Page 53 of The Christmas Wife

He nods, "You can have your last bite before, or after."

"After?" I gulp, "After what?"

"After Christmas shopping."

13

Weston

I watch as she peruses the range of baking produce on the shelf in the only grocery store in the nearest village.

A woman walks behind me, "Excuse me," she says stiffly. I move aside. Hell, the aisles of this place are so narrow I have to flatten my back against the shelf to ensure I am not blocking the route. And the ride in the car over here? Why the hell had I agreed to that torture? Probably because, by the time I’d realized that the only means of transportation available to get to the village was in her dinky car—a bloody Volkswagen—it was too late. When was the last time I’d been a passenger in anything other than my chauffeur driven car…? I don’t even remember.

So why had I done it now?

Why had I told her that I’d take her out shopping?

When what I’d wanted to do was eat her out right there on the dining table…for breakfast; and if I had my way, for lunch and dinner too. One taste of her sweet cunt had not been enough. The blood rushes to my groin.

Is that why I’d brought her here…? Because I’d wanted to get away from the cabin and the intimate atmosphere that seemed to be building between us. I lean a hip against the shelf. My shoulder brushes the stocked cans; one falls off of the top shelf, bumps me on the head. I throw my arm out, catch the can before it hits the ground, even as stars flash behind my eyes.

The fuck?From the time I’d met her I seem to be getting rather well acquainted with heavenly bodies, especially hers… Jesus, what’s wrong with me? Next, I’ll be spouting poetry, comparing her to a summer’s day… No, not Shakespeare now. I’d loved poetry in school, had not hidden my love for the Bard, even acted in school plays. Then the incident had taken place. I’d been enroute home from a rehearsal for a play. And that had changed my proclivity to take part in extracurricular activities. Other than hanging out with the Seven… Not that we’d spoken much. We’d preferred to take our frustrations out on each other… You could say we’d spent a lot of that post-incident time beating each other up. It had been our own personal coping mechanism.

I wonder, have I channeled my love for the spoken word into the nursery rhymes I recite with my nieces? Is that why the fairy tales I read to them have etched themselves into my subconscious mind?

It had been hot though… That entire series of events at the breakfast table… I’d wanted to take her right then. Tempt her into spreading her legs open for me, so I could bury myself inside her sweet cunt. Would she have resisted me? Was the money so important to her that she’d continue to deny herself the release that came from only the most intimate act, of my cock enveloped within her wet channel? Is that why I can’t stop myself from tempting her to cross the line? Is that why I’d set such an impossible-to-uphold term to the agreement?

Does she really think she is going to get through the next six days without giving in to me? And if I want her to fail, why hadn’t I moved in when I had her ready and willing this morning? Fuck. I drag my fingers through my hair. She is not the only one getting in too deep. The difference is, I know how to turn the tide so it won’t drown me. Hopefully.

I stare at the can—it’s chocolate. Figures. The one thing in the world I hate more than the thought of losing her.Hold on… Hold on… I meant losingtoher. Yep, that’s what it is. Bloody fuck.I rub at the rapidly forming bump on my head. Did the run-in with the can knock my brains out of whack too?

I prowl up the aisle to where she stands in front of a display of frozen treats.

"How much longer will you take?" I growl

She squeaks, then shoots me a sideways glance. "You startled me," she mutters, then turns her attention back to the display. I follow her gaze to the Sticky Toffee Pudding she’s salivating over. I reach for it, but she grabs my arm. "What are you doing?" she scolds.

"You want this?"

"Of course, not."

"Why do you deny yourself?"

"I’m going to be baking enough, as it is. If I also buy these goodies, I’ll turn into a Christmas butter ball," she mutters.

"Don’t you mean buttercup ball?" I chuckle.

She shoots me a sideways glance. "Knew I could count on you," she snarls, then turns and pushes her loaded shopping cart forward.

"Hold on."

She doesn’t stop. No matter. I catch up with her, drop the tin of chocolate onto the heap of shopping. "You sure you have enough there?"

She frowns. "You mind your own business."

"But you are my business."

"Whatever." She speeds up, turns the corner and crashes her cart into a man. Some of the items fall out.

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