by L. Steele
He nods.
Tears prick my eyes. I turn my face into Saint's arm. "I'm sorry that I doubted you," I whisper.
Saint wraps his arm even closer around me, "You couldn't have known, and I should have told you about this earlier."
I shake my head. "It would have been too dangerous."
Tink smiles, "She's a keeper, Killian."
He drums his fingers on his chest, "I have good taste, huh?"
I swipe at his shoulder, "So that's why you had the riding crop on your desk?"
"Want me to use it again on you?" he smirks.
"Ugh," Tink grimaces, "TMI, you guys."
"Sorry," he snickers, "couldn't resist."
His phone pings. He slides it out of his pocket and his lips curl.
"What are you up to?" I huff.
"Weston's on his way to the cabin in the countryside to get some alone time over Christmas." He pockets his phone.
There’s silence for a minute.
"Holdonasecond." I scowl, "Isn't Amelie headed there as well?"
"Is she?" His lips twitch.
"Saint Jordan Killian Harry Caldwell," I grumble.
"Uh-oh," he drawls, "am I in trouble?
"You set this up?"
"Me?" His gaze widens.
I stare, "You gave them each a key to the cabin and sent them there?"
"Oops." He smirks.
TO FIND OUT WHAT HAPPENS NEXT READ WESTON AND AMELIE'S STORY IN THE BILLIONAIRE'S CHRISTMAS BRIDE HERE
"★★★★★ COULD NOT PUT IT DOWN!" READ THE AMAZON TOP 100 BESTSELLER THE BILLIONAIRE'S FAKE WIFE – SINCLAIR AND SUMMER'S STORY HERE
READ JACE AND SIENNA'S STORY HERE
READ KARMA AND MICHAEL BYRON'S STORY HERE
READ AN EXCERPT FROM WESTON AND AMELIE'S STORY...
I stalk toward the door at the far end, take a breath.
The sounds of water splashing, then a male voice breaks into a rendition of Nothing Else Matters by Metallica. Huh? The singing’s not bad, actually. My thief, apparently, has a thing for classic rock, and can carry a tune. I hum the lyrics in sync with him… The hell? I pause, draw in another breath. Now or never. Do it, Amelie. Go for it. Whoever it is, he has no right to be here. Shit, should I have called the cops?
The singing stops abruptly. What the—? Did I give myself away? I half angle my body; the door flies open. Offense is the best form of defense, and all that. I pivot around, raise my weapon, and find I am confronted with a wall of muscle. Naked chest, water running in rivulets down those sculpted abs that narrow into a concave belly which points to his thick, long—
"My face is up here," he drawls.
Heat flushes my cheeks; I jerk my gaze up. Grey eyes clash with mine—stormy clouds that boil in a sky which hints at oncoming snow. Sleet. Hail. An uncompromising will to get his way no matter what. A shiver runs down my spine and moisture pools between my legs.
The skin between his eyebrows crinkles and his nostrils flare. No way. He can’t smell my arousal, can he?
That mean upper lip thins further. His pouty lower lip juts out above a chin that wears days’ old growth of beard. Thick dark hair covers his jaw. How would it feel to have him draw those rough whiskers across my inner thigh? Right before he dips his head, darts out his tongue, and licks my innermost secret place. Goosebumps dot my skin. Shit, what’s wrong with me? Why did my mind go there? You know why… Because this handsome piece of 100% male goodness is, quite simply, the most wickedly delicious piece of dessert I’ve ever laid my eyes on. My throat dries. Also, I happen to know him.
"You?" my voice comes out breathless.
"What are you doing here?" he snaps at the same time.
"I asked the question first," I huff.
"I am not in the habit of answering queries posited by women who look like they’ve been dragged in from a storm."
"What?" My jaw drops. I am gaping, and it’s not only because the words complete the image of the man I’ve loathed from the moment I first saw him at the wedding of one of my best friends. "Dr. f’ing Weston," I snarl.
"That’s Doc Kincaid to you." He yawns.
Of course, his surname would have to have the word kink in it in some form. "And are you?" I scowl.
"What?"
"A real doctor?"
