His for Christmas

by Skye Warren

  My heart sank. “What is that?”

  But I knew. I knew what it was even before he said, “Your job application. And let me tell you, this wasn’t easy to get on Christmas Eve at midnight.”

  “You own the company.”

  “And as such, I’m considering a complete overhaul of our filing system. It took me two hours to find this.”

  Despite my distress, a smile tugged at my lips. He hadn’t wanted to disturb his employees on Christmas Eve, in the middle of the night, so he’d done it himself. I imagined him bumping into file cabinets, swearing under his breath, and thumbing through stacks of files.

  But no matter how adorable the image was, it didn’t change what was on that paper.

  Anger rose up in me, which was a whole lot easier than dealing with the truth. I didn’t like him being disappointed in me. Didn’t like being disappointed in myself. “You had no right to pull that out.”

  He gave me a dark look. “I had every right.”

  “You can’t fire me. I’m not your employee anymore.”

  His expression softened. “And why would I fire you?”

  I stared at him. “Because I lied.”

  “Angel… your juvenile record was sealed. That’s why we didn’t find it during the background check. And that means you don’t have to disclose it.”

  My gaze narrowed. “What?”

  And more importantly, how the hell did he know that?

  The question must have shone in my eyes because he gave me a half smile. “I do numbers for a living. I could work out the dates here between your birthday, your GED, and your associates degree. And the date you submitted this application.”

  That much made sense, but… “How do you know about not having to disclose juvenile records?”

  “I’m a business owner,” he said lightly as if his business wasn’t a billion-dollar conglomerate. “It’s my responsibility to understand basic hiring laws.” His cheeks darkened. “Plus I may have called my lawyer to confirm that this morning.”

  Blood had started to pound thickly in my ears. I felt close to crying, and that somehow seemed the worst travesty of this whole thing—crying in front of the man I wanted, the one I’d never deserve to have. “Why didn’t I know about that?”

  “You should have. Your parole officer should have gone over all this.”

  I just shook my head, remembering the flyer of homeless shelters and the offer to make money on my back. I’d known then that it wasn’t how things were supposed to be done, but a lot of rules got broken in prison. And not all of them by the inmates.

  He stepped forward, his finger raising my chin. “You don’t have to worry anymore.”

  Worry? I had plenty to worry about. He didn’t understand that in his thousand-dollar suit and his supreme self-assurance.

  I shook my head. “I can’t even blame my criminal record. It’s not like I was so freaking successful before I got arrested. The truth is, I can’t cut it, okay?”

  “Never going to cut it?”

  Why was he making me spell this out? God, it was so obvious. And so depressing. “I’m never going to make a bunch of money, got it? Never going to be one of those fancy people in a business suit. Never going to take the elevator to the top of the glass building.”

  “Well, we can’t all be Willy Wonka.”

  Don’t smile, you’ll only encourage him. But I couldn’t help it. I was glad he’d told me about the disclosure thing, and a deep sense of relief filled me. It meant I hadn’t broken any rules getting that temp job. It also meant I could probably find another job, without a criminal history—and possibly with a positive recommendation. “You are such an asshole.”

  Or maybe without the recommendation.

  He didn’t seem bothered. “I’ve heard that before.”

  “Well, I’m not very original.”

  “Do not start with the smart stuff again. You’re smart.” When I snorted, he pressed on. “Very smart. The smartest woman I’ve ever met.”

  I glared at him. “Stop.”

  “It’s true,” he insisted. “I wish I had half your skill with people. I generally have to take over someone’s company to get them to listen to me. Sometimes it feels like overkill.”

  “Only sometimes?” I asked wryly.

  “But you, you just smile in that open way and say something sweet, and people are eating out of the palm of your hand.” Something fell, then, in his eyes—a wall. A barrier. He took it down and let me see the truth of his words. “It worked for me, anyway.”

  My chest felt tight. “Not smart enough to get a job. The real kind. Not pouring stale coffee.”

