The Billionaire’s Christmas Bride by L. Steele

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.

"What’s wrong?" He stalks into the room, "I heard you—"

His shoulders block out the rest of the room. The planes of his chest are hard. I rake my gaze down his concave stomach, to where his cock juts out between those powerful legs and those gorgeous feet that he’s currently about to place in a puddle of chocolate sauce.

"Watch out—"

His feet slip on the gooey streak on the floor and his big body tilts back. Shit, I leap forward, reach for him… I mean, what the hell am I trying to do? It’s not like I could stop him from falling, and hello, he isn’t wearing any clothes, so I couldn’t exactly grab onto anything, except...Well... You know. A-n-d nope, I don't want to risk hurting that part of him. I stumble aside.

Too late, I realize I am about to step on a banana peel. Yes, really, a banana peel. Can my life get any more cartoonish? I twist my body, lose my balance anyway, and pitch forward. "Oh, no, no, no," I wail, throw up my hands, squeeze my eyes shut and connect nose first with a hard barrier. Shock waves ricochet through my head, down my spine. The breath whooshes out of me. "Ugh!" I flail around, and my arms are caught and twisted behind me.

"The hell is wrong with you?"

His voice rumbles below my ear and that’s when I realize I am sprawled over his body. His very naked body. My cheek is smooshed against that delectable chest, my breasts flattened against that eight pack, my pelvis positioned right over that hard, gorgeous part of him that stabs into the cleft between my pussy lips.

Max dances around us, barking near my ear. "Max, stop," I pant, then try to pull back from the annoying man I am currently draped over.

He scissors his legs around mine, "Stop struggling."

I tip my chin-up, "What are you trying to do?" I scowl.

The light shining through the window brings out the gold flecks in his eyes. Huh? So his eyes aren’t completely grey? Imagine that.

"I heard you scream." He glowers up at me, "I was convinced there was an intruder in here."

"No, it’s just me," I huff. Gosh, he’s grumpy first thing in the morning, huh? Is it because he hasn’t had his way with me yet? Would stabbing his dick inside of me put him in a better mood? My thighs clench. My nipples tighten.

He tilts his head, his lips taking on that curl that I hate… And love. Oh, my God, stop acting like a sex-crazed slut—but hello, can you blame me? That mussed up hair, that broad chest, over which I am sprawled. That warmth of his that rises up from his big body, to coil around me, sink into my blood, and travel straight to that emptiness in my center. Gah, stop that.

I push back; his grasp tightens. That hard length of his pushes up and into my very eager center. I gulp. Okay, don’t panic; don’t. Pretend it’s normal. Just a conversation, that’s all this is. I tip up my chin. "I, uh, had a little accident," I mutter.

"I can see that." He pushes back my hair that’s come lose from its bun on top of my head, then rubs at a spot on my cheek. He brings it to his mouth, sucks on his digit. "Chocolate." He grimaces, "Of course, it’s chocolate."

"Is there any other kind of ingredient worth waking up early for?"

"There are other reasons worth losing sleep over," he smirks.

I scoff, push at his chest, "Let me go."

"No."

Max shoves his face between us, aims his tongue at Weston’s mouth. Wes groans, turns his face the other way.

Max barks, wags his tail, turns to me instead. I crane my head away, "Chocolate isn't good for you, Max," I scold.

Max pants, then shoves his nose into my throat. "Ooh, it’s cold." I giggle. He licks my throat, then proceeds to place his paw on my breast.

"Hey," Weston releases my arm, grabs Max by the scruff of his neck and places him aside. Max barks. The moment Wes lets him go, he jumps forward toward me, shoves his nose down my blouse.

I laugh, "Max, no, that tickles."

"Bloody hell," Weston swears. He releases both of my arms, then grabs Max. I roll away from him. Weston jumps to his feet, stalks across the kitchen and places Max in the hallway. He points a finger at the puppy. "Chocolate on the floor, buddy. I don't want you getting into that." Max groans.

I swear, that dog can speak.

The mutt blinks up at Weston who shakes his head. "Nice try little fella, but you can’t come in here right now." He closes the door.

I spring up to my feet, and slip again, on the gooey dough this time, slide forward, tilt back, grab hold of a chair which tips over. Gah! The world tilts again; I squeak, throw out a hand, which is grasped. I am pulled upright.

"Steady." There’s amusement in his voice.

"Thank you." I tug on my palm, but his grip tightens around my wrist. He tugs, I careen forward, and he grabs me and swings me up. I wind my legs around his waist.

"Hello, there." He waggles his eyebrows.

"What are you doing?" My voice is breathless. Bloody hell. His dark, edgy, masculine scent entwines with the chocolate-banana notes of the muffin mixture. My mouth waters and it’s not for the muffins. My head spins and I dig my fingers into his shoulders.

He walks to the other side of the table, then plops me on it. He keeps his fingers on my hips. "That’s better."

"For…for what?" I clear my throat.

"For breakfast, of course." He grins, then steps back. He leans around me, grabs the chocolate sauce we bought.

I frown, "I was going to use that to cook."

“I have a better idea.” He holds it upside down, squirts. I glance down to find it dripping into the valley between my breasts.

"Wh…what are you doing?" I gulp.

His lips curl, he drops his head, and licks the sauce from the top of my cleavage toward the hollow of my throat.

"Oh," I stutter.

He sucks on the delicate skin at the base of my neck and I feel the tug all the way down to my core. My pussy spasms and my thighs clench. "W…Weston," I plead.

