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Holy Holiday Heaven. Standing before me is a lush-as-fuck angel with evergreen eyes, berry-red lips, and a body I’d write to Santa for.
Her whispered voice is all the confirmation I need. This woman is mine, and I’m gonna find a way to keep her.
If Joey thinks he can give her pet names and win her affections with his fake-ass charm, he’s gonna be thinking differently when I shove a whisk down his smarmy throat.
If there was another man, he’s done now. He let her out, let her cross my path, and that’s his own fault. Because if she was mine, I’d keep her tied to my side. Literally, if necessary.
Balling my hands into fists, I resist the urge to use my discarded fork to pry my own heart out of my chest as an apology. But of course, I can’t do that. I can’t even tell her I’m sorry. I can only step back with the rest of the crew and pretend that walking away isn’t tearing me apart inside.
“Please don’t cry, Baby Cakes.” The pressure of his hand on my back increases. “I can’t take you crying.”
Christmas Eve is the day after tomorrow. And gloomy mood or not, I love Christmas. I love the sparkly lights, the traditions, the food.
I’m sorry for making you cry. I know you don’t know a thing about me, but I’m pretty sure I’m half in love with you and I’d rather die than make you cry again.
Sweet snowballs, her tits are amazing.
“Take more,” she sobs. “Take whatever you want.” Images of our life together flash through my mind. Diamond rings. A white dress. Sunny beaches. Tiny babies.
“Never run from me,” I growl between kisses. “Don’t ever run away from me again.”
“So yeah, we’re dating for the next few days, or however long it takes me to find you the perfect ring. And after that, you’ll be my fiancée. Then, if I have my say, I’ll be calling you wife by the time the clock strikes midnight on New Year’s Eve.”
