Page 115 of The Christmas Wife

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 thechocolate 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. He 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.

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