Page 36 of Mistletoe Missus
“Mitt? Where are you going?” I asked in confusion.
Mitt glanced over his shoulder. “I won’t have my wife living in fear.”
“What are you going to do?” I questioned with a nervous laugh. “Destroy every icicle on the face of the planet?”
“Stay here and be on my bed when I return,” Mitt demanded as he left the room and shut the door behind him.
What the hell had gotten into my husband?
NINETEEN
Chilly Memory
Tinsley
The question played on repeat inside of my head as I peered at the door for several minutes, but it seemed like hours. Perplexed, I ambled toward Mitt’s bed and stared down at the bedsheets that were a dark gray. His king-sized bed intimidated me when it shouldn’t, but it did because this was where Mitt slept. His gorgeous muscular body lay here to rest every single night, wrapped up in these sheets. I now grazed my hands over the smooth satin, envisioning my husband below me. His skin was soft it made goosebumps form on my flesh and I came alive.
I bit my lower lip and fantasized about Mitt just the way he had been before he left me. Shirtless, brawny with minimal hair on his chest and abs for days. His torso was sculpted to perfection, and I wanted to run my mouth over his tanned skin. Silk pajama bottoms loosely hung from his hips, daring me to pull them down and set his magnificent cock free—a dick I was sure was huge because I had experienced him pressed up against me on multiple occasions. The thought of Mitt’s erect shaft made me wet between my thighs. I wanted him. I needed my husband, and this fantasy I had drawn up wasn’t enough. It was nowhere close to what I truly needed. I needed my husband to fuck theliving shit out of me or make me come with an earth-shattering orgasm.
“I thought I told you to get on my bed,” Mitt said from behind me.
Startled out of my fantasy of him, I spun around, trembling and breathing heavily. “I...I was about to, but—”
Mitt interrupted, “No matter. This will do.”
Slowly, Mitt walked toward me with a look of power, and his chest was the way I had envisioned it. He was delicious, and I could lick him up, lapping my tongue all over every crevice and dimple in his skin. My wetness would swirl around his nipples, my teeth grazing the points. To hear him sigh with pleasure, my lust for him fogging every rational thought. The same way the arousal I had for him now messed with my better judgment.
Mitt hated me, or I thought he did. This was strictly business in his book, and I was nothing more. I didn’t matter to him, but he kept doing things to make me question everything.
“What are you doing?” I asked with confusion when my eyes caught sight of a tray in his hands. “What is all that for?”
“For you,” Mitt answered as he set the tray down on a nearby nightstand and grabbed a mug from it. “Here. Drink.”
“I’m not thirsty,” I refused with a slight shake of my head.
“I didn’t ask if you were thirsty,” Mitt said as he stood in front of me and lifted the rim of the mug to my lips. “I told you to drink. Be a good girl, Wife, and take a sip. I promise I’ll make it all worth it.”
The heat from his mug tickled my nose, and I could smell the sweet aroma of hot chocolate. The misty pleasantness drew me in, and my lips touched the rim. Mitt placed his fingertips under my chin, barely tilting my head backward. The hot cocoa trickled inside of my mouth and wasn’t anywhere near burning, but just right.
I swallowed and watched Mitt. “All this sugar before bed will have me wired. I won’t be able to sleep.”
“I wasn’t planning on going to sleep yet,” Mitt admitted, and he raised the mug to his mouth. “Is the hot chocolate to your liking?”
I replied, “It’s perfect.”
“Good.” Mitt took a sip and put the mug back on the tray.
Next, Mitt reached inside of an ice bucket. I couldn’t see anything inside of it. Usually, one would use the bucket to keep a bottle of wine chilled, but not Mitt Morgan. He pulled out something long, frozen, and gleaming in the dim light of the room.
An icicle.
I panicked.
“What the hell, Mitt? Get that thing away from me!” My feet stumbled backward until the back of my legs hit the edge of the bed, and I fell.
Mitt caught me. His hand gripped the back of my neck as he pulled me closer, and my wide eyes were full of fright of the frozen crystal, which took a piece of me, and I lived with the scar as a remembrance for the rest of my life.
The memory of the day the fallen icicle fell came to me in slow motion. I was a little girl playing outside on a cold winter’s morning as the sun beamed brighter after a bitter, snowy night. All I had wanted to do was have fun in the snow and build a snowman right beside my childhood house. I was working hard on the next snowball for the head of my snowman I’d callSnowflake.
