Page 88 of The Christmas Wife

He rakes his gaze down my features, then he brushes his lips across mine, once, twice. He lowers me back onto the countertop. "You on birth control?"

I blink.

"Are you?" He frowns.

I nod. "Yes," I clear my throat, "I’m just coming off a relationship so…"

He glares at me and I feel the blood drain to my core. How the hell does my body recognize his intentions before my mind has fully digested what he wants from me?

The sound of a zipper being lowered reaches me. Air hits my swollen center. "Up," he growls.

I wind my arms about his shoulder, raise my butt. He shoves down at my jeans which move an inch, then get stuck around my hips. "Umm."

He shakes his head and I stop talking. He glances around, notices my chef’s satchel on the table. He hauls me up by the waist, turns and takes a step, then plants me on the table. I’m not light, I have curves—Hey, don’t begrudge me my chocolate—and of course, he’s a powerhouse of muscles, but the way he maneuvers my body… Well… My knees turn to jelly. Bloody hell, this guy is machismo personified, and I am putty in his hands. And now—he whips out a pair of kitchen scissors. Then steps back, holds up my leg and proceeds to cut the fabric up one side.

What the?—?

He does the same for the fabric on my other leg and it falls away, then cuts my blouse at each shoulder.

"Weston—"

He shakes his head.

"You can trust me," his lips quirk as he repeats my words back at me.

Can I though?

I frown.

He locks his gaze with mine, then raises the scissors. He glances down, then I feel the give of my bra straps. My breasts spring free. His nostrils flare. He bends, licks a nipple, before sucking on it.

Goosebumps flare on my skin.

"So fucking sweet, you’re one melting mass of chocolate, Buttercup."

Jeez, he makes me sound like a dessert…which is flattering, I suppose.

He pulls back, I hear the snap of the blades cutting through the fabric of my blouse. The garment falls off. Air hits my skin, goosebumps pop along my forearms, and my nipples harden.

He straightens, places the tip of the scissors to the center of my chest, without cutting the skin. I shiver. He drags the blade up over the mound of one breasts, circles the nipple, which instantly pebbles further. Down to my belly button. I swallow. He glances down and his breathing grows labored, "Fuck me," he growls. "I can’t hold out any longer."

He tosses the scissors aside, reaches for his zipper and lowers it. His cock springs forward—big, throbbing. I’ve seen it before…but somehow, he seems bigger. More aroused. The swollen tip is almost purple with need, and drops of precum bead the slit. Saliva pools in my mouth; my chest rises and falls.

I reach for him, but he grabs my wrist. "If you touch me, I won’t last," he growls.

I frown, implore him with my eyes.

His gaze intensifies, then his lips quirk. "Later," he promises. "For now, I am going to take your cunt." He swoops down, grabs my thighs under my knees, pulls my legs up and apart so they’re at my ears and I fall back to my elbows. He glares down directly at my sex.

OMFG! My head spins. I am open and displayed for him, my arousal so strong I can smell myself. Is that gross? His nostrils flare… Uh, guess he can scent me too?

"Look at yourself." His grip tightens, "You’re so wet, so ready. You want me, Princess?"

Gah, is that even a question?"I…" I open my mouth and his lips curl.

Trick question, huh? I pout again, thrust my pelvis up and against his hold.

His smile widens. "Hold yourself open for me," he commands.

---