His for Christmas

by Skye Warren

  I shook my head silently.

  A rough exhalation of air. “You weren’t sent for me to use. Not like that.”

  From the guilt on his face, I knew he meant what he’d said. He had thought I was some kind of escort sent for him. And he really didn’t know about my criminal record. My secret was still safe. “It’s…it’s okay.”

  He grimaced. “It’s not okay. I forgot my secretary was going on vacation. It wasn’t planned, so I didn’t… I just saw you standing in my office and assumed…”

  Because I looked like an escort, apparently. Heat flooded my cheeks. “So can I keep working here?”

  He faced the dark windows, and all I could see was his reflection, almost haunted. “It’s late,” he said finally. “Go home.”

  “And tomorrow?”

  He glanced back. His gaze met mine, eyes as flat and cool as the glass behind him. “Tomorrow I’ll figure this out.”

  Chapter Four

  I barely slept that night, very aware that he could figure me out come tomorrow. Figure out who I was, figure out that I’d lied. And then the fact that there’d been a misunderstanding in his office would only be foreplay for my return journey to prison. Wham, bam, and thank you, ma’am. Lying on an application may not be a crime… but lying about my criminal record was a crime.

  There was something else that kept me tossing and turning: complete and utter humiliation at my reactions to him—all while he’d thought I was a prostitute. The temp job was only for two weeks, but I’d managed to make a mess of it in a single day.

  Or maybe he was as embarrassed as me. Maybe he’d pretend the entire thing never happened.

  By four a.m. I gave up on sleeping and got dressed. At least I could actually finish that stack of files Christy had left for me before Mr. Thompson figured me out and fired me. At least my security badge still worked. The floor was still dark when the elevator opened at five a.m. Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed the city skyline still dark with night. The walls were smooth—no light switches—but the glow from my computer monitor gave me enough light to work.

  I worked through a few of the files before a sound distracted me. Had that come from Mr. Thompson’s office? I went back to work, trying to focus, hoping it would be enough to keep this job…

  That noise again.

  I walked closer. The door was open, and the overhead lights were off just like the rest of the floor. It looked empty. So what had made that sound? Or who?

  It didn’t escape my notice that this was exactly how I’d gotten in trouble last time—going into the boss’s office while he wasn’t here. But I had to see for myself, make sure everything was okay, now that I’d heard a sound.

  It was a little spooky on the floor all alone.

  But it turned out the boss was here. He was sitting in his chair, wearing what appeared to be the same suit as last night, or maybe he had an entire closetful of custom-tailored suits. This one looked a little more rumpled than last night, tie loose, the top button undone.

  His head rested on the leather back of his chair, and his eyes were closed. Was he sleeping?

  I started to back away without making a sound.

  “Come in, Ms. Cole.”

  Okay, not sleeping. I took a deep breath. “Good morning.”

  “Sit down.”

  I sat. Oh God. He was going to fire me. That was the only explanation for him wanting to talk to me about it. So much for pretending it never happened.

  He opened his eyes—and even in the shadows I could see he looked furious. And terrifying, all over again. Whatever softness I’d imagined while he’d touched me was gone now. In its place was only Gage Thompson. I’d faced down people who wanted to hurt me with my chin held high. I had to, because weakness only made them hurt you longer. But they were junkyard dogs to his big bad wolf. Deep inside I began to shake.

  “Mr. Thompson, about last night—”

  He stood and circled the desk, and I couldn’t help it—I cringed back. His expression was too angry. He looked exactly like the Big Bad Billionaire. I didn’t think he’d hurt me, but I hated the thought of him being angry at me. I had always been a people pleaser. It was just how I was built. I would have done anything he said.

  He set something down in front of me on his desk. His phone, black and sleek and forbidding.

  “You can call from here.”

  My voice trembled. “Call who? The temp agency?”

  “I suppose you should call them too, after. But no. I meant the police.”

