by Meghan March
I fucking hate Christmas. Just one more holiday that reminds me of things I’d rather forget. But enough of this shit. Pulling my phone from my pocket, I hover my thumb over the screen. I’ve got hundreds of numbers I can call and have a chick on my dick in less than fifteen minutes, even on Christmas Eve. Again, I wait for some sign of action in my pants, but I get nothing.
My dick must be broken. There’s no other explanation for it—except that I’m bored with my options. I know I’m getting repetitive, but bad things happen when I get bored. My past is littered with mistakes that arose from situations like this one.
But you know what? I’m in the mood to make another mistake. It’s time to grab my suit jacket and find out what kind of trouble I can get into tonight.
Christmas Eve, New York City
I’m giving myself a man for Christmas. Yes, a man.
I can do this. Really, I can. I think. Maybe.
From just inside the door, I scan the fancy hotel bar, looking for a likely prospect. The warmth of the whiskey I drank at the after party buzzes through me in a happy hum. I needed more than a little liquid courage to talk myself into this plan. I think it’s safe to say that this is my first rodeo.
And of course, I had to choose something way out of my league. But who knew the hotel bar would be so dang fancy? The Rose Club at the Plaza. Fifth Avenue, New York City.
I stifle the urge to check the carpet for any traces of mud that might have fallen off my cowboy boots, and wonder if it’s the first time a Kentucky girl in honest-to-God shit-kickers has stepped into this joint. Although, these boots are part of my stage costume, so the fringe and rhinestone-encrusted leather is a heck of a lot nicer than the worn-out ones I left in my cubby on the bus.
The bluish-purple glow coming from the ornate domed light fixtures makes it look like someone dunked the whole room in grape juice, giving the bar a kind of otherworldly feel. One look at the handful of folks in here tonight makes it clear that these people are from a completely different planet than me.
But I push aside the comparison and venture closer to the shiny wooden bar. If I’m going to do this, I’m going to need another shot of that liquid courage.
I slide onto one of the velvet bar stools, absolutely aware of the fact that my tiny jean skirt is riding up my thighs. A man in a suit one stool down is eyeing my legs while he swirls the liquor in his glass. I can’t tell what color it is, because everything takes on the unnatural shade of the lights.
I’m grateful for those lights. Something about the color is mellow and sexy, and it gives me the guts to follow through with my plan.
My Christmas list may be short, but it’s certainly specific. One man with enough cockiness and a smoking-hot body to take my mind off the grief stalking me tonight.
I snag the drink menu and flip it open. It lands on exactly the page I need. American Whiskey. The best damn kind there is. My jaw drops when I read the prices.
“Holy shit. Sixteen dollars for Jack Daniel’s? What the hell? Did Jack rise from the grave and make that mash himself? Holy . . . damn.” My voice carries, and everyone in the room, including the bartender in his snazzy suit, turns to look at me.
The guy one seat over must take that as some sort of invitation, and slides onto the velvet stool next to me. His smile is as smarmy as his words.
“I’ll buy a pretty girl a drink.” He jerks his head toward the bartender. “Put whatever she wants on my tab.”
Well, that didn’t take long.
I drop my gaze quickly, and the paunch straining the buttons of his dress shirt quickly disqualifies him as having the smoking-hot body on my Christmas wish list. But maybe this is a situation where beggars can’t be choosers?
I’ve never been much of a barfly, but the few times I’ve ventured out after shows with the guys, it seems like I always get these business types who spend a little too much time on the road, and none of it hitting the hotel gym.
Resignation filters through me. Maybe this is as good as it gets? One thing is clear, even through the warmth of the whiskey—this is the dumbest idea I’ve ever had.
“Thank you, but I think I’m a little lost tonight.” I flip the menu shut. “I should probably just get back to my room.”
The label put me up at the Plaza as a goodwill gesture for doing the show on Christmas Eve; otherwise, I would never drop that kind of money on a hotel, even if I had that kind of cash to spare—which I don’t.
