. What the hell? What is that? All of my brain cells seem to knock together at once. I turn… "What’s happening—?" That’s when I notice the wall… No walls, plural, of clocks. Every single available space across the walls of the room is chockablock with clocks. Old clocks, antiques, made of steel, of wood, newer models made of glass and chrome… And every single one of them is mechanical. Their alarms clang out in different tones to indicate it’s nine in the morning. I blink…turn around in a circle, taking in the sheer variety of time-keeping devices. "Wow." I turn to face him as the last of the sound dies away. "Holy shit," I breathe. "What is this…place?"

"It’s mine," he says simply.

"But the cabin… I mean, that palatial house which you guys refer to as the cabin." I mutter, "It belongs to Saint?"

"It belongs to all of the Seven."

"Oh."

"The last person who had access to it was Saint. When I injured my finger, I told them I needed to borrow it for the duration of the season."

"Right, so he sent me here…"

"Knowing I was here already."

"Why would he do that?"

"To fuck with me?" His lips twist.

"But this place…" I glance around the walls again, "This is yours?"

"I built it in the backyard."

"You constructed it by yourself?"

"I employed an architect. And a builder."

"Of course." I walk up to a clock on my left. In the center is a horse, hind legs reared up in the air, its white mane caught as if in mid-jump. "And these clocks?"

"I collect them."

"Are they valuable…?"

"What do you think?"

I hear the humor in his voice, turn around to find him seated at the desk pushed up against the wall. I walk over, lean over his shoulder to find him looking through a magnifying glass at the guts of a clock.

"You repair them?"

He picks up what seems to be forceps, and which seem too delicate for his thick fingers to hold, and begins to tinker with the parts of the clock.

"You’re an uh, horologist?"

"I like to repair clocks. It’s a way to unwind."

I snicker, "Ha, you can be funny sometimes."

"Yeah, that’s me—a hoot," he says in a voice that signifies something to the contrary.

I stare at his bent head. His dark hair falls to about his shoulders, and is mussed on top. Has he been running his fingers through them? The locks had been surprisingly silky to touch yesterday when I’d held onto those ears and… I shift my weight from foot to foot.

"But you disabled the clocks in the cabin."

"They came with the house. I hadn’t acquired them."

"So, because you found—" I wave my hand in the air, "all these, and fixed them, you’re fine with them?"

"I put them together; I know what they are made of. I can trust them to be accurate."

"Unlike the ones back there."

"Yep."

"So, you are fine surrounded by these…" I turn a circle, "time pieces on the wall, just not the ones you didn’t acquire yourself."

"Sounds about right."

"You know how weird you sound?"

He shoots me a glance, "Says the woman who calls her phone Hedwig, and who uses the names of desserts as swearwords."

"So, what’s wrong with that?" I frown.

He snickers, "My point exactly." He focusses on his work.

I shuffle my feet, wind a strand of hair through my fingers.

"I haven’t forgiven you yet," I mutter.

"You can leave at any time."

But I don’t want to, and therein lies the problem. What the hell is keeping me here? Him? This chemistry between us that I have to explore? What happens if I do explore it further? Will I survive the time we spend together?

And what if I did walk away?

Would I forever wonder how it could have been between us? What if he was…the one? Ha, me and my romantic notions. But this is Christmas; I’m allowed to indulge myself, right?

I lean around him and stare at the contents of the clock’s insides on the table.

He continues tinkering away…or whatever it is he’s doing there.

The pieces of the machinery seem to be disjointed, yet they come together to form a certain symmetry, to dance together and make music. Like us.

If he were to only give us a chance. Do I want to give him a chance? "Weston, you’re not a douche, you know."

He grunts.

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. "Why do you have to be this macho?"

"Why are you still here?" he growls.

"Because I cooked bloody breakfast and came here to call you. Then, you had to go and pull that…"

He straightens, "What?"

"That…" I wave a hand in the air. "That…obnoxious McFuck act of yours."

He swivels around to face me, "What was that? What did you call me?"

"Obnoxious?"

"After that."

"Mc…McFuck?"

What does it mean?"

I raise my shoulders, “Dunno, it just, uh, seemed appropriate."

He chuckles, "You’re a funny one, Buttercup."

I groan, "I am not sure I like that name yet."

"I am not sure I like you either." He looks me up and down, his tone serious, "But hell, if I don’t want you to stay."

"Is that an apology?"

"For what?" He glares.

"For being horrible to me."

"Was I?"

I huff, “Fine. Whatever. And," I tuck my elbows into my sides, "I’m sorry too."

"For what."

I jerk my chin toward the reddened skin of his cheek.