  Fear spiked inside me. No no no. He must have realized who I was. Had he already reported me? Or was he waiting for me to call, to turn myself in? I couldn’t do it. “Please no,” I breathed.

  “The police,” he said, his voice clipped. “I’ll leave the room if it makes you more comfortable. I’ll remain on this floor, so they know where to find me.”

  “To find… you?”

  “You can wait here, of course. You’ll be comfortable. I won’t bother you.”

  Uncertainty wove its way around my limbs and chest, a tight sort of comfort. He was telling me to call the police and assuming they’d come here. But why was he being so solicitous while he did it? Why would it matter that the criminal who’d lied to him was comfortable?

  “Mr. Thompson,” I said slowly, “I know I’m not the brightest bulb. But it almost sounds like… like you want me to call the cops on you.”

  “That’s exactly right, Ms. Cole.”

  “Angel,” I corrected absently. “But why would I call the cops on you?”

  “Because I raped you.”

  He did what to me? Shock held me breathless for a moment. I couldn’t even feel relieved that I was off the hook, because this was too crazy. I blew out a breath. “No, you didn’t.”

  “I did.”

  “I was there. I would have noticed.”

  He cleared his throat. “I penetrated you with my fingers. Without your consent. You need to report me. I won’t contest it.”

  Penetrated with his fingers. God, it sounded so cold. And somehow hot. But regardless of how he said it, he hadn’t hurt me. “It wasn’t against my consent.”

  He made a scoffing sound. “Of course it was. You wouldn’t have let me touch you. A stranger. A stranger like me.” Before I could even ask what he meant by like me, he continued, “But you knew I was the boss. You felt coerced. Of course you did. Anyone would.”

  “Well, I’m glad you have me all figured out, but it’s not true.” Not to mention that even if it had been against my consent, I would hardly be calling the cops on him. That would only expose the fact that I’d lied to get this job.

  “You didn’t feel coerced?” An eyebrow rose. “You didn’t know I was the boss?”

  Heat rushed to my face. Of course I’d known he was the boss. He only had to speak, only had to stand behind me, only had to put his hand on my hip, and I’d known who was in charge. “I let you touch me because… because I was surprised, at first. And then I was confused. And then I didn’t want you to stop.”

  His brow furrowed. “Why not?”

  Because I didn’t have a choice. But that would only prove his point. And besides, it wasn’t strictly true. “It felt good,” I whispered.

  For a second his eyes darkened, and I knew he was remembering the feel of my body climaxing against his fingers, the sounds I made as I came. He shook his head as if to clear it. “Whether you enjoyed it or not isn’t the question. What I did was immoral. If you won’t call the police, at least call the workforce commission. Or human resources.”

  He wanted me to report him to his own employees? I blinked. “I’m not going to tell anyone what happened.”

  He ran a hand through his dark hair, clearly frustrated. “Jesus. I never wanted this to happen.”

  Never wanted to accidentally finger his secretary? It seemed like a very specific worry. “I don’t understand.”

  A humorless half smile twisted his lips. “It’s irony, that’s all. The thing I was doing
to prevent the problem led to the problem.”

  “You’re not making sense. And I’m not very sharp to begin with, so could you please just… explain it to me?”

  He frowned. “You keep saying that—that you aren’t smart. Why?”

  My stomach tightened. “Don’t change the subject. Why would you think you hurt me? Why would you think you would hurt me?”

  He studied me for a moment, then blew out a breath. “I’m not surprised that I’d hurt you. I hate myself for it, but I’m not surprised.”

  My blood ran cold. “What do you mean? Have you hurt a woman before?”

  I knew for damn sure he hadn’t raped me last night—whether he believed me or not. But he still could have hurt some other woman. Maybe that was why he was so afraid to do it… again.

  His jaw tightened. “No, but I could have. Every so often I need…” A sound almost like a growl escaped him. “I need to use and to hurt. I need… fuck, I need relief. And I won’t risk it with a woman I know and care about. I use a service, and every woman that signs up knows exactly what she’s getting into.”

