His for Christmas

by Skye Warren

  “I’m sure they told you about me,” he said conversationally. “They were supposed to.”

  Who was supposed to tell me about him—his secretary? The security guard? The man outside dressed like Santa? And what were they supposed to tell me? That he liked to touch his secretary? Had he touched the other woman too? Or was he only touching me because I was a temp? Or maybe he’d found out about my past, found out that I’d lied, and he knew I’d have to do anything he wanted just to stay out of jail. Oh Jesus, this was too crazy. I felt crazy. With a little shimmy, I managed to step aside. I turned halfway, only to be arrested by the sight of him.

  I’d have wanted him to be handsome. No, he was handsome, when he showed up on glossy magazines and TV news reports. He was facing the camera with a fierce expression or carefully turned away, thoughtful. Proud. Strong. Composed.

  He was none of those things now.

  Now he looked…hungry. Like a wolf who’d been denied too long. A wild beast staring at a doe. I shivered. “I’m sorry that I…” I glanced down at my hand, still holding his pen. I’d encroached on his territory, and now I was paying the price. “I’m sorry I touched your pen.”

  “Keep it,” he murmured.

  “Oh, I—” My gaze flickered from the pen to him and back again, and they were almost the same—both cool and dark and belonging here. “I couldn’t.”

  But I couldn’t let go of it either. I couldn’t even move. I just stood there, holding the smooth-metal pen, feeling guilt and shame and fear. Had he thought I was going to steal it? He could report me for that, even if he didn’t know about my record. But he didn’t look angry, exactly. He looked menacing, and sure, as if he would have put his hand on my hip whether I took his pen or not. As if he knew my hip belonged to him as much as the pen did.

  His eyes darkened as I met his gaze. “What’s your name?”

  “Angel,” I said quickly.

  His forehead creased for a moment, but just as quickly, whatever question he’d had faded from his eyes, replaced by something I knew well. Lust. Desire. Possession. Men had looked at me enough times that I could recognize it.

  At least you’re pretty. The night I’d seen that look in my daddy’s eyes was the night I’d left home, too young and too stupid to make anything of myself. At sixteen I could do little more than shack up with a guy. He’d promised me the world, but in the end all I’d gotten were two silver bracelets and a one-way ticket to jail.

  Mr. Thompson was older, smarter, and a heck of a lot richer. But he might give me the same things if I wasn’t careful.

  “Turn around,” he said, his voice gruff.

  And so I obeyed him. Because I understood what he wanted from me. Because the consequences of refusing him were so much worse. And because I’d been trained to follow orders for eighteen months at the state correctional facility.

  Just do what he says and you’ll be fine. That was what the secretary told me. Had she meant this? Had she meant turning away and feeling him step close, shivering at the firm grasp of his hands on my hips, my back flush against his front. My eyes fell closed. Did he do this to her? Did he think I was her? But I had dirty-blonde hair and the secretary’s was a dark brown. My breath whooshed out.

  He groaned. “You’re too fucking pretty, and it’s been too long. I need you. Now. Do you mind?”

  Did I…mind? Oh God. Was this how billionaires propositioned women for sex? By touching them, by making them burn, and then asking, almost politely, if they minded getting used? And the worst part was, I didn’t know if I minded. But I knew I couldn’t tell him to stop, couldn’t risk him asking questions. “I’ll do what you say.”

  He grunted in something like approval.

  And I knew I should mind. Regular women didn’t like this. A normal woman would get offended and maybe even slap him, but I’d been too well conditioned to do what I was told. Too desperate to keep this job. Both of those were reasons I let him touch me, but not the only ones.

  But I didn’t mind his warm hands on me or his hard body behind me, holding me up when my legs began to shake. I didn’t mind seeing what else he could make me feel. The truth was, I was starving for human touch. After two years behind bars, I hungered for it. Feared it. Needed it. But when his hands slipped back to cup my ass, I tensed.

  The pen fell, almost silent, on the plush carpet.

  “Am I going too fast?” he murmured. “Christ, of course I am. I’ll make sure you’re ready for me. It won’t hurt.”

