Page 37 of The Christmas Wife

Thank fuck.

I close my eyes, count back the time on the hands of a clock. Restart the stopwatch.

Twelve o’ clock.

Eleven o’clock.

Her shoulder muscles relax.

Ten o’clock.

Nine o’clock.

Her breathing grows more uniform.

Eight o’clock.

Seven o’clock.

She wriggles her butt. The blood rushes to my groin.

Six o’clock.

She thrusts her feet in between my legs. The coldness from her toes shivers over my skin. I swear aloud, "Did you dip your feet in ice?"

"Sorry," she mutters.

Five o’clock.

Four o’ clock.

She pushes her body into mine. My cock lengthens, stabs into the valley between her butt cheeks.

Three o’clock.

She rubs her cheek against the pillow. Then digs her toes into my calf. "The hell are you doing?" I grouse.

"Can’t sleep," she mumbles.

I turn her over to face me.Mistake.The moonlight floods in from the open window, highlighting her baby blues. Her hair clings to her forehead; her nose turns up above those gorgeous pink lips. My heart stutters. It fucking stutters. The fuck? "What is it?" I grumble.

"I forgot the chocolate."

"Chocolate?"

"And I need fresh eggs, cinnamon, butter?—"

"You’ve lost me."

"To make breakfast."

I shudder and mime throwing up in my mouth. "Who has chocolate for breakfast?"

She laughs. "Chocolate pancakes, dummy." Then she adds, "What do you like to eat in the morning?"

"Anything but chocolate." I grumble.

"Wh-a-a-t?" Her eyes go all round, "You don't like chocolate?"

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