Page 69 of The Christmas Wife

There’s a knock on the door. "Amelie?" Weston’s voice reaches me. "You okay in there?"

"Shit, I gotta go."

"Let me know what you decide.”

"Thanks, Iz."

"Bye, babe."

Weston bangs on the door again and raises his voice, "Amelie? Is everything okay?"

"Yes, coming." I walk over to the commode and flush it. Then check my appearance in the mirror over the sink. My hair is all over the place, skin flushed, no makeup, lips wiped bare. Ugh. And is that…? I lean in closer. Yep, there’s dog hair on my sweater. "Damn it." I take off my sweater, glance around, then toss it into the laundry basket. My blouse is crumpled, but it’ll have to do.

"Amelie?" Weston sounds pissed. "You coming out or do I need to come in there?"

"Hold onto your britches," I yell back, slide my phone into my pocket, then turn toward the mirror. I mean, it’s not even a question anymore, is it? No sex. That’s fine. I can still stick to that plan, but it would be nice to have a bit more fun with him at least, no? I grab the bottom of my blouse and whip it off.

"Amelie." Weston juggles the knob, "I’m coming in."

"Wait!" I toss aside the blouse and scamper for the door.

17

Weston

She opens the door, and I stare. Her tits... Her beautiful...gorgeous breasts, ensconced in her bra salute me. I glare at her chest, then at her face.

"Just," she swallows, "getting ready for bed."

I frown down at her. She walks forward. I don’t move.

"Uh, excuse me?" She squeezes through the space between me and the door jamb.

She saunters over to the bed, walks past her suitcases propped up against the wall, to her side of the bed. She unzips her jeans, shoves them down, bends to take them off. Her heart shaped butt juts out. I clench the fingers of my right hand, wince when my injured finger protests. "Fuck," I growl.

"You, okay?" She tilts her head, shoots me a glance from her bent over stance.

I glare at her and she pales. Then straightens and kicks her jeans to the side.

I take a step forward.

She scrambles over to the bed, "Uh, I think I’ll go to sleep." She slides in between the sheets, pulls the comforter up to her chin. She turns over on her side.

I’d lit candles on the side tables, and their light flickers across her delicate shoulder blades. Her creamy skin is perfectly smooth, perfectly soft, perfect to be marked by my fingerprints. I take a step toward her, then clench my fist at my side.What the fuck? Is she playing with me?And I’d started this goddamn game. What a bloody mistake.Why the hell had I put the money between us? Why hadn’t I flipped the agreement the other way? Asked her to sleep with me in exchange for the money? Fuck.I reach the bed, stand over her.

Her shoulders quiver. So, she’s aware I am here? Hmm.

Her fingers clench at the covering that flows over her shoulder. I reach for the fabric, tug. She shudders, then releases her grip on it. I draw the sheet down the curve of her waist, down the jut of her beautiful arse, until it pools about her ankles.

The swell of her butt catches the candlelight—gorgeous, beautiful, curved at just the right circumference, it’d fit so right into my palms.

My fingertips twitch. I sink to my knees by the bed, press a kiss to that point where her waist meets the swell of her hips.

She shudders. "Weston," she whispers.

"Shh." I nibble my way to the swell of the enticing flesh to the valley between her butt cheeks.

"Oh, my God." Her entire body quivers.

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