He raises his hand, stabs the cigar I only now realize he holds between his fingers between his lips. "Do you want to find out?" He looks me up and down, "I could give you a thorough examination." His gaze settles on my breasts, slides down to my core. "Make sure everything is in working order.” He snickers.
Heat fizzes low in my belly. Hell, with that kind of hotness, this man could clearly get my cake batter to rise in seconds… Wait, did I just think that?
I make a gagging noise in my throat, "Does that line actually work?"
"You’d be surprised." His lips curl.
Oh, that smirk. My stomach seems to bottom out… Or maybe that’s because I haven’t eaten since lunch time.
He draws on his cigar, cheeks hollowing for an instant, before he puffs out smoke. Cherries, cloves…cinnamon. Yum. My mouth waters, "How would it be to bake a cigar dessert?"
"What?" He frowns.
Shit, did I just say that aloud?
"Nothing," I mumble, "and you haven’t answered my question."
His voice lowers to a hush, "I’ll answer yours if you answer mine." Another shiver ladders up my spine. How did he manage to make that seem like an innuendo?
"Is everything a trade to you?"
"You should try it." He smiles, a full-blown grin that highlights the laughter lines that stretch from the corners of his eyes. I mean, could this guy be any more perfect? I allow my gaze to take in the breadth of his shoulders, that gorgeous neck, the swell of those hard biceps, the smattering of hair on those forearms—No, do not look lower; don’t do it—to the splint that he sports around middle finger of his right hand.
"What happened to you?" I scowl.
"This?" He raises his middle finger to show me the bird by default, "I fractured my middle finger a car accident."
"How convenient," I scoff. "You can announce your jerk-face nature without speaking a word."
He chuckles, "You always this nice to injured men?"
"You always go around flashing women?"
"You enjoyed the view." He raises that goddam cigar again to his mouth, wraps those beautiful lips around the smoke stick. And I'd love to get my mouth around his fat, juicy cigar too.
No, no. Enough with the terrible metaphors. But, hello, can you blame me? I am only a woman standing in front of a man—a naked, gorgeous as hell, stud muffin of a male who pulls the cigar from his mouth, and blows out a cloud of fragrant smoke from between pursed lips.
Moisture melts my core. My toes curl.
Jesus, there should be a law against him using his mouth like that. Of course, I could find other uses for that mouth of his too… No, no no, why are you insisting on going back down that route?
"Nothing I haven’t seen," I toss my head.
"Unlikely." He lowers his right hand—the one with the splint and the default flip-me-off-bird to his crotch.
What the—? Don’t look there, bitch— Don’t bloody watch him grasp himself and squeeze.
I gulp, the sound audible in the small space. And damn him, but I can’t take my gaze off of that gorgeous part of his anatomy.
He lowers his hand to his side, "I rest my case."
Hell, but a certain part of him is far from being in resting position. Gulp. Did I just word play on his dick play? Clearly his proximity is rubbing off if all I can think of are these poor jokes.
"By the way," his tone is conversational, "you planning on defending yourself with that?" He jerks his chin.
I tighten my grasp around the spatula and raise it. "This has been known to strike fear in the heart of burglars and those who’ve tried to break in on me before," I snap.
"Have you been burgled before?" His jaw hardens.
"None of your
business."
"Have you?" He takes a step forward. I scoot back. My leg brushes something warm, which moves. A scream spills from my lips, then, for the second time in ten minutes, the world tilts, and I find myself falling… Falling. The spatula slips from my grasp. I squeeze my eyes shut, waiting for my butt to connect with the hard ground, only I’m yanked upright. Heat envelops me and my breasts flatten against something unyielding. I don’t need to open my eyelids to know it’s his chest, the one with the cut planes, the eight pack abs. I slap my palm against that wall of muscles which coil, move, and writhe under my fingertips. I gulp and my legs threaten to give way under me, but his hold around my shoulders tightens. I spot the smoldering smoke stick of his on the ground.
"Your…cigar," I stutter.
