The Billionaire’s Christmas Bride by L. Steele

57

Weston

I squeeze my eyes shut. The woman I love walked out. I hadn't had the balls to tell her how into much I cared for her; all I’d been worried about was emptying said balls into her. I lower my arms to my sides.

I should have stopped her; should have hauled her over my shoulder and marched into the bedroom, where I'd have thrown her on her back and thrust into her, kept her pinned down until she forgot all about leaving me... About the money, and her business and my bloody ego, which, as per usual, stood in the way. Jesus, couldn't I have said something...anything to stop her from leaving?

Woulda. Coulda. Shoulda. Since when had I begun to over-analyze my reactions, huh? Gone are the days when I’d forge ahead, not caring who I offended. Hell, I had never cared about how my actions affected those around me.

Apparently, she affects me in more ways than I care to admit. Not the least of which is how my groin knots, my cock thickening as I yearn to be inside of her. I grab my shaft and squeeze, swipe it from root to head with practiced skill. Only, it’s not doing it for me at all. I need something more, something warmer, moister, something that would clasp me the way her cunt had when I had thrust into her and taken her.

I glance around, take in the empty milk bottle, the bowl of Jell-o—my cock jerks, bombarded by images of how she'd scooped up the gelatin and offered it to me, her lips parted, tongue caught in concentration between her teeth.

The princess had challenged me. Me. The alphahole who has never allowed any woman to take the lead... I'd handed it to her, and she had left me. I hunch my shoulders, reach for the Jell-o, scoop up some from the center. Hmm, this has possibilities, huh? Except... I tilt my head. The damn Jell-o is too bouncy and it's bound to fall apart. No, I need something else. I plop the Jell-o back, glance around, and spot the basket of fruits in the center of the island... Hmm... I reach for a peach, glare at it. Apparently, doing it to the apple pie had not been enough. Here I am, searching for more substitutes for her pussy. The last time, I'd resorted to such desperate measures, I'd been...fifteen? And horny as fuck. Nothing has changed...

Except, now I know how it feels to make love to my woman. Jesus, the fuck is wrong with me? Getting soppy and sentimental over her? Thankfully, I still have my balls... Time I put them to good use, huh? I stare at the peach, what if I were to scoop out some of the pulp in the center along with the stone? Hmm... This won't do at all... One more thing that has changed since I was fifteen... My bloody cock is twice the size it had been... Okay, three times if you measure the length of the hardon that I'm sporting. Fuck.

I toss the peach aside, reach for the watermelon. Desperate times and all that... I glare at it, pump my cock again. Am I going to do this? Fuck a bloody watermelon? Would it be cheating on her if I did? A fruit is an inanimate object, right? As in, it doesn't have feelings, in the technical sense of the word, so it can't reciprocate sentiments... So, it does not constitute being unfaithful if I stick my dick in it, does it? I frown down at the offending fruit, massage its curved circumference. It's smooth...too smooth... Too cold... Nothing like the living flesh of her butt, the slight indentation of the dimple in the center of one arsecheek, that I had caressed before I'd cupped her backside and squeezed, then hauled her up so she could wind those gorgeous legs around my waist, before I’d pushed her up against the nearest hard surface and—

Fuck. Stop this line of thinking, you prick. It should be her heart you’re focusing on. Her needs. The fact that she had thrown my money back at me... Hell, no one had done that before. But she isn't like anyone else I've ever encountered. Amelie...with her sass and her wit, and her habit of swearing by using names of desserts. Jesus, she is more delectable than any creation I've ever sampled. And I had let her leave. Again... I...

If I had stopped her, she'd have never forgiven me. She'd pleaded with me to let her leave...and I had... I’d stood there and watched her flounce out. What do they say? Something about, if you love someone let them go. If they return, they belong to you... And if they don't...?

Fuck that. No way, am I going to stand around here while she...figures out her feelings... I take a step forward, then stop. Wow, even my thoughts are dismissive of her feelings. And if I go after her...? I'd coerce her, bulldoze over her feelings, her choices... Hell, I'd ensure that she comes around to my way of thinking...and that... Fuck... This is not the time for my alphaholish, caveman-ish behavior. I mean, that's what I am. No excuses but... I hadn't become a surgeon without knowing when it was time to pull back.

I can't lose her.

I have to be strategic.

Have to trust...hope that she'll come back. And she will. She has to. I snatch up my phone from the corner of the island, dial my banker's number. When he comes on the line, I tell him to cease all further payments to her accounts. I am not surprised when he informs me that the money I'd sent through earlier had been returned electronically by her already. Yeah... Buttercup knows how to get a move on me.

I toss my phone aside, roll my shoulders. She'll return to me; she has to. The connection between us is too strong. She wouldn't ignore it... Would she? Nah! She'll get my message, get what I've been trying to communicate to her... Which is...that I can't live without her. She'll figure it out. She is smart, switched on. The love of my life has a razor-sharp mind. Surely, she'll glean what I was trying to communicate with her. Meanwhile... I glance toward the liquor cabinet. Only one thing a man can do when forced to bide his time. I stalk toward the bar, grab a bottle of whiskey and twist it open. I raise it to my lips.