"I deserved it," he replies.

I open and shut my mouth, "You…you did?"

"You should know though, that it turns me on when you get physical with me."

I squeeze my eyes shut. Do not lose it; do not. I draw in a breath, "I’ll ignore that."

Turning, I stalk to the door.

"Where are you going?"

"I made breakfast." I pause, then turn to scowl at him, "Aren’t you coming?"

Fifteen minutes later he pushes back the plate with a sigh. I’d made chocolate pancakes for me, regular ones for him. Why had I bothered…? Good question. Perhaps because, as much as I hate him, I hate seeing him starve. Food is sacred. It’s how we nourish not just our bodies, but our souls, and if there is a soul that needs some sustenance… It is this alphahole’s. A slurping sound fills the space. I glance sideways as Max licks the bottom of his bowl. He raises his head, then patters over to push his nose into my lap. "Hey boy, you still hungry?"

"Don’t feed him more," Weston warns.

I frown, "I wasn’t going to."

"Yes, you were too." He grins, "When you twitch your nose, it means you’re thinking something sappy in your head."

"Am not." I set my jaw.

"Yep, you were." He chuckles, "And PS, you’re welcome."

I frown up at him, "For what?"

"For the compliment I’m about to give you."

I shake my head. Jeez, this man… I mean, he can’t be real. He can’t be this incorrigible, can he? He stares at me; I meet his gaze.

His lips curl, and of course, my heart does that little flip-flop it always does when he goes all bad boy on me. "Fine. I give in." I huff, "What compliment?"

"You’re not a bad cook." He smirks.

I open and close my mouth. "That was a delicious breakfast," I half-snarl.

"My, but you like your own cooking, huh?"

My lips turn down, "You can tell, huh?"

His brow furrows. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

"I know I’m not svelte and long-limbed, like some of the women you date."

He frowns, then looks me up and down, "Firstly, let's get something straight. You look incredible."

Wait, was that a compliment? It was a compliment. Wasn't it?

"And secondly," his eyes gleam, "have you been keeping tabs on me?"

"Of course not." I huff.

"You’ve been keeping tabs," he concludes, looking way too self-satisfied.

"Hardly."

"It's okay, you can admit it." He smirks, "It's only natural to want to follow what I have been up to. Some of us have the kind of irresistible charisma that attracts attention."

Oh, that compliment thing I said earlier, forget it.

"You're so full of yourself," I scoff. "Seriously, how can someone say what you do and keep a straight face?”

He stares at me.

I fidget in my seat opposite him. "And yeah, maybe I tracked your exploits in the media, a little." I admit.

He arches an eyebrow.

I throw up my hands. "Oh, all right, so I did read up about you."

His grin widens.

"I was curious how you looked in your scrubs, okay?" My cheeks flush.

He blinks, "In my scrubs?"

I nod, "I have a thing for men in uniform."

His grey eyes grow stormy, "I could wear them for you, if you ask nicely."

I gulp, chafe my thighs together to relieve that gnawing emptiness that’s been building since I woke up this morning. Then he had to go and spoil it all with his rudeness.

His features tighten. "I’m sorry," he offers.

I stare. "For which part?" I ask. "For being horrible to me from the moment I walked in here or is it for a specific insult?"

He tips back his chair until it rests on the back legs, "On second thought..." He scratches his chin, "What can I say? That’s me. It’s not my fault."

"No?" I frown.

"It’s the way I was born."

"That’s your excuse, huh?"

"At least, I don’t lie. My life is an open book." He winces as he says it.

"What?" I ask.

"Maybe too open, on occasion."

"What do you mean?"

He rolls his shoulders, a dead giveaway that he’s uncomfortable. Less than 48 hours with him, and I’m interpreting his actions. What is that about anyway?

"Tell me."

He folds his arms over his chest, "For the record, I like your curves."

Heat sears my cheeks. "You’re kidding me."

He shakes his head, "I like that you have a healthy appetite. There’s something sexy about a woman who enjoys cooking and eating."

"Thank you, and it’s baking."

"You cooked breakfast," he points out.

"Yeah." I shift in my seat. Hell, I’m terrible with taking compliments. "And you are deflecting."

He barks out a laugh, ”You caught me there.”

"What is it?" I ask, genuinely curious. What could make this confident, dominant man, this uncomfortable?

"I may have a…uh, sex video to my name."

"Sex video." I blink.

"My ex—" He raises his shoulders, "She got hissy when I dumped her. Took it out by leaking a video."

