Page 71 of The Christmas Wife

I raise my head, slip a finger back inside her puckered hole. "You mean this?"

She groans, "I… I think I hate you."

I twist my finger inside her, then slide two fingers inside her pussy.

Her body jerks, goosebumps pop on her skin, a quiver works its way up her legs, her thighs, she clenches her butt around my intrusion, and her pussy clamps down on my finger.

"Oh, my God, Weston, I am going to?—"

I pull my finger out from her butthole, from her channel, then rise to my feet.

She stills, "What the fuck?"

She turns on her back, then springs up.

"What are you doing?"

I yawn, "I’m tired."

She gapes, tracks my progress around the bed to my side. I grab my sweatshirt and peel it off, along with the vest I have on underneath. I reach for my pants.

She squeaks, "You’re undressing?"

"It happens." I smirk, "I have been known to do so when I want to get into bed."

I shove down my pants and boxers. I kick them aside and straighten. I turn to face her. Her gaze widens as she takes in my full-frontal nudity, rakes her gaze down my stomach to where my dick stands to attention.I’m aroused—of course, I am. And that’s too fucking bad. I don’t intend to do anything about it. Guess I am going to suffer along with her… Uh, who am I punishing here? Her or me? Both of us. Right, whose idea had this entire fucked-up arrangement been?

I climb between the covers, then fold my hands behind my head.

Next to me, she stays perfectly still, muscles vibrating with tension. The nervous energy vibrates off of her, reaches out to me. My shoulders bunch. I close my eyes, begin to count down.

Twelve o’clock.

Eleven o’clock.

Ten o’clock.

She shifts position.

Nine o’clock.

Eight o’clock.

She turns over on her side, facing away from me.

Seven o’clock.

She mutters under her breath.

Six o?—

She sighs aloud.

That’s it. "What’s wrong?" I snap.

Silence from her.

I close my eyes again.

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