  “You had a rough start,” he countered. “You survived on the streets. And now look at you. Do you think I don’t know how far you’ve come? Do you think I don’t realize how hard you had to work to get to this point without a family, without a home?”

  Yeah, kinda. “You’re rich.”

  His expression softened. “I wasn’t always rich. But you’re right. I was never homeless either. So let me help you.”

  “What?”

  “Let me give you money,” he said bluntly.

  Ah, there was the Big Bad. It was almost comforting that he woudn’t be cheesy or romantic about this. He was giving it to me straight.

  “I’m not visiting your office, Gage. Not at night. Not at any time of the day.”

  “That’s not what I’m asking for. I seem to recall you telling me I deserve more. That’s what I want. From you. I want you with me when I go home. I want a reason to actually go home.”

  “And I’d be what? Your kept woman? Your mistress?”

  “I was thinking girlfriend.”

  I fought against the wave of inappropriate happiness inside me. “This isn’t right. The money. The imbalance. It’s like you paying a woman to come to your office. That’s not how it’s supposed to work.”

  He took my hands and pulled me close. “Angel… I want to be with you. Near you. Is that wrong?”

  I should pull away. I really should. And I would just as soon as I leaned in close and soaked up all his warmth. “No, you know that isn’t wrong. I want that too.”

  “And I want you to have food,” he continued in that persuasive tone of his. I imagined him using that tone when negotiating a multimillion-dollar deal, and felt strangely flattered by the comparison. “I want you to have clothes and your own apartment. Is that wrong?”

  “No…” I drew the word out.

  “And I want you to be happy.” He pulled me flush against his body, his mouth against my temple. “So let me buy you a little happiness,” he whispered.

  I bit my lip to stop the laugh, but it came out anyway. “I did set myself up for that one.”

  “You can figure out your next step. You can try out different jobs. You can do whatever the fuck you want, but do it near me. That’s all I want.” He looked down at me, his eyes dark and somehow bright. “That’s my happiness.”

  I swallowed thickly. “Oh, Gage.”

  His expression was tight, almost pained in its uncertainty. This wasn’t a man used to uncertainty. “Is that a yes? Will you let me make you happy? Will you be mine?”

  “It’s a yes, please.”

  And he was good to his word, giving me the happiness I needed and wanted, bending his head to brush his lips across mine, deepening the kiss until I was lax in his arms and he was breathing heavy with need. One of his hands was threaded through my hair, cradling my head as he delved his tongue into my mouth. His other hand roamed my body from my breasts, down my stomach, to cup my ass, and then started the trek all over again—with a kind of urgency born of denial, as if he thought he’d never get to touch me again and had to prove to himself that he could.

  When he pulled back, his eyes were hazy with desire. They focused on me with slow-burning intensity. “Show me your bedroom, Angel.”

  “Why?” I looked up at him, coy. “Do you have something to show me?”

  “I have several things to s
how you,” he growled. “Right here on the floor if you don’t take me to your bed.”

  Ooh, I liked him growly. “Wait. First I need to see what’s in the box.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Mercenary. I approve.”

  I shrugged, unapologetic. I was way too curious about what he’d gotten. Besides, it had been a long time since anyone had given me a present. As soon as he handed me the box, I pulled aside the ribbon and tore the paper. Lifting the lid, I found a gleaming onyx pen inside. His pen. I picked it up, admiring the smooth shine.

  Only then did I notice the engraving along the side. Property of the Big Bad Billionaire. Please return if found.

  My jaw dropped. This was exactly how he’d gotten his reputation. And just like the man in the Santa costume had said, he lived up to his reputation. “Oh, you’re very bad.”

  “So they tell me. Big too.”

  I swatted him. “Arrogant, overconfident, egotistical—”

  “But you didn’t think I meant… you, did you? Only the pen is mine. That’s what I meant.”

  “I see,” I said, even though he was such a tease. A sexy tease, and I never wanted him to change.