He lays a hand on my arm. “How can you be lost, when I just found you?”
The line is cheesy, and I’m not even sure it counts as a line. But either way, I’ll be better off with some room-service dessert and a pity party for one.
I slide off the edge of the stool, but his grip tightens before his hand lands on my leg, sliding up my skirt almost instantly.
“You can’t go yet. We haven’t even gotten acquainted. Just let me buy you a drink. I promise I’ll make it worth your while, sweetheart.”
Chills of ick run through me at his touch, and I struggle to slide out of his grip, but he’s got me trapped. Apparently he thinks I’m a hooker, but my skirt isn’t that short.
Reaching down to pry his hand off my leg, I dig my nails in, but he just squeezes tighter.
Seriously, world? This is what I get when I try to have some harmless fun? Not. Fair.
I yank at his hand and open my mouth to tell him to let go when a rough, deep voice curls around me.
“I’ll thank you to take your hands off my wife.”
In one swift move, the unwelcome hands touching me are gone, and the man is stumbling off his stool. My gaze jerks from the handsy guy trying to catch his balance, and darts over my left shoulder.
Another guy in a suit. Except instead of being on the slippery side of fifty and overweight, this man might just be God’s gift to women. Or maybe just Saint Nick’s gift to me in the form of a rescue? Because, holy wow. Dark brown hair falls perfectly over his forehead, and his cheekbones could have been carved by one of those Italian master sculptor guys.
A hint of recognition tugs at the edges of my whiskey-soaked brain as his dark eyes burn into mine, as if daring me to play along. I don’t know what his game is, but for him . . . I might just be willing to try it.
The sexy man in the suit lifts a hand to my hair and smooths a lock between two fingers. His dark brown eyes never leave mine. “Darling, I told you that the picking-up-strangers game to make me jealous was for New Year’s Eve, not Christmas Eve.”
The other guy backs away another step, and the memory of his touch is fading just as quickly as it came. It’s like watching the laws of nature play: the beta male bows to the alpha, and the sexy man in the suit is one hundred percent the alpha dog in this situation.
Whatever pheromones he’s throwing off have me shifting on the velvet bar stool and leaning closer to him without thinking. It’s a million times better than the thought of getting up close and personal with Handsy. I reach down to rub my arm where the jerk touched me, and a red mark has already appeared.
Alpha Dog doesn’t miss my move. He lays a possessive hand on my shoulder and speaks to Handsy in a low, dangerous growl. “If you don’t want to be still picking up teeth next Christmas Eve, I’d suggest you pay your tab and get the fuck out of here before I lose my temper. You don’t ever put your hands on a woman who clearly isn’t interested.”
Handsy apparently doesn’t recognize the alpha yet. “She came in here looking like she was trolling for a man. She was fucking interested. Maybe you should keep a leash on your woman if you can’t control her.”
I open my mouth to tell him I was most definitely not interested, but Alpha speaks first.
“I suggest you walk away while you’re still able.”
Alpha’s expression must be even more dangerous than his words, because Handsy snaps his fingers at the bartender, who slides an embossed leather folder down the bar. Apparently he’s been listening to this whole exchange as well, because he’s grinning smugly.
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Alpha slides an arm around my middle and pulls me back against his solid chest. It’s everything I can do to stop myself from purring and rubbing up against him like a tabby cat in heat.
What is coming over me? I’ve never reacted like this to any man before. I should want to shower off the other guy, but instead I just want to get closer to the leader of the pack behind me.
Handsy flips the folder open and fumbles for his wallet.
Alpha Dog clips out, “Make sure you leave a good tip.”
The other man is counting out bills, and Alpha Dog’s thumb begins to rub a path back and forth across my stomach, just below my breasts. With every stroke, I press more weight back against him as all the nerve endings in my body seem to come to life at once.
His chest rumbles with his words. “Two hundred should be sufficient. It’s fucking Christmas. Don’t be a cheap fuck, you prick.”
