The Billionaire’s Christmas Bride by L. Steele

33

Amelie

The spatula connects with his hand… His injured hand. His shoulders bunch and the color fades from his cheeks. To his credit, he doesn’t cry out in pain. His big body goes solid; his chest planes seem to expand and grow bigger as he draws in a breath. Then he takes a step back, another, until the backs of his knees connect with one of the stools at the breakfast bar. He sinks down into it, brings his hand up to his chest and cradles it there. Sweat beads his forehead.

"Ow," he mumbles.

"Bloody apple crumble," I wheeze. The spatula slips from my hand, falls to the floor, bounces once. Gooey chocolate sprays across the floor, dots the edges of his sweats.

"Oh. My," I gasp, "Ohmygod." I take a step forward and my foot slides on the chocolate crepe batter. I stumble, then right myself. "Oh, hell," I cry. "I am so sorry. So sorry. I didn’t mean it." I leap forward, reach for his hand.

He jerks back.

I freeze.

"I didn’t mean it. You surprised me," I blubber, "Did I hurt you? Ohmigod, omigod, of course, I hurt you. Oh my—"

"Stop," he barks out the command.

I stutter, "I’m sorry, I really am."

"You mean you didn’t hurt me on purpose?"

I open and close my mouth. "How could you think that?" I cry. "Do you really think I would—?"

One side of his mouth curls.

I purse my lips together. "You horrible man." I step toward him.

He holds up his good hand, "Stop, before you make it worse."

"Oh." A pressure builds behind my eyes. "Is it bad? Did I break it again?"

"It hadn’t healed enough for that to happen." He grunts, "No, you hit the finger in the same place it broke the first time around."

"I didn’t." I scowl. I hadn’t hit his finger, only his palm, I swear. I stare at his finger in the splint, then back up at his face. "You’re so adept at working around that, that I forget sometimes you are injured."

"Is that a compliment for my dexterity?" His lips kick up.

"Something like that." I stare at his features. His color’s definitely better than it was a minute ago. "Do you want any painkillers?" I shuffle my weight from foot to foot, "Maybe some of the chocolate cookies I baked and brought here?"

"Haven’t you given them to Mother?" He frowns.

I glance away, twist my fingers together. "You were right. It was a stupid idea. I should have ordered something from the shops or stopped on the way here to buy something."

"It was a thoughtful gesture," he replies.

I shoot him a sideways glance. Is he, like, pulling my leg?

He meets my gaze, holds up his hand and winces.

"Oh." My chest tightens. "It’s hurting, isn’t it? Is it bleeding? Sure I can’t get you something for the pain?" I step forward. He widens his stance. I slip in between his legs, glance at his injured palm. "Can you, uh, wiggle the other fingers or something?"

He bends the others, shows me the bird by default.

"Guess you’re feeling all right, huh?" I slide back, but he moves his thighs in, traps me in place.

"Oh." I gulp.

"Hmm," he tilts his head, "were you serious about your earlier offer?"

Which one?"

"About making the pain better."

I chew the inside of my cheeks, survey his features, which take on an expression of innocence. As if. I’d bet my last chocolate eclair that he has something up his sleeve.

"Depends," I venture.

"On what?"

"On what you want me to do."

"I’ll only tell you if you agree to it."

"I can’t agree to it unless you tell me what it’s about."

"Trust me." His eyes gleam.

Ha, I draw in a breath. "Famous last words," I mumble.

"I heard that." He holds up his uninjured hand. "If you don’t want to do it, you don’t need to."

"Really?"

He nods, "I swear on chocolate."

Hmm.I frown, "You don’t like chocolate."

"But you do."

"You’re supposed to swear on something you hold dear." I huff.

"I swear on you."

My mouth drops open. Oh, my. Did he say that? He didn’t. Should I ask him to repeat it? Nah, ignore it.

"Fine." I swipe my hair over my head, "What is the thing you want of me? What should I do to make the pain better?"

He holds up his injured finger, "Kiss it."

"That’s all?"

"That’s all."

"Okay." I draw in a breath, lower my head, and press my lips to his finger. I straighten and he tightens the net formed by his thighs, pulls me closer. My core brushes the prominent tent at his crotch, the one I have been trying to ignore.

