The Billionaire’s Christmas Bride by L. Steele

32

Weston

What the fuck am I playing at? Why are you allowing her to see how much she affects you? Peeing on her? Seriously? Fucking fuck, it’s not something that had crossed my mind… Not before her. Is that how much I want to possess her? Is that how much I want to imprint myself on every cell of her body?My vision narrows. The hair on my forearms rises. This crazy-ass need to own her… It’s new, it’s different, it’s real. I bend my knees, peer into her face.

Her pupils are blown; the blue in them has deepened to an almost purple. Her cheeks are flushed, her pulse skitters at the base of her neck. "Do you, Princess?"

"I..." She bites the inside of her cheek, then lowers her chin, "I do."

"I didn’t hear you."

She draws in a breath, tips up her chin. She takes a step forward until her toes bump mine. "I want you to show how much you want me, what you’ll do to possess me, how much you need to ensure that no one will have me like you do."

"Good." I step away from the entrance of the shower stall, jerk my chin, "After you."

She frowns, then walks past me. I follow her past the bath tub, out the door of the ensuite, into the bedroom. She approaches the foot of the bed.

"Stop," I call out.

She pauses, angles her body.

"Don’t turn around."

She trembles, but obeys.

I stalk over to her, wrap the towel I'd snatched on my way out of the bathroom around her shoulders, drag it down her back, over the lush curves of her butt, her strong calves, about those shapely ankles—that I want locked around my neck, fast.

She gasps.

I straighten, then circle around to her front.

Her chest rises and falls.

I lower my gaze to her chest and her shoulders quiver. I pat the towel about her creamy breasts; her nipples pucker. I lower my head, bite down on the pebbled flesh. She moans.

A droplet of water slides down the valley between her breasts. I lick it up, then follow the trail of another down to her belly button. I curl my tongue into the indentation; she groans. Lower my face to her pussy and close my mouth around the delectable flesh. She gasps, and the sound of her pleasure percolates into my cells, filters through my blood, straight to my balls.

I straighten, peer into her face.

"Get on the bed—on your back, legs apart, pussy exposed, hands behind your neck, so you can’t touch yourself," I growl.

Her muscles quiver.

"Do it," I snap.

She scrambles up on the bed, turns around, lies flat, spreads her knees, locks her fingers behind her neck.

I smile, "My, aren’t you the obedient one today."

She glowers at me and I widen my stance. I draw the towel, now damp with the water from her body, down my chest, my stomach, my thighs. Her gaze follows my every move, her pupils dilated, breasts swollen. I toss aside the towel, lower my gaze to her pussy, to where the evidence of her arousal drips down her inner thigh. My dick throbs; my groin hardens.

I lean over, scoop up her cum, and suck on it.

She whines.

"Want some?"

She nods.

I tilt my head, arch an eyebrow. "Maybe later." I smirk, "If you've been good enough, that is."

She groans, mumbles something under her breath.

"What’s that, Princess?"

She stares at me, then presses her lips together.

I laugh, "You’re learning fast."

I fist my cock, swipe it from root to tip. She glances at it and her lips part.

"Want a taste of this?"

She pouts, doesn’t reply.

"Damn, but you beat me at my own game, huh?"

She scowls.

I chuckle. Then walk around the bed to the side table, pull it open and get a condom.

I slip it on, walk back to the foot of the bed.

"Soft fuck or hard fuck?"

She purses her lips.

"Both?" I tilt my head, "Neither?"

She shakes her head.

"One after the other, maybe?"

She swallows; her chest rises and falls.

"Maybe I should decide, huh?" I tap a finger to my chin. "Perhaps I should surprise you?"

I lean over, grab her by her ankles.

She squeaks.

I pull her forward, until her hips are almost at the edge. I kneel on the bed, draw her legs over my shoulders, position my dick at her entrance.

Her belly quivers, her thighs spasm, and goosebumps flare on her skin. Good, I am not the only one who’s not going to be able to walk away from this unaffected. "You ready, Princess?"

