Page 178 of The Christmas Wife

"Huh?" She stares down at her crotch, then drags her fingers up to the swollen bud of her clit. My dick lengthens, I bunch my shoulders, and my balls grow impossibly hard.

"Jesus," I snarl.

"You shouldn't swear using his name on Christmas Day."

"If you don’t get on with what you have in mind, I am going to?—"

"Going to?" She flutters her eyelashes, "What will you do?"

I narrow my gaze. Why that sassy, little sex kitten. Apparently, giving Princess Buttercup a long leash means she thinks she can run away with it, huh? I glare at her. She pales, but doesn't break the eye contact. "Well,” she asks, “shall I continue?"

"Do it," I growl.

"Hmm." She pushes a finger into her cheek, "You don't seem like you're having a good time."

"Doesn't matter." I dig my fingers into the palm of my hand, draw in a breath, count down the time.

Twelve o'clock.

Eleven o'clock.

Ten—

"What are you doing?" she frowns.

"Counting down the time in my mind.

"Why would you do that?"

"It's a technique that helps me find equilibrium."

"And yet clocks trigger you?"

"They used to."

"But not anymore?" She nods, "You didn't flinch when the egg timer rang in my kitchen."

"I may have been too busy saving someone's arse to notice." I mutter.

"You mean someone's gorgeous arse, right?" She wrinkles her nose at me. Fucking adorable. My heart stutters... It bloody stutters. Damian was right, I am pussy-whipped... And I want to whip her pussy too, every chance I get.

"Someone's curvy, beautiful, egg-shaped bottom, to be precise," I reply.

"My butt isn't egg-shaped."

"Wanna bet?" I drawl. "It's as smooth, and as curvy as that blasted egg timer you have—which, by the way, is a hideous piece of kitchenware, with no aesthetic sense."

"Are you saying my butt is ugly?"

"You are not butt-ugly, no," I clarify. "But if you don't get on with your seduction routine—I promise the marks I'll leave on your backside will not be pretty."

"You promised that I could lead," she scoffs.

"But you're not," I snap. "You're talking your mouth off, when you could be putting said orifice to much better use."

She throws up her hands, "Are you going to let me do this my way or not?"

"Fine, fine." I crack my neck. "What fucking ever. Take your time, dawdle, say whatever comes into your mind, while I suffer in silence."

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