  It seemed like such a small thing to offer me. It won’t hurt. And such a huge gift. I felt offended and grateful at the same time, shamed and eager, and my body reacted by pushing my ass into his touch. He squeezed, and a moan escaped me, low and needy, as he pulled me against his body, showing me his arousal in the hard brand of his erection.

  He hissed at the contact. “Jesus.” His hands moved from my waist, skimming over my shirt. “I want to make you feel good. Can I do that? Can I make you come?”

  He was asking…permission?

  Something about this seemed off—that he’d touch me like he had every right to but ask almost meekly if he was allowed to make me come. The world felt off balance, but I didn’t question it. I couldn’t question it, not with my employment and my housing and my freedom at stake. Couldn’t question the sudden relief that ran through me. The thin cots and cool metal chairs in prison hadn’t felt good. The bare walls and coarse sheets on my bed didn’t feel good either. But he could make that pain go away. He would make me feel good, I knew he could.

  Two minutes in his arms and I already knew so much about his skills in this department. This was a form of interview, his hands cupping my breasts, broad fingers finding my nipples through the fabric.

  “Please,” I whimpered.

  He stroked my breasts with agonizing gentleness, weighing them in his hands, lifting them, and squeezing softly. Warmth coursed through me, heating me inside the confines of my clothes. My arms were trapped beneath his, and it was a relief. A relief to know I didn’t have to move—that I couldn’t move. He was directing me, commanding me. This was a man used to being obeyed, and power coursed through every caress of my breasts.

  His breath whispered across my temple. “More?”

  It wasn’t enough. Not after two years of impersonal touches from the guards or dirty looks from the other inmates. Not after coarse uniforms and cool concrete and smooth metal bars. “Mr. Thompson, please.”

  His cock seemed to surge at my words, flexing against my ass, as if it were punching through so many layers of fabric, as if it could push inside me. My inner muscles answered by squeezing around nothing, and I knew my panties would be damp. And still he only touched me, caressed me, stroked me outside my clothes. It felt too dirty and not dirty enough. I was breathing hard, each intake of air pushing my breasts into his hands. The friction made my nipples peak, ready for him to grab.

  And he did grab them, so carefully, between his forefingers and thumbs. The thin fabric of my bra and my shirt barely hindered him at all when he pinched me, and I cried out, pressing my legs together.

  “Pretty,” he murmured, and the word made me shudder, close enough to what my daddy had told me. “These are so pretty. What color are your nipples, sweetheart? They’re going to be wet from my mouth before this night is over. You know that, don’t you?”

  “No,” I said, almost a moan. I had no idea what he would do to me or how far he would go.

  His hands paused. “Can I see you, Angel?” he asked, his voice raw. Almost pleading. “Let me see you.”

  In answer, I let my head fall back on his chest and closed my eyes. Let him. I could let him do anything. I wasn’t sure I could do much more than that, but I could lean against him, using his strength, while his hands undid the buttons of my shirt. He pulled the sides apart, and cool office air rushed over my skin, raising goose bumps.

  He sucked in a breath. “Fucking pretty.”

  He must have been telling the truth when he said it had been
a long time. A man like him would be used to gorgeous women who had the best diets and makeup and clothes. My bra was from the dollar bin, made of cheap beige satin stretched in the wrong places. I shouldn’t have been anything special to a man like him, but he sucked in a breath and stood unmoving. He must have been staring at me. Must have been…awestruck.

  Or at least luck-struck, and for me, that was close enough.

  When he reached one hand into my bra cup, my body slid closer to him, his hold on me almost too tight—and perfect, like that. I reveled in the feeling of being pressed against him, within the embrace of his body, the unbreakable hold of it. He was all hardness and strength, all confidence and a deep, endless well that only my body could fill.

  Without my consent, my hips rocked against his, and he responded almost violently, pushing me forward, his cock an almost painful rod against my hip, his fingers tightening around my breast.

