Page 52 of The Christmas Wife

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he tugs on me, with just enough force that I am pulled toward him. He turns his chair, then lifts me up by my waist and props me on his lap.

"What are you doing?" I mumble. My cheeks heat. Not that his lap isn’t comfortable, and hell, if the entire maneuver wasn’t hot. I mean, he’d handled my body like I’m made of candy floss. Do I taste as sweet to him? "Let me go." I dig my elbow into his chest.

He huffs, "Stop wriggling." There’s a hint of a smile in his voice.

"And if I don’t?" I twist around to face him. The curve of my waist bumps against the hard length of him in his pants. "Oh."

He grins. "See what you do to me?"

"Did you say that toMs. Sex Videowoman?"

His features shudder.Damn it, why did I have to go there?

"Sorry, none of my business."

"I didn’t." His tone is clipped, "I never told her that. Nor did I ever seat her in my lap like this or…" he leans around me, grabs my plate and pulls it over, "...feed her breakfast." He scoops up some of my chocolate pancake, then holds the fork up to my lips.

"Open," his voice is husky.

A shiver runs down my spine. He’s only giving me food, so why does it have to feel this…erotic?

"I'll eat it if you do," I whisper.

"Hmm." He glances from me to the piece of food on the fork, then back at me. "I have a better idea."

He brings the fork to his mouth, closes his lips around the chocolate crepe. He chews, swallows, then leans in and places his lips on mine. I gasp, and he darts his tongue inside my mouth. The taste of chocolate, of dark edginess and hot sex...the unique flavor that is Weston-fucking-Kincaid fills my mouth, coats my tongue, overwhelms my senses. My head spins. My toescurl. He pulls away and I lean forward. I hear a sound of protest. Hell, is that me?

I crack open my eyelids—when had I shut them?—to find he's scooping up another forkful of the breakfast that I will always associate with him.Gah!I did not think that, did not allow myself to indulge in such utter sentimental crap.

"Did you like that?" I whisper.

"Let's say that I may have underestimated the merits of dessert for breakfast."

"Are we talking about the same thing?" I frown.

"I was talking about your chocolate pancake," he snickers, "which you should eat." He raises the fork, "You need your nourishment."

I part my lips and he slides the food into my mouth.

I chew then lick my lips.

His gaze drops to my mouth, "My, my, what beautiful lips you have, little Red." His eyes gleam.

"All the better to kiss you with," I murmur.

His gaze intensifies. The heat from his body seems to deepen. A bead of sweat slides down my spine.

He picks up another forkful of the crepe, holds it up. "Finish it," his voice lowers to a hush, and I'm instantly wet. My nerve endings pop; my brain cells seem to melt all at once.

I close my mouth around the fork, wipe the tines clean, chew, then swallow.

"What a gorgeous throat you have, little Red," his voice is hard. As is the evidence of his arousal that stabs into the valley between my butt cheeks.

"All the better to take you in my mouth," the words tumble from my lips.What am I doing?Indulging this man’s love for nursery rhymes and children’s fairy tales is one thing, but taking it to the extent where the story of Little Red Riding Hood comes to mean something else completely? Not to mention, what wasthat thing with the rabbit? Had he actually compared himself to my favorite vibrator?

He scoops up the last morsel of food from the plate, holds it up to my lips. "You have a choice," he says.

"I do?"Do I even want to know?

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