She tips her chin up, opens her mouth. I plunge inside her. Her entire body bucks. She flings out her arms, grabs hold of the sheets. I wait, wait for her to adjust to my size. Her eyelids flutter and a bead of sweat trickles down her temple. "Eyes on me," I order.

She looks up, holds my gaze. The pleasure and hunger, and that edge of desperation in them, mirrors the strange confluence of emotions inside of me. I grip her thighs and hold them further apart.

Her breathing grows shallow, but she jerks her head, and I begin to fuck her in earnest. I plunge into her again and again. The bed shudders with each thrust. The headboard slams into the wall, punctuated by her cries, her moans, her gasps, her whines, her wails. Each sound from her beautiful lips sinks into my blood, curls around my heart, hacks away at the walls I have built up against the world.

My God, this woman… She tears me apart. The scent of her, the taste of her, the sweet poison of her cunt...will be my death. I pull back, stay poised at the edge of her channel, move over her, until my face is close to hers. My lips above hers, breathing in her perfume, her essence. The very breath that we share ties us together.

I kick my hips forward, sink into her. "Come," I command, and she arches up and off the bed. I fit my mouth to hers, draw from her scream as she breaks apart under me. I sink in and out of her, drawing out the aftermath of her orgasm, reveling in her complete submission. My chest hurts, my temples throb, my balls draw up and I let myself come inside of her.

I collapse forward on my elbows. A bead of sweat trickles down my chin and plops on her cheek. Her eyeballs move behind her closed eyelids. I pull out of her, tie the condom, then walk over to the waste basket and toss it in. When I return to the bed, I pull the covers over her, slip in between the sheets and pull her to me.

I spoon her, our bodies in sync from throat to chest to hips. I throw my leg over hers and fall asleep.

When I wake up, I am on my own.

I glance at the dent in the pillows, the mussed-up sheets, the scent of sex, of chocolate and cinnamon, is heavy in the air. Her scent. My dick lengthens. Shit, haven’t I had enough of her? My fingertips tingle. Why the hell do I want to touch her, pull her to me and hold her, then bury myself inside her again and again? I shake my head. The fuck is wrong with me?

I sit up, swing my legs over the side of the bed. I head for the walk-in closet, step in and pull on a pair of sweat pants. When I step out, I hear a sound from behind the door that leads to the kitchen. I head toward it and the scent of chocolate deepens. I wasn’t dreaming then? I step inside, come to a stop.

She stands at the counter, back to me, wearing a shirt—my shirt. It falls to half-way down her thighs, clings to the swell of her butt. The valley between her arsecheeks is a dark shadow that calls to me. I curl my fingers into fists. Fuck, get a grip on your desires, asshole. I take a step forward. She throws her head back, sways those ample hips from side to side, bumps, grinds. I reach down adjust the thickness that tents my crotch. Jesus H Christ, what is she up to now?

She flicks her head from side to side, holds up her spatula—that same infernal spatula she’d threatened me with the first time I saw her at the cabin. I move toward her. She lowers her chin and screeches. What the fuck? I stare as she croons under her breath, then rotates her body in a figure eight. Huh, is that what they call twerking? I grab my very interested dick, pull on it as she moves her butt in the opposite direction. Sweat beads my forehead. Fuck, she only has to twitch that gorgeous arse and this asshole will come running. Fuck.

I stalk to her. She angles her body, lowers her head and sings into the spatula, the lyrics from a famous Christmas anthem—so famous that even I recognize it.

I shake my head. "Are you singing Last Christmas by Wham!?"

She howls out the next set of lyrics in answer.

I wince. As gorgeous as her pussy is, as sassy as her temperament is, as beautifully sharp as her mind is… Her singing voice...? Well, let’s just say I sing better, and I’ve been asked not to sing.

I close the distance between us, place a hand on her shoulder.

She screams, turns, and brings the spatula down on me.