We Wish You A Naughty Christmas: A Christmas Collection

by Skye Warren

  I wait with bated breath. This is about more than sex for me. And I damn well know the same is true for her. She just needs to give in.

  “You came in here for a reason, Cherry.” Her eyes dart to mine. “Let me give you what you need.”

  Her lips part with uncertainty.

  “I want you. As a submissive and more. I want you to be mine.”

  Her eyes focus on my lips and I know I have her. If nothing else, she loves my touch. But I know there’s more to it than that. You don’t hold on to this desire and these feelings if there isn’t more to it.

  “Just say yes, Cherry. Let me collar you, like you really want me to.”

  She says the next words in the sweetest voice I’ve ever heard, “collar me, Joshua. I’m ready.”

  Epilogue

  Alena

  I twist my hands and struggle to move. I’ve been waiting here on the bed, tied down by my wrists and ankles for at least twenty minutes. In the six months that we’ve dated, Joshua has never made me wait this long.

  I’m naked and horny and so ready for him to take me. But I lay here quietly and wait. I know he’s going to come in and give me exactly what I need. And I trust him to do just that.

  A small smile plays at my lips.

  The only thing I really need is him. I sigh with contentment, feeling warm and safe. He’s my security in life. I feel complete with him. I didn’t even realize how much I was missing from life until he showed me.

  My eyes slowly open and my pussy clenches as I hear the door creak open.

  My chest flushes and heat travels to my cheeks. I’m spread and naked and I know he’s seeing everything. But that’s the way he wants me.

  “Cherry, you’re so damn patient,” he says from behind me as he walks into the bedroom.

  “For you,” I answer with a smirk. Really, he’s the patient one. It took me ten years to accept that I wanted this. Ten years for me to let him show me how much I’d love it.

  The bed groans as he crawls closer to me. He’s hiding something in his hand and excitement courses through me at the thought of what it could be.

  “I got you a present,” he says seductively. I smile broadly and let my teeth sink into my bottom lip to try to conceal my elation.

  Ever since our second night together, he brings me little gifts while I’m tied up. That second night was Christmas Eve and he gave me a collar. It’s beautiful and I love it. I wear the necklace, another gift from Joshua, outside of Club X, but inside and in the bedroom, I proudly wear my collar.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “Uh uh, close your eyes.” I smile sweetly at him, my eyes darting from his handsome face to his closed hand.

  I close my eyes and wait patiently. My blood heats and my breath stills as he leans over and slips a cold metal ring onto my ring finger. Oh my god.

  “Marry me, Cherry.” Joshua says in a voice that has a hint of insecurity.

  I keep my eyes closed. Still in disbelief.

  “Say yes.” He gives me another command.

  I slowly open my eyes and stare back at him.

  “You’re mine, Alena. And I want you forever and for everyone to know it.”

  Tears prick my eyes and I nod my head. “I love you,” I say as he bends down, kissing me sweetly. He breaks our kiss and says in the hot air between us, “you need to say yes.”

  “Yes,” I whisper. He takes my lips with his and groans into my kiss. I have to pull away and struggle against the damn binds pinning me down. I just want to hold him.

  A rough chuckle rises up his chest as he reaches over and unties my wrists and then my ankles.

  It’s then that I get a good look at the sparkling ring on my finger. It’s a beautiful cushion cut with perfect clarity and at least three carats. I stare at it in awe.

  “I had to tie you down and make sure you’d say yes.”

  I shake my head, my shoulders shuddering with a small laugh, “you had to know I’d say yes.” I’ve never wanted anything more than this. My life feels truly complete. “You collared me for Christmas,” I jokingly say back to him.

  He shakes his head and looks at the gorgeous engagement ring on my finger. “For life, my Cherry.”

  THE END

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  Part V

  Rock Hard by LJ Shen

  Chapter 1

  Hannah

  “I’m going to spit in his soup.”

  Bailey awards my statement with a fist straight to my arm. I clutch the red skin, wincing in pain but not regretting a word I said. I am going to spit in this bastard’s soup.

