Page 354 of The Christmas Wife

"It doesn’t seem right. Why should she be chained? Why is he treating her like?—"

"His possession?"

His rough voice forming that word turns the flesh between my thighs into molten lava. I begin to cross one leg over the other, but he shakes his head. "Don’t."

"Why not?"

"Because I want to smell your cunt."

12

Edward

"What did you say?" she gasps.

"I want to smell your?—"

"I heard you," she says hastily, "But did you have to use the C-word?"

"Did it turn you on?"

Her pupils dilate. Her breathing hitches. She seems taken aback, but also, she obeyed me. She’s a natural submissive. Doesn’t mean she’s compliant. And the deepening azure of her blue eyes tells me she’s going to deny my statement. She’s feisty, likes to stand up for herself, and isn’t easily cowed. She’s curvy and perfectly formed, but only a fool would take that to mean she's malleable. This woman may not know what she wants yet, but she’ll stand up for herself. She’s diffident about her figure—but that’s only because she doesn’t realize how stunning she truly is.

She’s spirited, plucky, a ray of light which illuminates those parts deep inside of me that I haven't wanted to examine closely.She…makes me want things I was sure were not in my future. She urges me to ignore the limitations I’ve put upon myself. She tempts me to break the rules I’ve decided to live my life by. She…is turning me into someone who’s obsessed with her every move, her every breath, her every gesture. She makes me want to find out her every thought, her dreams, her deepest desires…and fulfill them. She makes me want to own her, keep her, possess her, make hermine.My belly churns, my heart slams into my ribcage, sweat pools under my armpits, and I rise to my feet. "Come on."

She rises to her feet. I indicate she should follow me. I march across the floor, retracing our steps out the door to the stairs. Taking them two at a time. I reach the landing and wait for her to catch up. She’s panting by the time she reaches me. "What’s the hurry?"

"You’ll see."

I motion for her to go ahead, then curse myself once more when I’m unable to keep my gaze off her luscious behind as she climbs the next set of stairs. The twitch of her butt, the rhythmic sway of her hips, the pull of the fabric across her arse-cheeks, the way her waist flares out to meet her fleshy bottom… My throat closes. My mouth dries. The blood drains to my groin. I reach down and adjust myself, then follow her to the top of the flight of steps. I brush past her, cross the floor and hold open the door on the far end. Her footsteps are soft on the carpet as she approaches. She walks into the room, takes in the rectangular table, the chairs set around it, and the man standing on the far side with his back to us and looking out of the window onto the lights of the city visible in the distance.

"Is that?" She comes to a standstill. "No, it can’t be."

I walk past her, pull out a chair. "You’d better sit down for this."

She doesn’t take her gaze off of the older man. His shoulders froze when he heard her voice, but he doesn’t turn to glance at us.

"Dad?" The color fades from her cheeks. "Is that you?"

He turns and her gaze widens. "What are you doing here?" She swallows.

He looks like he’s about to say something, then he shakes his head. "I’m sorry, Mirabelle." His tone is clipped.

"Sorry for what? Why are you in London?"

"Belle, sit down," I order.

She shudders visibly, then manages to tear her gaze off of her father, and walking over, sinks into the chair. I push it in. My fingers graze her shoulder, and goosebumps scatter over her skin. I stay with my head bent, drawing in her sweet apple blossom scent. My cock extends further, and I straighten. This is not the time to be sporting a hard-on, especially not in front of her father. Not that the man particularly cares for her. If he did, he wouldn’t have come to an agreement with me.

"What’s happening?" She addresses her question to him. "Why are you here?"

"You mean, why is he here in an S&M club?" I drawl.

Her father flinches. His cheeks redden, but he manages to hold his silence. Good thing, too, because nothing he says can justify what he’s about to tell her.

"Dad?" she prompts him. "What’s going on?"

He rubs at his temple then slowly lowers his hand. "You know, I love you, Mirabelle, don’t you?"

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