"Oh," I swallow. My guts twist and something bubbles up my throat—something hot and angry and twisted. Something like jealous. Holy shit, why the hell do I care who he slept with? Except, I do, for some reason. Not like I have a claim on him or anything, but hell, for some reason, I’ve been trying to not think of the women in his past. I mean, if I don’t acknowledge them, then they don’t exist, right?

"A sex video, huh?" I clear my throat, "Is it uh—explicit?"

He glares at me.

Right."Of course, it is," I mutter. Something hot presses down at my temples. Shit, okay. This isn’t good. What does it matter to me what he did? He’s paying me. It’s the only reason I’m here, right? Not. I stare back at him, and therein lies the issue. I’ve been falling for this obnoxious, alphahole from the time I’d first laid eyes on him. A ripple of something claws down my spine. Don’t fall in love with him; don’t. He’d warned me about that already. Apparently, he knows me better than I know myself. I push away from the table so fast that Max yelps. "Sorry, buddy," I mutter, then walk past the table.

"Where are you going?" he asks

"None of your concern."

"You haven’t finished your breakfast."

"So?"

"So, you’ll need your strength."

"Oh, to hell with you. Don’t pretend to care about me when you clearly don’t, and—" He swoops out his arm, snags my wrist.

"Let go," I say through clenched teeth.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he tugs on me, with just enough force that I am pulled toward him. He turns his chair, then lifts me up by my waist and props me on his lap.

"What are you doing?" I mumble. My cheeks heat. Not that his lap isn’t comfortable, and hell, if the entire maneuver wasn’t hot. I mean, he’d handled my body like I’m made of candy floss. Do I taste as sweet to him? "Let me go." I dig my elbow into his chest.

He huffs, "Stop wriggling." There’s a hint of a smile in his voice.

"And if I don’t?" I twist around to face him. The curve of my waist bumps against the hard length of him in his pants. "Oh."

He grins. "See what you do to me?"

"Did you say that to Ms. Sex Video woman?"

His features shudder. Damn it, why did I have to go there?

"Sorry, none of my business."

"I didn’t." His tone is clipped, "I never told her that. Nor did I ever seat her in my lap like this or…" he leans around me, grabs my plate and pulls it over, "...feed her breakfast." He scoops up some of my chocolate pancake, then holds the fork up to my lips.

"Open," his voice is husky.

A shiver runs down my spine. He’s only giving me food, so why does it have to feel this…erotic?

"I'll eat it if you do," I whisper.

"Hmm." He glances from me to the piece of food on the fork, then back at me. "I have a better idea."

He brings the fork to his mouth, closes his lips around the chocolate crepe. He chews, swallows, then leans in and places his lips on mine. I gasp, and he darts his tongue inside my mouth. The taste of chocolate, of dark edginess and hot sex...the unique flavor that is Weston-fucking-Kincaid fills my mouth, coats my tongue, overwhelms my senses. My head spins. My toes curl. He pulls away and I lean forward. I hear a sound of protest. Hell, is that me?

I crack open my eyelids—when had I shut them?—to find he's scooping up another forkful of the breakfast that I will always associate with him. Gah! I did not think that, did not allow myself to indulge in such utter sentimental crap.

"Did you like that?" I whisper.

"Let's say that I may have underestimated the merits of dessert for breakfast."

"Are we talking about the same thing?" I frown.

"I was talking about your chocolate pancake," he snickers, "which you should eat." He raises the fork, "You need your nourishment."

I part my lips and he slides the food into my mouth.

I chew then lick my lips.

His gaze drops to my mouth, "My, my, what beautiful lips you have, little Red." His eyes gleam.

"All the better to kiss you with," I murmur.

His gaze intensifies. The heat from his body seems to deepen. A bead of sweat slides down my spine.

He picks up another forkful of the crepe, holds it up. "Finish it," his voice lowers to a hush, and I'm instantly wet. My nerve endings pop; my brain cells seem to melt all at once.

I close my mouth around the fork, wipe the tines clean, chew, then swallow.

"What a gorgeous throat you have, little Red," his voice is hard. As is the evidence of his arousal that stabs into the valley between my butt cheeks.

"All the better to take you in my mouth," the words tumble from my lips. What am I doing? Indulging this man’s love for nursery rhymes and children’s fairy tales is one thing, but taking it to the extent where the story of Little Red Riding Hood comes to mean something else completely? Not to mention, what was that thing with the rabbit? Had he actually compared himself to my favorite vibrator?

He scoops up the last morsel of food from the plate, holds it up to my lips. "You have a choice," he says.

"I do?" Do I even want to know?

He nods, "You can have your last bite before, or after."

"After?" I gulp, "After what?"

"After Christmas shopping."