Page 164 of The Christmas Wife

She slaps my shoulder.

I wince. "Ouch, easy there, darling. I'm afraid he managed to get in a few hits as well."

"You'll survive," she grumbles. "Say it, you idiot, the nickname you just used."

"You mean Caramel?"

"No."

"Candy."

"Noooo," she growls.

"Cherry pie?"

"You are such a tease." She digs her fingers in the shoulder of my hurt arm.

"Hey," I wince, "you're hurting me."

"Good," she huffs, "you deserve it."

"I do," I agree.

She blinks, "Wow, you're actually agreeing that you are a jerkface?"

"Yep."

"And a dickhead?"

"But I am your dickhead, darling Cookie."

"I like that name best." She sniffs, "Especially when you kiss me after saying it."

I survey the skin of throat, which seems unbroken, thank fuck.

"How dare that bastard threaten you with a knife." I trace my thumb over the pulse that flutters at the base of her throat. "When I get my hands on him?—"

"You will not go after him," she scolds.

"I must," I reply. "He came after what belongs to me."

"Do I belong to you?" she asks.

"Of course, you do." I run my finger down the hollow between her breasts, around her nipples.

"What are you doing?" Her voice is breathless.

"Uh, taking care of you."

"He didn't hurt me there."

My vision tunnels, "Bastard touched you. I am going to kill him, I?—"

She grips the 'V' of the shirt—my shirt, and tugs. The buttons pop and the shirt gapes to reveal the creamy curves of her breasts.

"What are you doing?" I stare at the curves, the nipples that she reveals when she shoves the shirt down her arms.

"Cookie," I breathe, take in the spread in front of my eyes. My throat closes. I stare at the blush that colors her gorgeous skin, her pink nipples that harden into plum-colored pebbles. I bend down, close my mouth around one, and tug. She moans. I bite down and she cries out. I suck on her sweet flesh and she sinks her fingers into my hair. I kiss one breast, then the other, straighten and peer into her face. "You're mine, Princess, my woman."

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