  A small sound escaped me. Of surprise. Of disgust? But not at him. At whatever strange darkness he felt he had to hide. That he put himself through this just to take care of ordinary needs. Needs like sex. Like human touch. Like intimacy.

  “They tell the women what to expect, make sure they understand the kind of man they’re coming to service. I pay them above their asking rate to compensate for the risk.” He paused. Regret flashed through his eyes. “Not like you.”

  “Mr. Thompson. It doesn’t have to be that way.”

  “It does,” he snarled. “Last night proved that. It proved I’m an animal who can’t even ask what you’re doing here. Can’t even figure out whether you’re there to file papers or fuck me. I just saw you bent over, and I wanted you, and I took you.”

  I knew from his voice how much that hurt him, the thought that he’d acted on impulse. He held himself so rigidly, left no room for error, pretended he wasn’t even human.

  “So tell me what you want,” he said, his voice rough. “If you won’t report me, let me repay you. Money, a car, anything. Name it, and it’s yours.”

  I couldn’t help but gasp. “I don’t want anything.”

  “There has to be something.” His voice sounded tight, like a steel cable in a bridge, holding thousands of pounds of metal and cars, keeping the two sides of land apart. What would it take for him to snap?

  I closed my eyes against the need in his expression—need to atone for ever touching me? Or need to touch me again? “Can we pretend this never happened? That’s what I’m asking for, Mr. Thompson. Let me finish my temp position. That’s all I want.”

  And if my voice trembled on the lie, he was kind enough not to mention it. “Then stay,” he said instead, gruff and almost angry. “Stay.”

  Chapter Five

  I kept my head down for the next week, working through the files Christy had left. I also answered the phones and greeted visitors who met with Mr. Thompson. Despite that, I didn’t have much interaction with him. By tacit agreement, we spoke quietly to each other and with the minimum amount of words. Even when I’d hear him yell at some poor asshole who’d overpromised or underdelivered, he would always speak to me courteously and succinctly.

  Thank you, Ms. Cole. If you please, Ms. Cole. It was like he’d never had his hands under my bra or inside my panties. As if he’d never spilled what was obviously his darkest secret to me.

  We were strangers, as we should be, but it still felt like a loss.

  The only other room on this floor space besides his office was the supply closet. Closet wasn’t really the right word—it was bigger than the bedroom I had rented. The whole building was spacious, but this area, the secured area reserved for the CEO, was an oasis of space, so much space I sometimes felt choked up with it, as if my body didn’t know how to react to open air without bars or grime or violence to block me in.

  I spent a lot of time in the supply room struggling with the copy machine. It spit out page after page of nonsense characters in rapid fire, the case hot to the touch. I pressed the buttons to make it stop, almost frantic, but it wasn’t listening to me. I wasn’t great with technology. I was good with people—but the only person here was avoiding me.

  Sighing, I pulled the stack of printed pages out. The question marks and strange diamond boxes mocked me. Totally ruined.

  I tossed them into the recycle bin.

  The copy machine blinked red. Out of paper. Of course it was. And I needed to try over again with this print job, so I went to the metal shelves to get a new ream of paper. Up high, almost out of reach, but I barely got ahold of it and dragged the box closer, tipping it over the edge, almost there, balancing the heavy weight of it on my fingertips…

  A throat cleared behind me.

  My heart jumped, and the box slid from the shelf, off balance, falling down onto me. I flinched, expecting to be hit. Arms reached around me and lifted the box. A wisp of air was all I felt. I whirled to face a grim Mr. Thompson.

  His face was set in stern lines, mouth a brutal slash. His eyes glinted like a threat. “You could have hurt yourself,” he said. “You should have called me.”

  Call the CEO of a major corporation to help me get a box down? Not likely. “I had it.”

