The Billionaire’s Christmas Bride by L. Steele

49

Weston

The egg-timer rings as it sails through the air. It grazes the forehead of the intruder—who's wearing a mask. Of course, he is. Motherfucker! And my aim with my left hand sucks! Jesus, and I call myself a surgeon? When I most need precision, I am fucking hampered by the bloody splint. The asshole sways, then the knife slips from his fingers and crashes to the ground.

Amelie lurches forward. She stumbles and my heart slams into my ribcage. I jump forward, reach her as she collapses. I yank her to my side and behind me.

I raise my hand at the bastard, who's still standing. Why the hell is he still standing? I bury my fist in his face. He howls. I swing my fist at him again, he arches back, and I graze his shoulder. He straightens, then swings at me. I raise my left arm, deflect the blow. He comes at me again. I swear, angle my body to protect her. He lands a punch in my shoulder. At least it's the unhurt arm. I grunt, try to weave away. Behind me, Amelie stiffens and wriggles in my grasp. I turn my face—big mistake, asshole lands one in the side of my head. Sparks flare between my eyes. I growl, shake my head.

Amelie snarls, tugs in my grasp. "Let me go," she whispers.

"No," I growl, pull away as the bastard tries to deck me again.

"Unhand me, you macho ass." She pulls away, but I refuse to release her. She buries her teeth in my bicep. The fuck?

I grunt, loosen my hold on her, just as the intruder buries his fist in my other shoulder. A growl rips from me; my entire arm throbs...especially the motherfucking middle finger in a splint—"F-u-u-c-k!" I shake my head, focus my attention on the motherfucker. I curl my fist—my bloody left fist—swing at him, land a hit, then again. He grunts, lumbers backward. I head butt him, and he crashes into the counter behind him.

I raise my arm as Amelie yells, "Take that you bastard." She heaves the spatula at the stranger, catches him in the nose. He howls, presses his palm to his face, pushes away, turns and lurches around the dining table. "You bloody prick, you dare break into my apartment?” She grabs the next available weapon—which happens to be the other pie—the one left to cool on the counter behind her. She throws it at the retreating figure, catches him in the shoulder. He grunts, stumbles, steadies himself at the doorframe—asshole's wearing gloves as well.

"You think I am afraid? Huh? You think you can come in here and invade my space... you... you..."

"Dickhead?" I supply.

"No, that's an insult I reserve for you," she cries.

She glances around, reaches for another knife, throws it at him...misses. The blade embeds in the doorframe.

The intruder runs out of the kitchen. The next second, the door to the apartment slams behind him.

"You fucking prick, you horrible, mangy-faced, skiving, conniving, dodgy cocksucker—" She grabs hold of a whisk, hurls it at the door, picks up the pastry brush and throws it, then reaches for a wooden spoon.

I reach for her, "Amelie."

"Randy, ass-whipped... ignominious—" She throws the spoon in the direction of the door, but it only makes it halfway over before hitting the floor. She stumbles forward, reaches for the cookie cutter. I grab her wrist. She swings at me, her gaze wild, hair flowing about her shoulders.

"Princess, stop," I admonish her. She stabs the rolling pin in my chest, "Ouch." I grunt, press down with my fingers, "He's gone, Buttercup."

"What if he comes back?" she pants.

"He won't," I promise.

"What if he does?" she insists.

I lower her hand, slide the rolling pin from her fingers, "Then, uh, I promise to defend us from him, with—" I raise the rolling pin, "This?" I frown.

She glances at it, then at my face. "That's ridiculous." She giggles.

"It is, huh?" I quirk my lips, then hold up the blasted thing in a defensive gesture, "Well then, am I Westley enough for you?"

"No." She shakes her head, "I prefer you as Weston."

"And I fucking love you, any which way." I peruse her flushed features. "Even armed with deadly kitchen utensils—"

"Baking tools," she corrects me.

"What-fucking-ever." I fling the rolling pin aside, hold out my arms.

She jumps up and into my embrace.

"Fucking hell, Buttercup, you fucking bloody scared me," I say as I scoop her up.

She wraps her legs around my waist. "You stupid oaf, you left me, in the bed, on my own." She hiccoughs.

"Yeah, I am that and more," I agree. "You can call me any bloody insult under the sun and I deserve it all."

