Page 98 of The Billionaire's Christmas Bride
"There’s a thin line between hate and a connection."
What a condescending jerk.
"From where I am, it’s a 100% loathing," I force out the words.
"Good."
"Eh?"
"It’ll seem realistic, after all. Nothing like make-up sex to cement a relationship, huh?"
28
Weston
Make-up sex? What the fuck am I talking about? Clearly this entire idea—which I’d pulled out of my arse, by the way—is a bad one.
The SUV crawls up the driveway of the Victorian house on the outskirts of Durham where my mother lives. The ivy covers most of the west wing, the leaves a burned red this time of the year.
The vehicle stops in front of the steps leading up to the house.
Before my driver can come around, she’s pushed open the door and is hopping out. She opens the passenger door, hauls Max into her arms.
"I have his leash." I frown.
"I’m going to carry the little fella."
Right.
She hauls him closer to her face, "Hey baby, missed me, boy?"
Max licks her nose, her chin.
She laughs.
I scowl.
How dare another male intrude on my territory?
I growl deep in my throat.
Both Max and Amelie turn to me.
"Did you just growl?"
"So?" I glare at her.
She bites her lips, "Uh, you don’t have to be jealous of Max." She tips her nose up.
"Me?" I laugh, "Woman, you are delusional."
"Now who’s lying?" she scoffs.
"You seriously need to stop being obsessed with me."
She gapes at me, "You know what? This conversation is pointless." She straightens and stalks around the car, heading for the stairs. The dress she’s wearing flies up and exposes a flash of her creamy thigh. She takes the steps, and I notice the dark line running up the back of her stockings. My dick twitches, my groin hardens, and this is so, not the fucking time. I don’t want to walk into my family's home sporting a hard on.
I adjust myself, then duck out of the car.