I bite my lip to hold back the giggle welling up inside me.
Handsy shoves two hundreds inside and flips the leather folder shut before stumbling off his stool.
He takes three steps, and Alpha says, “I sure as hell hope you haven’t forgotten to apologize to my wife for being a dick before you go.”
Handsy pauses and stiffens. “Sorry, ma’am. I apologize sincerely.”
My belly shakes with silent laughter, and Alpha squeezes me tighter.
“Something funny, sweetheart?”
I’m debating whether I should disentangle myself from his hold to face him when he takes the decision out of my hands and drops his arm. He pulls out the bar stool next to me, unbuttons his suit jacket, and sits.
I expect him to turn and start explaining what just happened, and why the hell he rescued me and then pretended to be my husband, but he just holds up two fingers.
“Bushmills 21 for the lady.”
The bartender hops to it, nodding before he grabs a tall bottle from the top shelf.
“I’ll have a double shot of Jack,” I say, correcting him.
The bartender freezes and looks from me to Alpha Dog.
My sideways glance reveals him shaking his head. “She’ll have the Bushmills. We’re expanding her palate.”
I look at him and open my mouth to object, but get distracted by his profile. The man is beautiful, from his dark hair and equally dark eyes to his black tie tucked into a matching three-button vest. My eyes drop lower to the bulge in his suit pants. I swallow and remember exactly why I’m sitting in this bar tonight.
It hits me like a splash of slush from a cab on my boots. I know exactly who he is, because he doesn’t look all that different from the cover of Forbes that Tana had at her house a couple of months ago. I still remember the headline: KARAS CRUSHES COMPETITION.
Well, he certainly crushed the competition tonight. The rush of nervousness I was already feeling builds. The Holly gives herself a man for Christmas plan is suddenly alive and well again.
But how do I do this? I’ve never propositioned a stranger in a bar, let alone a billionaire. Or is this already a foregone conclusion, and he’s just waiting for me to catch up to his agenda for the evening?
“We’re expanding my palate?” My words come out breathier than I intended.
His full lips slide into a lazy, yet predatory smile. “In this respect, and I’m hoping a few others before the night is over.”
Oh. My. God.
I sure hope I know what I’m getting myself into.
Fuck me.
That’s what her glossy siren-red lips are saying, and I don’t think she has a goddamn clue how edible she looks sitting perched on that stool. She shifts, and the rhinestones at her neck, ears, and wrist flash purple in the trademark light of the Rose Club—light that’s more accustomed to reflecting off diamonds than costume jewelry.
She drew my eye when she stepped through the door because she looked so utterly out of place. But I haven’t been able to take my eyes off her because . . . Fuck. I have no idea. I’ve had my fair share of beautiful women, but this one’s a completely different breed. Not the trained purebred type of woman who crowds this place, tittering and looking for her next meal ticket.
No. One look at her, and I know she’s untrained and innocent. She’s not the kind of woman who is going to be angling for a handout, and the absolute lack of motive behind her actions is more alluring than I would have guessed. The way she instantly played along and never shied from my touch. Hell, she leaned into me, wanting more. She’s rare, and I’m the kind of man who appreciates that quality more than most when it comes to choosing a woman.
And then there’s the fact that she’s sitting in this bar on Christmas Eve with no ring on her finger—not sure how the dumb fuck missed the lack of that little accessory. It tells me she’s as alone in this city tonight as I am.
Boredom is now the last thing on my mind. This innocent girl has managed to eradicate every trace of it.
I make my decision instantly. She’s mine tonight.
The bartender, Aric, according to his nametag, sets our whiskey down in front of us.
“Please let me know if I can get you anything else, Mr. Karas.”
I wince as he says my name. I expect her demeanor to change immediately, for greedy claws to come out and spear into me.
Instead, she eyes the lowball glass in front of her. “How much is that drink gonna cost me? Ten dollars a swallow?”
I barely hold back a groan at the word swallow, because, fuck, I’m a guy, and I’ve already been picturing my dick in her mouth.
