The Billionaire's Christmas Bride (Big Bad Billionaires #3) - L. Steele Page 0,3
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 moves his arm 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.
"You were burgled?" His jaw hardens.
"None of your business."
"Answer the bloody question." He takes a step forward. I scoot back. My leg brushes something warm and furry, which moves.
"Whoa!" I struggle to find my balance 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.
“You noticed,” he quips.
I grimace, then nod my head toward the floor. “I meant that one.”
"Forget that." His breath feathers over my hair and liquid lust shoots through my veins. The scent of pine and cloves mixes with that edgy darkness that is purely Weston. Speaking of—something hard stabs into my waist—the aforementioned “cigar.” A groan boils up my throat. Not fair—this crazy attraction to someone I’ve 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 than 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 favorite 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."