The Billionaire's Christmas Bride (Big Bad Billionaires #3) - L. Steele Page 0,53
ricochet through my head, down my spine. The breath whooshes out of me. "Ugh!" I flail around, and my arms are caught and twisted behind me.
"The hell is wrong with you?"
His voice rumbles below my ear and that’s when I realize I am sprawled over his body. His very naked body. My cheek is smooshed against that delectable chest, my breasts flattened against that eight pack, my pelvis positioned right over that hard, gorgeous part of him that stabs into the cleft between my pussy lips.
Max dances around us, barking near my ear. "Max, stop," I pant, then try to pull back from the annoying man I am currently draped over.
He scissors his legs around mine, "Stop struggling."
I tip my chin-up, "What are you trying to do?" I scowl.
The light shining through the window brings out the gold flecks in his eyes. Huh? So his eyes aren’t completely grey? Imagine that.
"I heard you scream." He glowers up at me, "I was convinced there was an intruder in here."
"No, it’s just me," I huff. Gosh, he’s grumpy first thing in the morning, huh? Is it because he hasn’t had his way with me yet? Would stabbing his dick inside of me put him in a better mood? My thighs clench. My nipples tighten.
He tilts his head, his lips taking on that curl that I hate… And love. Oh, my God, stop acting like a sex-crazed slut—but hello, can you blame me? That mussed up hair, that broad chest, over which I am sprawled. That warmth of his that rises up from his big body, to coil around me, sink into my blood, and travel straight to that emptiness in my center. Gah, stop that.
I push back; his grasp tightens. That hard length of his pushes up and into my very eager center. I gulp. Okay, don’t panic; don’t. Pretend it’s normal. Just a conversation, that’s all this is. I tip up my chin. "I, uh, had a little accident," I mutter.
"I can see that." He pushes back my hair that’s come lose from its bun on top of my head, then rubs at a spot on my cheek. He brings it to his mouth, sucks on his digit. "Chocolate." He grimaces, "Of course, it’s chocolate."
"Is there any other kind of ingredient worth waking up early for?"
"There are other reasons worth losing sleep over," he smirks.
I scoff, push at his chest, "Let me go."
"No."
Max shoves his face between us, aims his tongue at Weston’s mouth. Wes groans, turns his face the other way.
Max barks, wags his tail, turns to me instead. I crane my head away, "Chocolate isn't good for you, Max," I scold.
Max pants, then shoves his nose into my throat. "Ooh, it’s cold." I giggle. He licks my throat, then proceeds to place his paw on my breast.
"Hey," Weston releases my arm, grabs Max by the scruff of his neck and places him aside. Max barks. The moment Wes lets him go, he jumps forward toward me, shoves his nose down my blouse.
I laugh, "Max, no, that tickles."
"Bloody hell," Weston swears. He releases both of my arms, then grabs Max. I roll away from him. Weston jumps to his feet, stalks across the kitchen and places Max in the hallway. He points a finger at the puppy. "Chocolate on the floor, buddy. I don't want you getting into that." Max groans.
I swear, that dog can speak.
The mutt blinks up at Weston who shakes his head. "Nice try little fella, but you can’t come in here right now." He closes the door.
I spring up to my feet, and slip again, on the gooey dough this time, slide forward, tilt back, grab hold of a chair which tips over. Gah! The world tilts again; I squeak, throw out a hand, which is grasped. I am pulled upright.
"Steady." There’s amusement in his voice.
"Thank you." I tug on my palm, but his grip tightens around my wrist. He tugs, I careen forward, and he grabs me and swings me up. I wind my legs around his waist.
"Hello, there." He waggles his eyebrows.
"What are you doing?" My voice is breathless. Bloody hell. His dark, edgy, masculine scent entwines with the chocolate-banana notes of the muffin mixture. My mouth waters and it’s not for the muffins. My head spins and I dig my fingers into his shoulders.
He walks to the other side of the table, then plops me on it. He keeps his fingers on my hips. "That’s better."