Page 137 of The Christmas Wife

I pause.

"This isn’t over."

I turn to him, "Yes, it is. You know it is."

His features twist.

I turn, head for the exit.

40

Christmas Day

Weston

I stare into the amber liquid at the bottom of my glass.Fuck, fucking fuck.I’d stood back and let her walk away. I hadn’t gone after her. I’d held my balls in my hand and allowed her to leave. Am I a man? Can I call myself a male worth his manhood? I hadn’t stopped her; I hadn’t.Bloody fuck. Why hadn’t I?For once in my life, I had faltered. I had stood by, and for the second time, let her walk out, and this time, there is no going back. I’d had my chance and I had blown it. I had allowed my emotions to get the better of me.

When she’d stared into my eyes and pleaded with me to allow her to win… I had wanted her to. Not that this is a game, or a war. Okay, so maybe it is a fight between us—this push and pull. This constant thrum of arousal that laces the air, that connects us and makes us want to go head-to-head... Even as I want toyank her to me and kiss her, and suck on those sweet-sugary tits of hers, bury my fingers in her moist pussy, dip my tongue in the crevasse of her belly button, sink to my knees in front of her, thrust my head between her legs and ravish her, please her, make her come.

Hell… Her happiness and her needs, they come first. Her confidence? I never want to shake that. Her sass and fire, her independence? They are a fucking turn on. It’s what had challenged me. It’s why I had noticed her in the first place. In a world filled with compliance, she had stood out. She had baited me, hated me, pushed me away, and that had only aroused me further.

I’d wanted to...what? Curb her? Tie her to me? I should have known better. A free spirit like Amelie needs to be nurtured, to be allowed to soar as she wants… And I’d be in the background watching, applauding, encouraging, paving her way… Fuck. I shake my head. What am I thinking? What happened to the dominant surgeon who didn’t give a fuck about anyone else…except his patients? To be fair, I’d cared for them, but they had been a way to nourish my ego. Fuck. Everything in my life so far has been one long trip to soothe that scared boy inside of me. The one who had never recovered from the incident.

So, I was kidnapped.

I was hurt.

I was…abused. Mentally and emotionally.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. So what? Shit happens; deal with it. How could I have allowed those few days to color my life so completely? Enough to not recognize the only good thing that had come my way. Her.

"Bloody fuck." I drain my glass then hurl it against the wall of the living room. The glass bounces off of the hard surface, hits the floor, bounces again, comes to a rest at my feet. Go figure.Can’t do even one thing properly, can you?I kick the offending object and it rolls toward the door. A booted foot stops it.

I groan. "Fuck off," I grunt.

"Merry Christmas to you too," Damian’s chirpy voice echoes through the drumming in my head.

Fuck.

I turn away, head toward the bar in the corner of the living room. I grab a glass, reach for the bottle, miss it, swoop down on it.Finally!I pour myself a healthy measure of Macallan’s.Fuck that.I fill the snifter to the top. Set the bottle down on the bar counter with a thwack.

"Careful, ol’ chap. That whiskey’s older than you."

"So’s your nagging," I growl.

"Seen yourself in the mirror lately?" Damian continues.

I frown, "Heard yourself lately?"

"No need to, ol’ chap." He smirks. "I rest confident in the power of my good looks."

"Jesus," I swear, "Can you hear yourself?" I wince.

"No sweeter sound in the world, right?" He grins.

I stare up at him. "Did you just say that?"

"What?" He frowns.

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