The Billionaire's Christmas Bride (Big Bad Billionaires #3) - L. Steele Page 0,43
been refreshing to see him show some semblance of human emotion, after that rather brutish start to our relationship. Relationship? Are we in a relationship? Nah.
He blows out another puff of cigar smoke, that almost-Christmassy scent deepening. My mouth waters and I rise to my feet. "Do you have another?"
"What?" He replies without looking up. Huh?
I pause in front of him. His eyes stay glued to the page.
So, Mr. Potter is worthy of a lot of attention, but darn it, this once, I wish he’d prioritize me over the adventures of the boy wizard.
He raises the damned cigar to his lips and this time I snatch it from him.
He frowns.
I raise my shoulders, "I asked."
He watches as I lift the smoke stick, purse my mouth around the end wet from his. A shiver runs down my spine. It seems intimate to do this. I draw on the cigar, choke a little. A slight burn races down my throat. I blow out the smoke. My head spins. "Whoa," I giggle, "This is good."
"Don’t inhale," he cautions me.
"I know how to smoke a cigar."
"How to puff a cigar," he corrects me.
"That’s what I said." I scowl down at the smoke stick, then raise it to my lips, I take a long drag. The smoke swirls down my throat, fills my lungs. I blow it out without coughing. A buzz works its way down my limbs. My fingers tingle; my toes curl. "Hmm." I stare at the cigar, "Why is it that smoking a cigar kissed by you is almost as good as kissing you?"
"You sure about that?" His voice is tinged with humor.
I glance up, "Oh, what?"
"You want to test out that theory?"
I blink, then heat sears my cheeks. "Damn." I drag my fingers through my hair. "I didn’t just say that aloud, did I?"
"You sure did." He sets the book aside on the side table, then leans back in his chair. The firelight glows off of his beautiful face, highlighting the shadows under his cheekbones. The dark blonde strands of his days-old beard glint. He resembles a pirate, an old-world marauder, someone who’d swoop in and take and ravish. A melting sensation flares to life between my legs. Oh, hell… This man, he’s bloody potent.
His eyelids grow hooded; he watches me as I take a final puff from the cigar. The smoke lingers between us, framing those gleaming colorless eyes that survey me with more than a modicum of interest, and questions. Damn, he has so many questions in his eyes. As do I.
"Why did you tell me about the sex tape?" I blurt out.
The expression on his face doesn’t change. He doesn’t speak immediately. The silence grows, a beat, another. At his feet Max sighs. He springs up to his feet, looks at me, then at Weston, before pattering away toward the kitchen.
I glance back at Weston to find he’s staring at my face.
"What?" I tilt my head. "Shouldn’t I have asked that?"
He shakes his head, "Truth is, I am not sure why I mentioned it."
He rolls his shoulders, then settles deeper into the chair, "It felt like it was best to be upfront with you, considering—"
"Considering?" I prompt.
"You’re coming home to meet my family, and if it did come up in conversation, I didn’t want you to be surprised."
"Your family knows about it?"
He stares back.
"My mother is aware, yes..."
"Oh." I swallow, "And your father?"
"He died when I was sixteen."
Right.
"Heart attack."
My throat closes. Why is he sharing his past with me? What does it mean? Nothing. It means nothing at all. We're having a conversation, that's all it is. "Is that why you became a heart-surgeon?"
"Among other things." His features close.
Right. That sharing part? Guess I spoke too soon.
"My parents are retired and in Spain." I shuffle my feet. "I'd visit them more often, but they are happy in each other's company. They had me late, you see. I don't think they were prepared for how a child would turn their lives upside down. I mean, they never shirked their duties. Just... I think they were happy when I left home."
He scowls, "You miss them?"
"Sometimes." I raise my shoulders.
"You don't want to spend Christmas with them?"
"They uh, don't care either way, and this year... Well, I wanted some downtime, know what I mean?" I peer up into his face.
"You're spending Christmas with my family, so you won't be alone," he declares.
I frown. Am I that transparent that he'd guessed that I didn't particularly want to be alone through Christmas?