  Two years into the job, and finally, I’m seriously contemplating sabotaging someone’s dish for the first time since I started working at Hotel Nirvana, a sleepy Midwestern five star resort. In my defense, he deserves it. Like DiCaprio deserved that Oscar and Jennifer Aniston deserves true love. You know, really deserves it.

  “What kind of name is Ben Dover anyway? It’s obviously fake,” I lean one hip against the counter as I arrange a crisp white napkin, a basket of fresh buns—sliced as thin as A4 paper, as per his request—and a beer bottle on his tray. Bailey pops a pink, fruity bubblegum in my face, twirling a lock of her blonde hair around a pink fingernail.

  “Probably. Which is super hot, FYI. Maybe he’s this rich guy who checked in to bang his mistress? Maybe he’s a politician? Oh my God, maybe it’s Ryan Gosling, and he’s scouting for a place to film his next movie!”

  “Perhaps.” I drop my voice low into a sly whisper. “Or maybe he’s a quiet and lethal serial killer, who slaughters waitresses that provide room service in hotels and just ordered cauliflower soup because he wanted me to go upstairs so he could kill me.” My hiss comes out too menacing, and Bailey—bless her heart—gasps in horror and slaps a palm over her inflated rack.

  “Oh, Hannah! You’re such a pessimist.”

  “You’re such an optimist.” I snatch the loaded black tray, push the saloon doors of the hotel kitchen open, and stride to the elevator. It’s Christmas Eve and I should be with my son, Easton. Right now, he should be asking me for more mashed potatoes. I should be warning him about an impending tummy ache. And dammit, I should be drunk. Instead, I’m feeding strangers cauliflower soup and humoring Bailey’s fantasies. Who stays at a hotel on Christmas Eve anyway? Seriously, I hated this person even before he barked his super-specific order at me on the phone.

  “Cauliflower soup made from exactly three cauliflowers. Nope, don’t care that it’s not on the menu. Make it happen. I want you to put some kale and mint in it too. No, I give zero fucks about you not keeping mint in your kitchen, go and get some. For the price I pay, you should be feeding me the soup with a motherfucking golden spoon. And I want my root beer to be at room temperature. I want the buns to be cut into paper-thin slices, each of them buttered with exactly two teaspoons of organic milk butter. And don’t make me wait more than an hour if you want your tip. Got it, baby girl?”

  Root beer and cauliflower soup. Is he 90?

  The need to make a U-turn when the elevator pings open slams into me violently. I shut it down and step into the darkened hallway of the presidential suite. I took this job because I need to provide for my son, and right now, we’re doing well. The bills get paid and Easton is the happiest three-year-old I’ve ever met. Besides, I shouldn’t care that he’s spending Christmas with his dad and Ruth, his snotty girlfriend. He loves both of them dearly. Then why does it feel like being stabbed in the chest?

  The hallway leading to the presidential suite is long, wide, and seemingly endless, so I allow myself a bit more time with my headphones until I pluck them out and give Mr. Dover my professional cold smile. White Noise is blasting through my earbuds, and I take a deep breath when I hear their lead singer, Fabio Ricci’s, throaty, husky voice. Jesus, this man makes my lady parts tingle. Even when he’s shouting less than poetic words, like the song I’m listening to right now, named Jailbait.


  “You say you’re eighteen,

  Your make-up’s heavy and the lights here are dim,

  But baby, this club is full of pussy,

  And in the sheets, I give no fucks whether you’re Angela or Lucy.”

  I giggle at the tune one more time before I take out the buds and knock on Mr. Dover’s door firmly, arranging my red Santa hat on top of my head—hotel policy during the holidays, like our job is not lame enough—and clear my throat. The door creaks and opens wide effortlessly. It was unlocked. Huh.

  My eyes, wide and wild—people usually value their privacy, especially the loaded ones who can afford to check into this suite—scan the view in front of me. But all I can see from this angle is the usual scenery of heaps of dirty clothes strewn everywhere, empty beer bottles rolling on the royal navy carpeted floor and an ashtray full to its brim with half-smoked cigarettes and ash sitting on the corner of a coffee table.

  “Mr. Dover?” I call into the room. I’m not as crazy as to physically enter it. Somewhere in the distance I hear a Christmas carol blurting from a sad TV and fine china and silverware clanking together. This floor houses the expensive suites, so most of our guests are families who have proper family dinners here. But not Mr. Dover. Actually, it doesn’t even sound like he’s there.