"I did what you asked," I say, my voice breathless, "let me go."

"That’s not the only place it hurts." He sticks out his lower lip.

"No?" I bite the inside of my cheek.

Weston has the kind of pillowy lower lip made for a pout, but honestly, this is the first time he’s pulled that one on me.

Apparently, it takes a rap from a spatula to turn him more amicable. Note to self: next time, aim for his hard head. That might knock some sense into him, hmm?

"No." He shakes his head, "What about the finger between my legs."

I stare at him for half a second, then groan. "Eeyuck, your lines are getting worse."

"And you’re getting better at easing my pain."

I shake my head, "So, you want a blow job, before breakfast?"

"Definitely before breakfast, and during and after too."

I squeeze my eyes shut, "I’ll pretend you didn’t say that."

"You promised," he wheedles. "Come on, Princess, just a kiss. Take the frog out of the well; show it the world."

I laugh, "That was almost clever."

"Right?" He smirks; his chest seems to swell with how pleased he is with himself. This man? I don’t know if I should slap him or kiss him. Or both, one after the other.

I frown.

He chuckles, "You hurt me; it’s up to you to make it better."

He has a point there.

I drop my gaze to his crotch, then to his face.

His gaze narrows.

I bite down on my lower lip, and those grey eyes lighten, a sure hint that he’s aroused. I squeeze my thighs together. So am I. He raises his hand, rubs his thumb over my lower lip, until I release it. "You are not allowed to hurt that; only I have the permission to do that."

"Oh." His words coil around my heart and my blood begins to pound in my veins. That possessiveness in him? It kills me every time. I reach forward, palm him through his pants. He groans. His chest planes seem to harden.

I rub at his length, and I swear, his dick thickens.

"Take it out," he murmurs.

I swallow, slide my fingers down his waistband and curl my fingers around his shaft. The muscles of his belly jump. I push down the waistband; the heavy length of him fills my palm. The vein on the underside throbs, the head swollen and angry. Moisture beads the slit.

"Suck me off," he orders.

I bend my head, lick my tongue around the head. The salty, tangy taste of him fills my mouth. I peer up at him. "I want…" I swallow, " Can I…?"

"What is it?"

I reach around him, scoop up some of the chocolate mixture from the table, rub it across the head of his cock.

"Jesus," he breathes.

I hold his gaze, lower my head again and take him inside my mouth.

"Fucking, fuck." He digs his fingers into my hair, tugs. My scalp hurts. Goosebumps ripple down my spine. I lick the chocolate off his dick and the dark taste of cocoa, edged with his cum, the musky taste of Weston, swirls over my tongue. I swallow; he draws in a breath. His loosens the hold of his thighs around me and I sink to my knees. I grip his thigh for support, squeeze the base of his dick, and his entire body seems to grow rock solid.

"Take me down your throat," he growls.

I bob my head forward, and gag. Saliva drips from the edges of my mouth and my lungs burn. Jesus, he’s too big. Will I ever get used to his size?

"Breathe through your nose," he directs.

I swallow, and his fingers dig into my scalp. Shockwaves of lust race across my skin. I moan, take in a breath, then another.

"Eyes on me."

I peer up at him, at those colorless eyes that reflect back what I am—his woman, his slave, his to do with as he wants. And what do I want? Him. All of him. His corrupted tastes, his filthy ways, that tenderness he hides deep inside and reveals to his nieces, his family, to Max. I want that. I want to be at the center of his world, command his attention as he demands mine.

I tilt my head and he slips further down my throat. My chest heaves, my breasts ache, and that empty sensation between my legs intensifies.

His features twist. His brings his hand to my face, rubs away the drool from my chin. He cups my cheek, and something like tenderness glitters in those eyes. He tugs on my hair; I pull back. His dick slips out with a pop. He hauls me up to my feet, peers into my face. "What are you doing to me?" he whispers.

"Whatever it is," I lean in close enough for us to share breath, "I feel the same."

His eyebrows knit. He searches my face again. The raw intensity of his gaze sweeps through my mind, pushes away all other thoughts. He bridges the distance between us, then closes his mouth over mine.