"He...he..." She buries her face in my chest, "He held a knife to my throat, oh, my God!" Her entire body shakes, her shoulders treble and my heart, my bloody heart stutters.

"Shh." I brush my cheek against her hair, "Shh, babe, I am here."

"You turned your back on...," she mumbles. "You walked out. How could you do that?" She digs her fingers into my shoulders and I wince.

Fuck, that's how much of a weak motherfucker I have become. I can't even hold up to being mauled by my woman. I reach the table, lower her onto it.

She clings to me. "Don't leave me," she mumbles between gusts of sobbing.

"Don't cry, Princess, please." I hold her close, wrap my arms around her. She doesn't let go, just buries her face in my chest and sobs. I try to pull back, and she only sobs louder.

"Babe," I mutter, "I just want to make sure that you're not hurt."

"You hurt me." She hiccups, "You ass, you broke my heart."

"I am so sorry, Cookie, I truly am."

"Huh?" She leans back in the circle of my arms. "Say that again."

"I am sorry?"

"No after that."

"I truly am?" I frown.

"No, you stupid goof, in between those two phrases."

"What did I say?" I blink.

"A word beginning with C?"

"Cunt?" I smirk.

She slaps my shoulder.

I wince. "Ouch, easy there, darling. I'm afraid he managed to get in a few hits as well."

"You'll survive," she grumbles. "Say it, you idiot, the nickname you just used."

"You mean Caramel?"

"No."

"Candy."

"Noooo," she growls.

"Cherry pie?"

"You are such a tease." She digs her fingers in the shoulder of my hurt arm.

"Hey," I wince, "you're hurting me."

"Good," she huffs, "you deserve it."

"I do," I agree.

She blinks, "Wow, you're actually agreeing that you are a jerkface?"

"Yep."

"And a dickhead?"

"But I am your dickhead, darling Cookie."

"I like that name best." She sniffs, "Especially when you kiss me after saying it."

I survey the skin of throat, which seems unbroken, thank fuck.

"How dare that bastard threaten you with a knife." I trace my thumb over the pulse that flutters at the base of her throat. "When I get my hands on him—"

"You will not go after him," she scolds.

"I must," I reply. "He came after what belongs to me."

"Do I belong to you?" she asks.

"Of course, you do." I run my finger down the hollow between her breasts, around her nipples.

"What are you doing?" Her voice is breathless.

"Uh, taking care of you."

"He didn't hurt me there."

My vision tunnels, "Bastard touched you. I am going to kill him, I—"

She grips the 'V' of the shirt—my shirt, and tugs. The buttons pop and the shirt gapes to reveal the creamy curves of her breasts.

"What are you doing?" I stare at the curves, the nipples that she reveals when she shoves the shirt down her arms.

"Cookie," I breathe, take in the spread in front of my eyes. My throat closes. I stare at the blush that colors her gorgeous skin, her pink nipples that harden into plum-colored pebbles. I bend down, close my mouth around one, and tug. She moans. I bite down and she cries out. I suck on her sweet flesh and she sinks her fingers into my hair. I kiss one breast, then the other, straighten and peer into her face. "You're mine, Princess, my woman."

Her pupils dilate and her breathing grows shallow.

I pull away and she frowns, "Where are you going?"

"To lock the door to the apartment."

"No." She scissors her legs around my waist. "Don't go." She grabs my arms. "Please." Her lips tremble, "Stay with me."

"You're safe, Cookie."

"Only as long as I am with you, Wes." She leans in, drags her tongue around my nipple. I groan. She bites down on the nub with her sharp teeth and I feel it all the way to my cock. My dick lengthens in my pants. The tent at my crotch stabs into her core, still covered by my shirt and her panties.

"Fuck," I growl, "I really should secure the place first."

"You really should check out how wet I am for you."

I reach down between her legs, push aside her panties, and my knuckles graze her melting core.

She pants and I groan, "You're mine, Amelie. Only mine."

I lower my zipper, grab my cock and position it at the entrance to her channel.

"Mine to make love to, to bring to climax over and over again, mine to claim." I kick my hips forward, thrust inside her moist channel. My balls slap against her inner thigh, pressure builds in my groin.

Then the doorbell rings.