“Not a thing, sweetheart. I wouldn’t let a woman drink alone, and I sure as hell wouldn’t let her pay for her own drinks.”
I wait for an objection, but instead she lifts the glass and sniffs its contents.
“Kinda smells like . . . candy?”
“Caramelized toffee and dark chocolate.”
Her lips press against the rim, and she tips back a swig. Fuck. Her throat works as she swallows the liquor.
I want to taste it on her lips. Hell, I just want to taste her. I lean in, not even totally conscious of my movement, but urged on by the need to sample my favorite Irish whiskey from her, rather than from the glass.
But she freezes, and so do I.
Her brown eyes widen. “Holy horseshit, that’s some good stuff.”
My chest shakes as a chuckle breaks loose. “Damn straight.”
Her mouth curves into a grin as she lifts and sips again. This time she swallows more, and my dick pulses against the zipper of my suit pants. I want her on her knees, those wide brown eyes staring up at me as I cup her jaw and thrust my cock between those lush red lips.
“Take more,” I say.
Her eyebrows lift, but she complies. Or she complies with what she thinks I want.
No, sweetheart. I’m just practicing what I’m going to say when I’m fucking your gorgeous face. She’s too innocent to understand just yet, but she will.
My dick jumps again, and I know if I don’t calm it down, I’ll be stammering one-syllable words due to lack of oxygen in my brain. I’ve never reacted this quickly and this strongly to a woman before. It’s gut-level and completely fucking primal, but I don’t question it. I embrace it.
My mind is flipping through all the lines I can use to get her out of this bar and back to my penthouse for a long night of no-holds-barred, wake-the-neighbors fucking, when she beats me to it.
“Are you married? Other than to me on a purely fake basis?” she asks, a small smile curving her fuckable lips.
I don’t have an explanation for playing the jealous-husband card except that she brought out my most basic possessive instincts. If they were any stronger, I would have been thrown out of the bar for pissing a circle around her to mark my territory, and challenging any man who thought he had big enough balls to take her from me.
That was a completely new and novel feeling. Normally my brain comprehends in this fashion: Hot. Want to fuck.
It’s as simple as that. And nothing further.
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nbsp; Men are not complicated creatures, ladies. You’re hot? Chances are, the guys you know want to fuck you. It’s called human nature.
But it wasn’t so simple with this fringed-cowboy-boot-wearing oddity. She’s been a tantalizing breath of fresh air sweeping by me, and the urge to stake my claim burst forth from the primordial part of my brain.
Her smile fades, and I pull myself back to the conversation I’m supposed to be having with her. I forgot her question already.
“Why the frown, sweetheart?”
She stiffens on her stool. “One, don’t call me sweetheart. And two, if you’re married, you can take your fancy-whiskey-sippin’ ass to another table.”
I smirk. So that was the question. “Not married. Why, you looking for a husband?”
Her button nose wrinkles in distaste. “No. Absolutely not.”
I lift one eyebrow. The women I know would consider that a proposal—even though it wasn’t. And they would jump on it.
“You have a problem with the whole institution, or just with respect to yourself specifically?”
She takes another drink, a big one this time. She finishes draining her glass and sets it on the bar. Those brown eyes cut to mine.
“I didn’t come here to talk about marriage. I came here to find a hot guy who looked like he could handle himself, and see where the night takes us.” She lifts her glass again as if she needs another sip to fortify her next words, but it’s already empty. She sets it on the table, and with a rush, says, “You think you might be that guy?”
I have the distinct impression that without the whiskey, she would never have been forward enough to speak those words. But this works perfectly with my plan. She’s given me the opening I need, and I’m not the kind of man to screw up a perfect opportunity.
I lift my glass to my lips and swallow the contents before I slide it back onto the Rose Club cocktail napkin on the bar. I never break eye contact through the whole series of motions.
“Where are you from?” I don’t usually ask questions, but with her, I want to know everything.