"Fuck that." His breath feathers over my hair and liquid lust shoots up my veins. The scent of cherries and cloves mixes with that edgy darkness that is purely Weston. Speaking of—something hard stabs into my waist. A groan boils up my throat. Not fair—this crazy attraction to someone I’d barely met a couple of times. Why does he have to smell so delicious? Bet if I licked his chest, he’d taste more decadent that the chocolate mud pie cake recipe I’ve been wanting to bake. I'll lick the frosting off his cupcake any time. Nooooo. Not again. Enough with comparing his unmentionables with my favorited stuffed goodies. OMG, how would it feel to have him stuff his goodies in my cannoli? Wait, did that even make sense?
His voice dips, “You haven’t answered my question."
"What?" I blink.
"Did he hurt you?" He enunciates his words at a slow pace as if I am slow of mind… Which, I admit, at the moment, I seem to be. His larger-than-life charisma has turned my brain cells to mush. "Tell me," he coaxes. Is he using the same tone he used with the puppy to make him obey? Well, hell, if it isn’t working on me as well.
My stomach stutters. "Once…." I force out the word.
His muscles coil; tension radiates off of his body. "You were burgled before?" he snaps.
"Yeah," I hunch my shoulders, "it happened a week ago… No biggie." I swallow as my heart begins to race. It hadn’t been pleasant, that almost encounter. I had been alone in the kitchen of my bakery at 4 am… Hell, it had been horrible, actually. The guy had thrown a fright into me and I had thrown this spatula at him. " I chased off the guy."
His grip tightens, "Did he hurt you?" His jaw tics.
I stare up into his tight features. You’d think Mr. Jerkass here is all concerned about my safety.
"Did he?" his voice snaps through the noise in my head.
"N…no," I shake my head.
"No, what?"
No, I will not give in to this insane chemistry between us. I didn’t come all this way to run slap-bang into a man who is, surely, far worse than the one who recently broke my heart. "No, he didn’t do any harm." I tip up my chin. "Though I can’t promise the same to you."
He chuckles, "I love a good fight, don’t you?"
Jackass.
A whine sounds behind me.
I shoot a sideways glance to spot a puppy plant his behind on the ground…exactly the kind of position I’d have been, if ‘Mr. Overbearing Brute’ here hadn’t grabbed me first. Oh, so that's what I’d brushed against earlier and almost fallen over.
"Max," Weston talks to the dog, "you hungry, buddy?"
The puppy whines again.
"I’ll be right there, little man." His voice takes on a cajoling tone, and damn him, but my ovaries seem to spasm. The hell is he doing to me? Before this, I’ve never thought about kids… Hell, I’ve barely managed to embark on a halfway decent career, and I’ve never thought of myself as someone who’d want a family. But Weston, with his smoldering glare, his hard face, his harder—um—body, and that coaxing manner with which he talks to Max… I can see him with a child tucked under one arm, and me under his other… Heck, I can see me under him, period. My mouth waters. My panties dampen further. Get your mind out of the gutter, you slut.
"Isn’t he Sinclair and Summer’s pet?" I frown. My friend Summer had married Sinclair Sterling, one of the seven billionaire co-owners of 7A investments, not long ago. She’d found the love of her life, that lucky bitch. Not that I begrudge her her happiness. What I wouldn't give for some of that moon and stars glitter to rub off on me as well...
"They’re away on an extended honeymoon," Weston grunts.
"Aww. So you decided to puppy-sit?" I breathe. A warm glowing ball lights up inside of me.
He glowers, "Don’t gush any sweet icky stuff now—uh, what’s your name again?"
Poof—that warm feeling I mentioned? Forget about it. The hell is wrong with this man? "You know my name all right, you ass." I stab my finger in his chest, "So why are you pretending otherwise?"
"Me?" He blinks, "Do I?" He tilts his head, pretending to think, "Is it Lily?"
A slow burn starts up my spine.
"No… No." He cracks his neck, "It will come to me, it will… It’s Malia, right?"
Anger laces the edges of my vision. I draw in a breath, then another. Stay calm, he can only get so much more obnoxious, right?
"Wait, let me try, one more time…" He pats his temple with the palm of his injured hand. "It’s…something French, isn’t it? Like… Valerie, Malory, maybe? No, I have it." He snaps his fingers, "It’s Celine. I got that right, didn’t I?" He chuckles.
I clench my fists, then raise my hand toward his face.
He catches my wrist. "Tsk, tsk," he clicks his tongue. "What a temper you have, little one."
