Page 149 of The Christmas Wife

I chew on it, swallow, his chest rises and falls.

I bite off another piece, chew on it.

His shoulders bunch. His chest planes seem to harden, and he draws himself up to his full height. "Eat it all," he commands.

His rough voice chafes across my nerve endings. My sex clenches. I squeeze my thighs together, stuff the rest of the piece into my mouth.

He curls his lips. "Swallow," he growls, and moisture pools between my legs. Hell, only Weston fucking Kincaid could make that order sound so filthy, so bloody naughty. I gulp down the food in my mouth.

"Open," his voice is rough, his breathing uneven. I part my lips; he raises the bottle of wine to my mouth. "Drink," his voice lowers to a hush. Hell, why do I get the feeling that he's planning something...a scene that's out of my dirtiest fantasies?

Rolling around in the aftermath of my dessert? Check.

Slurping down wine that tastes of my arousal and his mouth? Double check.

Pulling back with suddenness so the wine spills across my chest? You bet.

"Oops," I murmur, glance down at where the wine blots the cloth of my bra. "I think I am going to have to take it off."

"Hmm." He raises the bottle to his lips, drinks from it. "I have a better idea, Princess."

"You do?" I peer up at him from under my eyelashes.

"I do." He nods. He holds up the bottle; my gaze widens. He tilts it, I open my mouth to protest, but already he's poured the wine on my hair.

"What the—" I splutter, "What are you doing?"

"Worshipping you, of course," his voice is sincere, his tone husky.

I take in his features as the liquid drips down my cheeks, my chin, splashes onto my breasts, clings to the cloth that covers my crotch.

"Weston," his name emerges, breathy from my throat. Damn, if I don't sound aroused and turned on—I glance down to where his erect dick—make that two of us. "Weston?" I swallow. What am I asking of him? What do I want from him? "You...you going to deliver on your promise?"

He smirks, "What do you think?"

"I think," I raise a finger to his cheek, drag it down the luxuriant growth of beard on his chin, "you look like Santa Claus."

He stares, then chuckles, "Have you been a naughty girl, Princess?"

"Oh," I shift my weight from foot to foot, "I tried, Santa. I promise, I wanted to be good...but then...I met this man."

"A man, huh?" He leans forward until his chest grazes my breasts, nipples hard, and surely, outlined by the sodden bra, which, if he'd look down, he'd see. But he isn't, because he's staring into my eyes.

He lowers the now empty bottle to the table with a soft thump. "Pray, tell me more about this...encounter of yours," he breathes. The warmth from his body surrounds me; his big, aching, gorgeous shoulders shut out the rest of the world. He bends his knees, thrusts his face into mine, "Don't make me wait." His voice is low, with an edge of that cruelty that is so Weston, which rolls down my spine.

I shiver. "He..." I clear my throat, "He's the most annoying, most obnoxious, most full-of-himself, egoistical?—"

His biceps flex; the next instant he grabs my pussy. A whine bleeds from me, "Ah," I stutter, "He's... he's..."

His mouth curls. "He is...?" he prompts me as he begins to massage my core.

"Hard," I mumble. "So hard."

He grinds the heel of his hand against my clit and goosebumps flare on my skin. I shiver, "And sexy, anddominant, and knows just what to do to arouse me to fever pitch, and when he tells me that he'll let me lead in bed, I know that he?—"

He digs his finger into my melting channel through the cloth and I groan.

"You were saying—?" he smirks.

---