Page 85 of The Christmas Wife

"So?"

"I missed a spot."

"Excuse me?" I glare at her.

She bites her lips and her eyes gleam.

"Don’t you fucking dare, Princess, I?—"

She tosses the stuff at my face. It hits my cheek, and some of it drips down my chin, onto my chest.

"There," she angles her head to the side, "much better."

"That’s it," I growl, "you’re going to pay for that."

She squeaks, tries to duck around me. I plant my injured hand on the other side of her, caging her in.

"Apologize," I growl.

"No."

"Say you’re sorry."

She sticks out her tongue, "You can go and dunk your swollen head in that stupid hot tub."

"I have a better idea." I reach for the mixture in the bowl, scoop up a palmful.

"No, no, no." She angles her body, takes in what I am doing. "You won’t," she breathes.

"Oh, you bet I will." I smash the gooey stuff in her face.

She screams, wriggles around. I thrust my hips into her, to hold her in place, then rub the mix into her face, down her neck, across her chest… over the fabric of her blouse that encloses her breasts, and draw circles around her erect nipples. The blood rushes to my groin. My dick lengthens, nestles happily into the valley between her legs.

"Wes… Weston," she gulps.

"Shh!"

I glare at those peaked delights. I reach behind her to gather more of the goop and trail it over one breast, then the other. The mixture dribbles down from each mound. "Beautiful." I lower my head, close my mouth around one.

"Ah," a moan leaves her mouth. "Wes… Please."

I glare up at her. "Stay still," I command. "Don’t say a word."

She purses her lips, draws down her eyebrows. She opens her mouth.

I click my tongue. "Don’t," I growl, "Nothing; nada."

"But—"

"Another word and I’ll stuff this mix in your mouth, and I promise you, that would be a waste, cause I plan to use every drop of your muffin mix to draw out your pleasure."

She swallows, then presses her lips together.

"Excellent."

She stares at me.

"Should I reward you for that little bit of compliance, hmm?"

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