  He made a rough sound as he exposed me fully, tugging down the cups until my small breasts plumped. I looked indecent like that, breasts thrust forward, begging for his touch—but then I was indecent. I was filthy and shameful and somehow aroused. My blood rushed so fast all I could hear was the beat of my heart, and his.

  Instead of cupping my breasts again, he tugged my skirt up.

  “Just a little more,” he muttered, and I wasn’t sure if he was talking to me or himself.

  Then it didn’t matter, because his fingers slipped inside my panties. The shock of his rough skin in my private place made me gasp. I pushed up on my toes, but the high heels didn’t leave me anywhere to go. I was caught by his arms and my shoes, pinned in place as his fingers stroked through my folds, finding dampness, finding need.

  “It’s been…a long time,” I gasped, because I needed him to know that. Needed him to go slow. Needed him to go fast, because oh God, I was dangling over the cliff, already there.

  He groaned. “Then how…?” He pressed his mouth down my neck. “Never mind. Don’t answer that. You don’t have to say that stuff. You don’t have to lie.”

  “What?” But then his fingers found my clit, and I shuddered, helpless, unable to demand answers, unable to do anything but rock against his hand in an age-old rhythm. I was like the ocean, pressing against the beach with every wave, feeling rough sand sift through my slickness.

  And I couldn’t have stopped him for anything. Not the sun, not the moon. Not even for the temp job I needed so badly.

  “I want to make you feel good, that’s all,” he murmured against my neck. He nipped at my earlobe, and I jolted in his arms. Then he reached lower, dipping his fingers inside, this thumb stroking my clit. “Want to make you feel good,” he repeated, again and again, while the waves crashed and I finally broke, coming apart around his callused fingers, crying out his name. Mr. Thompson.

  Then there was only the ragged sound of my breathing. Soft caresses brought me down slowly, like he knew how tender I felt, how vulnerable.

  How afraid.

  He pulled his hand from my panties, and before I could register what he was doing, he pressed his fingers against my lips. “Taste yourself,” he ordered gruffly.

  I opened my mouth—to protest?—but he pushed inside, swiping the musky flavor on my tongue. I closed my lips around him and sucked his fingers clean. I’d never done that before, but it felt right. It felt especially right when he made a choked sound that I knew was arousal. I slicked my tongue against the seam of his fingers and closer to the tips, pretending they were his cock, miming the actions I’d use to pleasure him and lap the precum from the head.

  But he didn’t spin me around then. Didn’t push me to my knees like I thought he would. Wasn’t that what rich men in suits wanted from the women around them?

  Instead he gently straightened my bra so it covered my breasts and began buttoning my shirt. I was still half-delirious from the orgasm. I was completely dressed by the time I could speak.

  “What about you?” I whispered.

  He stepped back. I couldn’t see him move, but I could hear him, feel him, as he removed his strength and warmth. And then I was standing alone. Again. Reeling from an orgasm I should never have had.

  “I’m fine,” he said in a clipped voice that proved his words a lie. He was not okay, and it was my fault. All of this was my fault, because I’d sneaked into this situation, clearly unprepared.

  I whirled to face him. “What was that?”

  It shouldn’t have been that hard to figure out. The big bad billionaire had taken what he wanted from the secretary. If I kept working here, he’d probably keep taking it from me, again and again. Why did the thought of that make me clench? I should be horrified, disgusted. I should be angry, but when I looked into the dark, troubled eyes of the man in front of me, all I felt was anticipation.

  “I mean we’re finished,” he said gruffly. “You’ve done your job. Now get out.”

  My eyes widened as hurt lanced through me. I should be running out the door. Heading straight to the HR department to tell them I quit. But all I could think was, You promised my nipples would be wet from your mouth. He hadn’t tasted them yet. I hadn’t tasted him yet either. How could we be done?

  He didn’t want to be done.

  I could see that in the stress around his mouth. Tense, because he hadn’t gotten any relief tonight. Not yet.

  I stepped closer, and I could almost feel his wariness. “What are you doing?” he asked, his voice clipped.

  “I’m returning the favor.”

  “That’s not how this works.” He swore softly. “They’re supposed to give you instructions.”