  “Sir? I’m here from room service.” I try again. I step gingerly into the room. When the sight in front of me registers, my tray drops to the floor with a loud thud. Hot soup spills onto my feet, shoes and crisp black work uniform. The burn on my skin is non-existent in comparison to the turbulence my heart is going through right now.

  Mr. Dover is draped over his king-sized bed, facedown, in his birthday suit. His muscular butt is only half-covered by a white sheet, and though I can’t see his face—all I notice is his jet black hair curling in soft waves around his ears and neck—I can definitely see the pool of blood in the middle of the white linen under his torso.

  “Holy shit!” I bolt toward him. My throat closes up, my heart pounds wildly and I no longer feel sorry for myself for not spending Christmas with Easton. I don’t even stop to explore the consequences of touching him if he’s dead. I just want to know that he’s okay. With a violent push, I manage to flip his big, lean body onto his back to look for the injury while fishing for my cell phone in my pocket. His cock peeks out from under the sheet and I try to erase the size and delicious look of it. Ahem, yeah, probably not the right time, Hannah.

  The minute I roll him to his back, his eyes open wide and he stares back at me.

  I recognize this sharp jawline, messy hair and delicious stubble. The almond-shaped eyes—the exact color of Eucalyptus leaf—and the high cheekbones so chiseled and sharp you can cut a steak with them. His pink, plump lips crack into a mischievous, crooked smile and he blinks at me once.

  “Boo!”

  Fabio Fucking Ricci, dubbed Fab by the media, is in this room. With me. Hannah Stevens. Dubbed Hannah Banana by schoolmates for getting knocked up by Easton’s dad. Fab is gorgeous, even more so in real life, alive…and unfortunately, very much an asshole.

  I stumble back and slap a hand over my mouth, falling over the broken bowl of what used to be his soup and landing flat on my ass. His smile vanishes when he realizes that I’m shaking. I thought he was dead. I also didn’t know that I was going to meet the only guy in my spank bank since I ran out of Brad Pitt fantasies—hey, it was the ‘90s, don’t judge.

  My eyes zero in on his chest, and I see that his elaborated dragon tattoos are smeared with what looks like faux-blood. The sugary gravy clings to my nostrils. Definitely ketchup.

  My body is raw with conflicting emotions. Embarrassment for falling for his stupid little prank, excitement because of who he is, and hatred for the way he’s treating me.

  I want to kill my idol.

  But I want to have sex with him too.

  “Shit, I overdid it this time, didn’t I?” He leans his cheek against his hand, still plopped on his mattress, batting his eyelashes innocently. Tears prickle my eyeballs but I will never let him see me cry. I can’t believe I liked him two seconds ago. As a singer. As a guitarist. As a person. I should have known better. Nothing good could have come out of a man who writes lyrics like, “Roses are red, violets are blue, and let’s be frank, I want to violate every single hole in you.”

  I scramble to my feet, pushing myself up without answering him. My shaking hands and trembling lips give away the rage coursing through my bloodstream, and I see him straightening up in my peripheral vision, snatching his boxers and dark denim jeans from a nightstand and dressing under his sheet quickly before standing up. He spins me so our eyes meet and I jerk my arm away from his touch, even though a jolt of electricity runs through my spine when our skin meets, exploding in my lower stomach like fireworks.

  “C’mon. It’s Christmas. I thought you were bored down there. Thought it’d make you laugh.”

  “You’re an idiot.” The words fall out of my mouth before I can stop them, but Fabio doesn’t seem to take offense. He throws his head back and laughs like a maniac. The thing about people who live on the edge, like Fabio, is that they’re sexy as hell. Because nothing screams ‘I’m a good fuck’ like being batshit crazy. And Jesus Christ, I just called Fabio Ricci an idiot.

  “Hey, hey, where are you going?” He clasps my arm again, and this time I don’t resist him. I didn’t even realize I was running for the door. Guess my body has gone completely mad at finally being touched by my ultimate fantasy. I’ve been flicking the bean to the sound of his music for four years now. Basically, I have such a strong spiritual connection with his cock, I wouldn’t be surprised if Easton is actually his.

