Page 26 of The Billionaire's Naughty List

I can’t focus.

“How am I supposed to frost these cookies with all this,” I wave a hand at his phone, “going on?”

“I’ll frost your cookies.” His lips pull into a naughty smirk.

“Elliot!”

“Too much?”

I cover my face with my hands, laughing because even as his words shock me, I love that he said them. That he’s himself with me, not holding back any more.

“Has he replied?”

“Not yet.” He places the phone on the counter, then juts his chin toward the trays of freshly baked sugar cookies. “Can I do anything to help?”

I bite my lip. “Those are for my live…”

He lifts his chin and takes a deep breath. “Right.” Then he tips up his wrist and consults his watch.

I’m going to be a nervous wreck. But it’ll be okay, right? If Elliot’s not okay with this, that’ll be a discovery. We’ll figure things out from there.

But right now he’s glancing between me and the cookies like he’s not sure which he wants to snack on.

12

ELLIOT

I’m going to perish before I ever get to taste one of those cookies.

There’s a tripod set up on the counter in front of Lily. She said she’s always careful about the angles, not showing too much of her face. All they get is her lips, which had the green monster in my chest snarling until I realized I get those gorgeous eyes.

Fuck, I get the entire package.

The whole delicious, curvy, sinfully sweet package. It’s a Christmas miracle.

“Oh, I’m sure you’d love my cookies,” Lily says to the camera on her tablet. “I’m using my grandmother’s recipe.”

A dozen teardrop shaped bags are spread out in front of her, full of different colors of frosting. A cheerful green, brilliant red, crisp white, inky black, golden yellow.

She pauses the decorating as she reads the comments scrolling up her screen. Her laugh rolls through the cabin, a husky delight. I shift in the overstuffed chair I pulled up so I could watch the show. Now I’m second guessing that decision because these jeans are not erection friendly.

And I sprouted wood the second she walked out in that little red chemise.

“Of course Miss Claus is a baker,” she says with a scoff. “Who else would keep the elves’ tummies full?”

There’s a hint of censure in her voice that’s laced with sugar. In the five minutes I’ve been sitting here, I’ve been impressed with how she leads the conversation. Effortlessly weaving a story, teasing her fans, never revealing too much.

Now she’s squirting frosting across the cookies, decorating little Santas and snowmen. A dollop of white frosting misses the cookie, and she wipes it up with her finger, smiling at the camera before lifting it to her lips. But as her tongue stretches out to swipe away the sweetness, she glances past the screen to me.

I close my eyes and fight back a growl because I promised to be on my best behavior. And my best behavior doesn’t include growling with need or stalking around the island and pulling her into my arms, knocking the tripod to the ground and ravishing her amongst all that sugar.

“Mmm, this frosting is amazing.” Her attention is back on her fans. “Yep, grandma’s recipe.”

She bends over a cookie, giving a decadent shot of her cleavage, and I almost come out of my chair. The red lace cups her succulent mounds. Her curves threaten to spill out, to show every last secret to the world. How far does she go?

I wasn’t sure I wanted all the details earlier and I’m totally second guessing that decision right now.

She straightens, picking up the red piping bag and aiming it at a fresh cookie, and it’s back to business. Chatting. Asking questions. Lots of laughter. A hand to her collarbone, distracting every single person watching. She’s a fucking tease.

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