  He set the box on the floor as if it weighed almost nothing. His eyes took in everything—my disheveled appearance, blouse tight around my breasts, skirt a little higher than usual because I’d been reaching up. They took in the pile of ruined pages in the recycle bin too, and I rushed to explain.

  “I sent the file, and it worked once. Then when I hit the Repeat button it just started—”

  “The thing’s a menace,” he said almost absently, dismissing the problem. Instead he focused on me, like I was the problem. Like I was a menace. I took a step back, but there was nowhere to go. The coolness of the metal shelves seeped through my clothes, sending a shiver down my spine.

  “I’ll fix it,” I said, too quiet.

  His eyes were dark, expression severe. “Don’t.”

  “Don’t what?”

  “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  “I know.” But I looked away, and I knew he didn’t believe me. I wasn’t afraid of him hurting me. I was just plain afraid. I’d lived my life like that—afraid—and I didn’t know any other way to be.

  “Angel.” He looked surprised at himself, rearing back, snapping himself back to the formality where he was clearly more comfortable. “Ms. Cole.”

  He seemed massively uncomfortable, holding himself stiffly, not quite making eye contact anymore, and it made me want to go to him. To reach out to him. But the years had taught me not to. They’d taught me to be wary. “Mr. Thompson?”

  “I want you to know… what happened that night. I don’t do that often.”

  I wasn’t sure what he meant. He didn’t feel up his secretaries? Or he didn’t hire a woman to visit him in his office, late at night, when everyone else was home. “Okay.”

  “I only do it when I can’t—when I need— It’s not that often.”

  I wondered if he knew how much he’d revealed, that it was a struggle for him. That he put his needs last.

  “Why does it matter what I think?” I asked softly.

  His voice was gruff. “I don’t know. But it does.” He turned away to look at the copy machine. And those awful ruined pages, proof of just how incompetent I was, how little I deserved even this temp job. “Maybe because I disrespected you, and I’d like your forgiveness.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive.” My throat tightened. I had no right to his past, his privacy, when I kept my own secrets. But I wanted to know. “I just… Why do you think you need to do that? To hire someone?”

  I didn’t bother mentioning that he was handsome or rich. Or that he could do amazing things with his hands. He was too self-aware not to know those things. But he’d picked an almost
painfully impersonal way to fulfill his needs instead, and curiosity had eaten at me all week.

  There was a long pause, and I almost thought he wouldn’t answer. “I don’t talk about this much.” A self-deprecating smile. “Don’t talk about it ever, really. I suppose if anyone deserves the full story, it’s you. And maybe then you’ll be convinced you need to report me.”

  He crossed the room and leaned against the shelf, giving me a clear path to the door. All his grace fled, and he seemed so weary, as if the walls and floor and metal rebar in the building were holding him up—instead of the other way around.

  I raised my chin. “I won’t change my mind.”

  “My father was Benedict James.” He seemed to be waiting for a sign of recognition.

  I shrugged helplessly. The name meant nothing to me.

  “He was a serial murderer.” He looked down. When he met my gaze, his dark eyes were filled with pain. “And a serial rapist. He raped and murdered seven women that they know about. Because they found the bodies.”

  Shock stole the air from the room. “That’s horrible.”

  His expression was stark. And etched into him.

  “There was one other woman, except she survived. She managed to escape his cabin and get to the road. She got herself free.”

  My stomach dropped. I knew where this was going. He’d already told me how the story ended—with him sitting in front of me, hating himself. “I’m so sorry,” I whispered.

  I wasn’t sure he could hear me. “Not completely free, though. Turned out she was pregnant. She decided to keep the child. I’m not sure why. Back then abortion wasn’t as accepted or available. And adoption…well, for whatever reason, she kept me.”

  “She loved you,” I whispered.

  His gaze met hers. “Did she? I suppose so. She tried to raise me right. To understand the difference between right and wrong.”

  “You do understand, Mr. Thompson. The fact that you’re worried about me proves that much.”