  Hey, if Mary got knocked up by God…

  “I need to tell someone about this mess so they can clean it.” I gesture with my hand toward the bowl and the creamy cauliflower soup that’s creating a thin river between mountains of dirty clothes. He tugs me to his chest, and my breath hitches. He feels warm and manly and right. The last guy I’d slept with was Easton’s dad, and I can honestly say, I didn’t have this kind of reaction to him even when he was driving into me like a drill bit.

  “Fuck it. Let’s order pizza.” He gives me that lopsided smile that made White Noise stand out in an ocean of indie rock bands. I don’t disconnect from his touch, even though we stand way too close to each other. I mull over his last few words, trying to make sense of them.

  “We?” I ask. Maybe it’s all a fantasy. Maybe I’m still in the kitchen and just passed out. But if that’s the case, I’m returning my brain to the store and asking for refund. If this was a good fantasy, we’d be already porking in the bathtub and he wouldn’t try to give me a heart attack. “As in, you and me?”

  “Damn right, baby girl.” He rubs the dry ketchup off his muscular chest.

  “I have to work,” I mutter. Maybe it’s not a fantasy. Maybe I’m really turning Fabio Ricci down right now. Which means I still want a refund for my so-called brain.

  Fabio strides over to the phone in the corner of his suite, picks it up and dials. As he waits for the person on the other end of the line to answer, he winks at me, throwing another one of his heartbreaking smiles my way, and gestures with his finger for me to turn around. I twirl slowly, red-cheeked, feeling like I’m auditioning for a part I never knew I had a chance at snagging. I catch him nod his approval and lick his lips. It’s on. We’re on. So on. He likes what he sees.

  “Hey, is this room service? Yeah, the lady who brought me my food is staying here for a few hours. I have two broken arms and I need someone to help me eat and jerk off. So basically, she’ll see you on her next shift. Merry Christmas and all that crap.” Then he hangs up and unhooks the phone from the socket.

  “Don’t worry about cream on the carpet, baby girl. By the time we’re done, there’ll be semen on the ceiling.”

  What. The. Hell.

  Chapter 2

  Fabio

  I knew I was going to fuck her even before I saw her face.
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br />   The attitude she gave me while we were on the phone made my cock so hard, it almost broke my zipper and ran across the fucking hotel to find her pussy and say “Hello”. Hannah Stevens. It’s so easy to find out shit about people these days. The minute I hung up on her, Ben Dover called the supervisor at the reception and asked who the nice lady who served him was. Then I, AKA Ben Dover, checked her Facebook profile while I was waiting for whatever bullshit I asked her to deliver to my room—at this point I only order room service to keep my tour manager, Stuart, on his toes and make sure he knows I’m a high maintenance piece of shit—and that was it. The minute I saw her profile picture, hugging a little boy—son, or maybe brother I assumed—with that White Noise crop top, Natalie Portman smile and eyes and hair the same shade of old wood and honey, I knew it.

  This woman was going to get fabbed in the ass, mouth and pussy tonight. Fabbed. That’s what my bandmates dubbed it when I worked my charm on every pussy with a pulse during our first tour. It kind of stuck after that.

  Call me a bleeding heart, but I just couldn’t bear the thought of knowing she was sitting in the kitchen tending to assholes like me on Christmas Eve. The only part I regret slightly is making her think I was dead and stabbed in the chest. Not the most romantic move I’ve ever made, but I was bored and wanted to ruffle her pretty feathers. She was scared, but she cooled down quickly. I liked that. And it’s not the only thing I like about Hannah Stevens.

  “So what do you wanna do? Sit around, eat pizza, and watch Love, Actually?” She crosses her arms over her chest and I can’t help but chuckle.

  Hell no. I want to fuck her. She wants to fuck me.

  But she’s not another groupie I picked up from the VIP room. This needs to be more organic and less crude than me unzipping my pants and serving her my cock like it is a god she should be praying to. So even though I covered Fabio Jr. with my jeans, I stayed shirtless, to remind her she’s not here for pizza, and I’m not here to watch a Love, Actually rerun.