  I loved him like this—demanding and confident like he should be, none of the hesitation and self-disgust he’d had before. Sometimes we were the worst judges of ourselves. He wasn’t a rapist, no matter what his father had done. And I wasn’t stupid, no matter what my daddy had said.

  “But you can use it. Now that you’re my girlfriend, I don’t want you going around, borrowing other men’s pens.”

  “Not when you have a perfectly good one.”

  He leaned down and kissed me, murmuring between hot presses of his mouth on mine, “Perfectly. Good.”

  I wrapped my arms around his neck and held on tight for what I was sure would be rough and wild and absolutely decadent. My lips close to his ear, I whispered, “You’re too pretty, and it’s been too long.”

  His lips curved against my neck as he recognized the same words he’d spoken to me. “Do you know what you’re asking for?”

  Better than he did, almost. And I wasn’t afraid.

  Chapter Ten

  He didn’t reach for me right away. Didn’t pull me close or pin me down. Not yet.

  Instead his gaze was appraising, weighing my sincerity. Wondering whether I could take him. I raised my chin. I’d survived on the streets. Survived prison. If there was anyone strong enough to survive him, it was me.

  “It’s too late to back out now,” he warned.

  “Use me,” I said softly. “I won’t break.”

  He cocked his head. His gaze took me in, from my nipples pebbling underneath my threadbare cami to my bare feet, visible beneath the hem of my too-long pajama bottoms. Not exactly the sexiest outfit, but the hunger in his eyes left no doubt that he wanted me. And I knew exactly how he wanted me: hard. Rough. And fighting back.

  “Will you tell me if I go too far?” he asked, almost conversationally, in the same tone he might use to wonder if we’d have a white Christmas. Will it snow? he’d ask. Will I know when I break you? he'd wonder. After the fact, when it’s too late to matter.

  Being with him was putting my trust in him. “You won’t.”

  He shut his eyes. He could handle touching me, holding me, pounding me, but the trust was too much. And just right. When his eyes opened again, they glinted with lust—and hard steel. “Then we’ll pick up where we left off.”

  And I knew he didn’t mean after in the elevator, with my lips around his hot, pulsing flesh or my legs spread wide for him. He meant before that. He meant the very beginning, in his office.

  My voice came out small and somehow more confident than I’d ever felt. “You were making me come.”

  “That’s right,” he said, approving, the same way he’d tell me I’d turned in the reports on time or followed his directions exactly. The tone of command and condescension sent a wash of humiliation through me—quickly followed by arousal. This man was power. He was threat and generosity wrapped into one sleek package, and I wanted more. I’d never get enough.

  “Turn around.” His voice was rougher now. Colder.

  I turned willingly, nerves fluttering in my stomach, a tight knot lodged in my throat. Tonight was a test, whether he meant it that way or not. He’d either bend or break me, and if he did the latter, I feared for him more than myself. He’d never forgive himself if he hurt me, which was why I needed to be strong.

  I reached to flip off the lamp. A brush of air was my only warning before hands gripped my hips. He pulled me back, pressing my ass flush against his body, his erection an iron bar, threatening and hot even through our clothes.

  The soft fabric of my cami gave way to his rough hands, slipping under my breasts and plumping them up.

  He groaned, looking down. “The first time I saw these..”

  His hands seemed large or my breasts seemed small. His hands tanned and rough against my pale skin. In every way he was stronger, darker, more powerful. I shivered, overpowered and subdued before I’d even thought to fight back.

  “What did you think?” I asked, imagining that night when he’d thought he was a prostitute. And he wasn’t that far wrong. I’d been desperate then—to keep the job, to survive. Desperate to please him, the same way I felt now. The same but different, because this time I knew I could say no.

  “I thought you were more beautiful than I had any right to. And I felt better that I was paying you, because at least then you’d be getting something in return.”

  “I’m getting something. I’m getting you.”

  A low laugh. “We’ll see if you still think that when I’m through with you. When I’ve bruised and bitten your pretty little tits. When you think you can’t take it in any deeper or harder, but I force you to.”