"Don’t ‘little one’ me… You… You wanker."
"Finally," his eyes gleam, "here kitty, kitty, show me your claws."
"I’ll do better than that," I hiss, "I’ll show you how it is to see the sun at night time."
I bring up my knee, aim for his groin.
TO FIND OUT WHAT HAPPENS NEXT READ WESTON AND AMELIE'S STORY IN THE BILLIONAIRE'S CHRISTMAS BRIDE HERE
Read an excerpt from Karma and Michael Byron's story...
Karma
"Morn came and went—and came, and brought no day…"
Tears prick the backs of my eyes. Goddamn Byron. Always creeps up on me when I am at my weakest. Not that I am a poetry addict, by any measure, but words are my jam.
The one consolation I have, that when everything else in the world is wrong, I can turn to them, and they’ll be there—friendly steady, waiting with open arms. And this particular poem had laced my blood and crawled into my gut when I’d first read it. Darkness had folded into me like an insidious snake that raises its head when I least expect it. Like now. I'd managed to give my bodyguard the slip and veered off my usual running route to reach Waterlow Park.
I look out on the still-sleeping city of London, from the grassy slope of the expanse. Somewhere out there, the Mafia is hunting me, apparently.
I purse my lips, close my eyes. Silence. The rustle of the wind between the leaves. The faint tinkle of the water from the nearby spring.
I could be the last person on this planet, alone, unsung, bound for the grave.
Ugh! Stop. Right there. I drag the back of my hand across my nose. Try it again, focus, get the words out, one after the other, like the steps of my sorry life.
"Morn came and went—and came, and brought no day…" My voice breaks. "Bloody, asinine, hell." I dig my fingers into the grass and grab a handful and fling it out. Again. From the top. I open my eyes, focus on a spot in the distance.
"Morn came and went—and came, and…."
"…brought no day."
I whip my head around. His profile fills my line of sight. Dark hair combed back by a ruthless hand that brooks no opposition.
My throat dries.
Hooked nose, thin upper lip, a fleshy lower lip, that hints at hidden desires. Heat. Lust. The sensuous scrape of that whiskered jaw over my innermost places. Across my inner thigh, reaching toward that core of me that throbs, clenches, melts to feel the stab of his tongue, the thrust of his hardness as he impales me, takes me,
makes me his.
"And men forgot their passions in the dread
Of this their desolation; and all hearts
Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light.."
Sweat beads my palm; the hairs on my nape rise. "Who are you?"
He stares ahead, his lips moving,
"Forests were set on fire—but hour by hour
They fell and faded—and the crackling trunks
Extinguish'd with a crash—and all was black."
I swallow, squeeze my thighs together. Moisture gathers in my core. How can I be wet by the mere cadence of this stranger’s voice?
I spring up to my feet.
"Sit down."
His voice is unhurried, lazy even, his spine erect. The cut of his black jacket stretches across the width of his massive shoulders. His hair… I was mistaken. There are strands of dark gold woven between the darkness that pours down to brush the nape of his neck. My fingers tingle. My scalp itches.
I take in a breath and my lungs burn.
This man, he’s sucked all the oxygen in this open space, as if he owns it, the master of all he surveys. The master of me. My death. My life. A shiver ladders its way up my spine. Get away, get away now, while you still can.
I take a step back.
"I won’t ask again."
Ask. Command. Force me to do as he wants. He’ll have me on my back, bent over, on the side, over him, under him, he’ll surround me, overwhelm me, pin me down with the force of his personality. His charisma, his larger-than-life essence that will crush everything else out of me and I… I’ll love it.
"No."
"Yes."
A fact. A statement of intent, spoken aloud. So true. So real. Too real. Too much. Too fast. All of my nightmares…my dreams come to life. Everything I’ve wanted is here in front of me. I’ll die a thousand deaths before he’ll be done with me… And then, will I be reborn? For him. For me. For myself. I live first and foremost to be the woman I am…am meant to be.
"You want to run?"
No.
No.
I nod my head
He turns his head and all of the breath leaves my lungs. Blue eyes—cerulean, dark like the morning skies, deep like the nighttime, hidden corners, secrets that I don’t dare uncover. He’ll destroy me, have my heart, and break it so casually.