He pauses, "Do you want me to stop?" He leans back, "Should I leave?" He takes a step back.

I throw out a hand and grab his hip, "Wait."

He tilts his head, "What do you want?"

I want you inside me; I want you to fuck me right here.I blink, "I… I want to complete the recipe I set out to cook."

He frowns, "You want to make breakfast?"

"Y...yeah," I nod, "it’s a new recipe I’m trying out for—"

He scratches his chest and my gaze drops to those cut abs. Not that I hadn’t noticed them before... I mean, I’d managed to look away though, so he wouldn’t catch me staring, but now that he’s drawing attention to it, well… I can’t help but stare. "For a doctor you sure have a great physique."

"For a chef, you sure haven’t figured out the obvious."

I frown. "What do you mean?"

"You were making… What was it you were going to create?"

"Muffins." I frown, "Banana chocolate muffins."

"The oven," he jerks his chin over my shoulder, "the electricity’s not back."

"Oh!"

"And the refrigerator isn't working either," he adds. "Or didn't you notice?"

"I... I didn't," I confess, and I had opened the refrigerator to pull out the ingredients I needed. Hell! I drag my fingers through my hair. "How can I be such a ditz?"

"Maybe your mind was otherwise occupied?" He chuckles.

"How do you mean?"

"Want me to spell it out?" He takes a step forward.

I shake my head, "No, no, it’s fine. You’re right, I was, uh, thinking of other things."

"Oh?" He smirks, "Did it involve me in anyway?"

"Ah, your family actually. When, uh, when do we set off to see them?"

"In four days."

"Four days." I gulp, glance around the room. Four days, during which I still have to resist him. How the hell am I going to get through this?

"What should I do about breakfast?" I pout.

"I have an idea." His grin widens, "Why don’t I make my special instead?"

Twenty minutes, later I sit across the table from him. He’d, thankfully, changed into sweats and a long sleeved T-shirt, which damn, it only set off his broad shoulders even more. I mean, the only thing to beat the sight of this man unclothed is him sitting across the table, with Max at his feet. I’d cleaned up the kitchen by the time Weston had returned with the little guy in tow. I’d topped off Max’s bowl, which he’d wolfed down in minutes, before taking up his position by the table.

Now, he watches as Weston pours the cereal into the bowls. He tops his off with milk, offers it to me. I refuse. Yeah, for a chef, I don’t like milk. Not in my tea, nor in anything else.

"This?" I mutter, "This is your idea of cooking?"

"Hey, don’t mock it until you’ve tried it."

He uses his uninjured hand to dip his spoon into his bowl, and begins to eat.

"It’s not chocolate," I whine.

"Precisely." He scoops up more of the stuff.

I frown, "How the hell am I going to get through the days without cooking?"

"You could clean."

"Yeah, well." I shuffle in my seat. I absolutely hate household chores. Yeah, a tiny detail I’d left out. I know.

I glance down at my bowl, begin to scoop up the mixture. I eye it, then force some of it into my mouth. The flavors explode on my tongue. I crunch down, swallow it, reach for more.

"Not bad, huh?"

I raise a shoulder, "It’s all right." I eat some more. "I couldn’t use firewood to fire up the oven, could I?"

He stares across the table, "Probably not."

"Can I call someone to come and take a look?"

"I already called for service, but they won’t come until the storm blows over."

I frown, glance out the window. Snow comes down in heavy flakes. It does look bad, and if people are being careful before venturing out... "Maybe the roads will be blocked and we won’t be able to get there?"

"The storm’s supposed to blow itself out in 48 hours."

Right.

"Maybe the roads will be too slippery?"

"I’ve asked my driver to come by to take us there."

"Your driver?"

"He’s on standby in the village."

Of course. My shoulders droop. And I’d been hoping to put the time to good use by trying out new recipes, huh?

"Perhaps," he rolls his neck, "I could take a look at the generator."

"You would do that?" I cry.

"Hmm." He looks me up and down, "How badly do you want it?"

I frown, "What is that supposed to mean?"

He leans forward, "I mean, how far would you go to get the generator working, I wonder?"

I swallow, wriggle around in my seat, "How far do you want me to go?"

"I want you to beg."

"Excuse me?"

"Beg me to do it."

"No," I scowl.

"Fine then." He pushes back from the table, pivots to leave.

I frown, watch him as he prowls toward the door. I train my gaze back on the man, or rather on that fine piece of ass of his, those power thighs that undulate as he puts more distance between me… And the muffins I so very much want to bake. Is there not one thing in your life that you can complete? Not a relationship? Just about hold onto a business that if you don’t comply with his wishes… You’ll lose the money to ensure that it survives. Ugh, why do I always find myself stuck between a rock and a hard place? And no, I am not talking about certain parts of his anatomy that would give granite a run for its money.

He steps out of the kitchen and I call out, "Wait." I spring up and my chair careens back. "I beg you," I call out, "please fix the generator."

He shoots me a look over his shoulder, "Get on your knees, and ask like you mean it"

"Wh…what?"

"You heard me."

I scowl. If he thinks I am getting down on the floor—I confess, I didn’t do a great job of cleaning up earlier and there are crumbs everywhere. Ugh! Note to self: make sure to be more detailed in all parts of your life, so it doesn’t come to bite you in the arse—or in the pussy— My thighs tremble.

"Do it," he tilts his head, "or our deal is off."

"Fine, fine, whatever," I huff, then swing my leg onto the table.