  My inner muscles clenched, preparing myself and wanting at the same time. I could have told him I wasn’t afraid, but we were beyond that, into the place where he threatened me because it turned me on—and because it turned me on too. He didn’t need my reassurance; he needed my fear, and my body responded with obedience, sending my blood racing through my veins, my breath coming fast.

  “What else?”

  “Do you want to know what I’m going to do to you? I’m going to bend you over this bed, with my hand on your back to keep you down. Then I’m going to slide into that hot, wet heat of yours and get myself off with the friction of your cunt.”

  I moaned, afraid and hungry. “Wait,” I said uselessly.

  He didn’t wait. When I tried to stand, but his hand touched my lower back, holding me down, bent over.

  Exactly like he’d said he would.

  My hands braced on the bed, but it wasn’t enough. Not when he shoved a hand underneath my cami and squeezed—not a careful caress like he’d done before. He squeezed my soft flesh until an anguished cry left my lips, and then he didn’t let up. He found the nipple between his thumb and forefinger and pressed, deliberate and cruel.

  “Like this,” he muttered, and I wasn’t sure if the question was meant for me or himself.

  But then he pressed harder, and a whimper escaped me. “No,” I whispered.

  That seemed to be what he wanted, because he started to move then, using my breasts like handles, pulling me back onto his cock, jerking himself off with the softness of my ass. Breathy, pained sounds filled the air around me, and I realized I was making them—almost a song, a sick kind of rhythm.

  A large hand reached around and cupped my sex. “It will hurt more if you’re dry,” he said, his voice low and more menacing for how calm he sounded. Like he wanted me to hurt.

  My clit pulsed at the warmth of him, desperate for more. I didn’t think dryness would be a problem—not with the way my body was already responding to him, slick and hot. But he could still hurt me.

  He probably would.

  I ground my clit down on his palm, seeking him, and he groaned. “You don’t care what I do to you, is that it? You get off on the pain, don
’t you?”

  I flinched, because I hadn’t been expecting him to call me out on it. I should have, though. I should have known he’d want to hurt me and make me want it and make me feel humiliated for it too. Should have known he’d wring every last drop of sensual torture from our play, or he wouldn’t really be Gage Thompson.

  The female body was made to be invaded, made to be entered, but he fanned his fingers over my sex and then squeezed, making me feel small and owned and fucked without even slipping his fingers inside me. My muscles clenched around nothing, aching, bruised and needy. “God, don’t,” I moaned. “Please."

  “It’s really too late for that,” he said in his cool, calm CEO tones. The same tones he’d used telling Noah he was fired. “Give me your hands.”

  My hands were the only things holding me up off this bed. If I gave them to him, I would have no leverage left, no protection. No control. And that was exactly the way he wanted me.

  I reached back, and he clasped my wrists together, deft and sure. And just as quickly released me. I only had seconds to register my freedom before he took it back, reaching around me, grasping my cami—and oh God, pulling, yanking it. A strap tore. The sound ripped through the air. And then the ruined fabric was pulled back, wrapped around my wrists, holding me effectively, leaving his hands free to touch and roam and pinch.

  A cry filled my throat, low and desperate.

  He laughed softly. “So pretty. This is how I imagined you that night, when I saw you bent over my desk.” His lips found my ear, and he traced them along the curve. His voice came soft, then—I had to strain to hear. “And now I have you.”

  “Please,” I whispered. But I didn’t just want his dark words, his harsh promises. I wanted him to touch me, to force me. I even wanted him to hurt me, as long as he took care of me too. Those steel bars had kept me imprisoned—and they’d kept me safe. He was steel, and he would hold me, keep me. He’d protect me.

  He pulled back and pushed down my pants. Cool air washed over the backs of my legs. His fingers skated up my thigh, teasing the hem of my panties. I squirmed, aching for more, harder, now, but he held me still. He held me with his hands and my bunched up cami. With a single muttered word: “Stay.”