  Well, they hadn’t. Did that mean he touched all his secretaries? The thought made me tense, even though it shouldn’t have been a surprise. “What instructions?”

  His eyes hardened. “That you do what I want. And don’t ask questions.”

  My hands clenched into fists at my side. I hated being helpless… although I felt most comfortable that way, with a guard telling me where to sleep and what to eat and when to bend over. And I liked it too with a stranger telling me when to come. He’d proven that much, and I hated that my own body seemed to have turned against me. Tears pricked behind my eyes.

  He leaned forward, placing two fingers under my chin—the two fingers that had just touched me intimately—and looked me in the eye. “It’s not personal, Angel. I request a girl when I need one. I use her until I’m done. Understand?”

  I swallowed hard, not breaking eye contact. It was just business, the way he’d cupped my breasts and slid his fingers deep inside me. Just business the way he’d groaned into my hair. But no one could be that cold, even him. Especially him. I stared into those murky depths, wondering what pain he was hiding. “Yes, sir.”

  His eyes flashed white-hot, and I knew he liked me calling him sir. But when he spoke, his words lacked any of the warmth he’d imbued into every touch. His hand dropped away, and I lost even that bit of connection.

  “Now tell me, Angel. What happens next?”

  Leave. He wanted me to leave. He also needed me to stay. I felt that in every cell of my body. But it wasn’t my job to fix a lonely billionaire. I didn’t even have that power if I wanted to.

  “And tomorrow?” Because I really did need this job, and I hated the idea that I should have to suffer—and possibly get evicted—just because he had intimacy issues.

  “What about tomorrow?”

  “Do I show up to work?” Anger rose up in me, even if I didn’t have the right to feel it. “And you could maybe tell your HR department not to bother with the background checks and all that if you only want people working here for one day.”

  His eyes flashed, and I remembered exactly why I’d thought he looked mean. He looked more than mean; he looked terrifying. My heart pounded in my chest, so heavy it felt like it must be visible through my clothes—but he wasn’t looking at my chest anymore. He looked directly into my eyes.

  “What did you say?” His voice was deceptively soft.

&nb
sp; “I said…” My accusations faltered. He may have done something callous, but I had no right to call him on it. I should walk away with my head held high and count this as a lesson learned. And I would do those things, but I felt myself breaking down under the stress of the past few months. And years. Living on the streets, getting caught, prison. And then after, wondering if I’d made it this far for nothing, if I’d starve before the New Year even came. That orgasm had unwound something in me, something vital, something that made me lash out. “The HR person said this was a two-week job. I don’t have anything else lined up.”

  “The HR person,” he said, his voice sounding strangled.

  “This was the only job I’ve found in weeks. I know it’s not your problem, but rent is due. And my fridge is empty. I need this job.” Bitterness shadowed my voice. “And it turns out you only wanted me for one night. For this.”

  He walked stiffly to the window and looked out. His silhouette was tall and imposing, even against the impressive backdrop of the city.

  “I worked hard today.” I didn’t know why I was explaining myself to him. It seemed important that he understand. I was willing to work hard. “I can do this job while your secretary is out. I won’t screw it up if you let me stay.”

  “Christ,” he said.

  My chest tightened with humiliation. And fear for what I’d do next. Was this what I’d been reduced to? Someone to get called in, to fuck and then discard? Was this my life now? My throat felt thick, and I had to force the words out. “I’ll just go now.”

  Leave, like he’d told me to.

  “Wait, Angel. Is that your real name?”

  I turned back, my hand on the door. “Yes, Angel Cole.”

  He looked pained. “Ms. Cole. I’ve made a mistake. A big mistake.” The words sounded so rusty I knew he hadn’t used them often. He probably hadn’t made a mistake in years.

  And I still didn’t know what he was talking about. “Sir?”

  He turned and gave me a half smile. Or a snarl. “You weren’t supposed to go through HR. You were supposed to be sent by the discreet agency. A very expensive, very exclusive agency with a stable of girls who are trained to do what I tell them to. But you weren’t, were you?”