The Billionaire’s Christmas Bride by L. Steele

55

Weston

What the fuck? Did I actually say that?And I meant it, too. Anything to make her stay.

Why can't you tell her how much she means to you? Well, I am about to show her that. And isn't showing better than telling, and all that fucking emo stuff that women believe in?

She pauses at the door, hesitates.

"I mean it." I keep my voice firm. "You can do what you want with me, and I won't stop you. I'll let you take the lead in bed."

She turns to glance at me, "You will?"

"Yep." I jerk my chin.

"Right now?"

"The deal's valid for the next ten seconds."

"Deal, huh?" She frowns.

Fuck, seems I can't change my vocabulary that easily. Go on, you can do this, for her sake. Tone it down, asshole. Keep it easy; don’t show how much you need her to retrace her steps, and return to you. And once she does... I'm never letting her go. I am going to find a way to tie her to me. Yep, I have to. Don't fuck this up!I loosen my shoulders, force my muscles to relax. "Okay, not a deal then, an open invitation."

"Invitation?" She chews on her lower lip. Damn her, why does she have to seem so enticing? I force my attention off of my throbbing groin, narrow my gaze on her.

"Anything you need, babe." I hold up my hands in what I hope comes across as an unthreatening gesture, "You name it, you can have it."

She frowns, "What's the catch?"

"No catch."

"I don't believe it."

"Better believe it." I allow my lips to curve.

She stares at my face.

"What?"

"Did you actually smile without smirking?"

"I don't smirk..." I protest.

She arches an eyebrow.

"Okay, maybe sometimes," I concede.

"All the time," she grumbles. "I've never known you not to smirk, not that it isn't hot in a mean kind of way—"

"Aha, so you do find it hot?" My mouth curls.

"I rest my case," she snaps.

Bloody fuck, what the hell does she want me to do? Change my personality overnight?It's taken thirty-three odd years to cultivate this dickface persona. But for her... I'd give that up too... Only with her, that is. To the rest of the world, I'd still be the asshole surgeon with the bad attitude... But for her... I'd do anything.

Does that include letting go of control...for a tiny window in time...allowing her to have her way with me? My balls tighten; my skin crawls. Giving up choice? Not something I'd ever imagined doing...not before her. Only for her.

She is my woman and she'll get her satisfaction when, where and how she needs it. Everyone else will deal...and that includes me. Fuck. I wipe the smile off my face. "Better?"

She raises her shoulders. "Maybe," she takes another step forward, "maybe not."

"I know something that will make it better." I begin to smirk again.

She scowls.

I grimace, school all expression from my face. Best to keep my mouth shut, lock my muscles, dig my feet into the floor. I stay still... Wait... Wait for her to come to me, to tip her head back and meet my gaze.

"Anything, huh?" She drags a finger down my chest, down to my waistband, in the direction of where my cock tents the crotch of my pants.

Blood rush to my groin; pinpricks of heat follow in the path of her touch. "Anything," I growl.

She unbuckles my belt, and my dick thrusts against its restraints. Fuck, at this rate, I am going to come in my pants and she's barely touched me yet. My fingers tingle. I raise my hand.

She glances at it, then at me, "You promised," she reminds me.

I curl my fingers into a fist, then raise my hands and lock them behind my neck, "Indeed." I keep my gaze trained on her face.

Her pupils dilate and color pinks her cheeks. She lowers the zipper, then shoves my pants and my boxers down in one sweep.

The breath catches in my chest as I kick aside my clothes.

She reaches down and winds her fingers around my throbbing dick. My groin hardens, my balls tighten, and I grip my hands together. Don't release them. Don’t reach for her. Don't push her down onto her knees. Don't ask her to take you inside that gorgeous mouth and don’t ask her to suck you off... Don't. She reaches for her shirt and whips it off.

I stare. "What are you doing?"

"What do you think?" She pulls off her bra, then shoves off her boots, and wriggles out of her jeans and panties. Her full tits jiggle as she straightens. She runs her hand down her stomach, to where her pink pussy glistens. She strums her lower lips and my cock jumps in response.

"Huh?" She stares down at her crotch, then drags her fingers up to the swollen bud of her clit. My dick lengthens, I bunch my shoulders, and my balls grow impossibly hard.

"Jesus," I snarl.

"You shouldn't swear using his name on Christmas Day."

"If you don’t get on with what you have in mind, I am going to—"

"Going to?" She flutters her eyelashes, "What will you do?"

I narrow my gaze. Why that sassy, little sex kitten. Apparently, giving Princess Buttercup a long leash means she thinks she can run away with it, huh? I glare at her. She pales, but doesn't break the eye contact. "Well,” she asks, “shall I continue?"

"Do it," I growl.

"Hmm." She pushes a finger into her cheek, "You don't seem like you're having a good time."

"Doesn't matter." I dig my fingers into the palm of my hand, draw in a breath, count down the time.

Twelve o'clock.

Eleven o'clock.

Ten—

"What are you doing?" she frowns.

"Counting down the time in my mind.

"Why would you do that?"

"It's a technique that helps me find equilibrium."

"And yet clocks trigger you?"

"They used to."

"But not anymore?" She nods, "You didn't flinch when the egg timer rang in my kitchen."

"I may have been too busy saving someone's arse to notice." I mutter.

"You mean someone's gorgeous arse, right?" She wrinkles her nose at me Fucking adorable. My heart stutters... It bloody stutters. Damian was right, I am pussy-whipped... And I want to whip her pussy too, every chance I get.

"Someone's curvy, beautiful, egg-shaped bottom, to be precise," I reply.

"My butt isn't egg-shaped."

"Wanna bet?" I drawl. "It's as smooth, and as curvy as that blasted egg timer you have—which, by the way, is a hideous piece of kitchenware, with no aesthetic sense."

"Are you saying my butt is ugly?"

"You are not butt-ugly, no," I clarify. "But if you don't get on with your seduction routine—I promise the marks I'll leave on your backside will not be pretty."

"You promised that I could lead," she scoffs.

"But you're not," I snap. "You're talking your mouth off, when you could be putting said orifice to much better use."

She throws up her hands, "Are you going to let me do this my way or not?"

"Fine, fine." I crack my neck. "What fucking ever. Take your time, dawdle, say whatever comes into your mind, while I suffer in silence."

"Hardly suffering and it's not like you've stopped speaking either."

True.I scowl, "You seem to bring out the worst in me, Buttercup."

"As do you." She chuckles, then glances around her before heading to the refrigerator. She pulls out a bottle of milk, then shuts the door. and walks toward me.

"Anything, huh?" She asks.

I glance at the white liquid in the bottle, then up to her face, "Anything."

She holds up the bottle, tilts it over my chest.