Christmas on the Thirteenth Floor

A Holinights Novella

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Lee Jacquot

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OceanofPDF.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, and incidents, as well as resemblance
to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2021 by Lee Jacquot

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means,
including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author,
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Cover Design: Ria O’Donnell at Graphic Escapist

Editing & Proofreading: Mackenzie at NiceGirlNaughtyEdits

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 A Quick Note From the Author

Christmas on the Thirteenth Floor is a standalone novella in the Holinights

series. None of these books need to be read in order.

It is a steamy read intended for mature audiences of legal adulthood age as

it includes explicit consensual sexual scenes.

The author is not liable for any attachments formed to the MCs or the way
any ‘good girls’ make your insides flutter.

Reader discretion is advised.

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 To my best friend.

A complete stranger that changed my life.

Sarah. You’re one of a kind. Thank you.

Love you, boo.

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 Contents

1. Presley
2. Presley
3. Roman
4. Presley
5. Presley
6. Roman
7. Presley
8. Presley
9. Roman
10. Presley
11. Presley
12. Presley
13. Roman
14. Presley
Epilogue

Preview of The Four Leaf

Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Lee Jacquot

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I absolutely hate my boss.

him.
No. That’s not right. It doesn’t feel strong enough. I utterly loathe

If he was on fire, I’d throw a stack of files into the flames, the same way
he drops them onto my desk every morning. If he was drowning, I'd tell him
that he should have managed his time better and learned how to swim
before he jumped in the water. If he found himself stranded on an island,
and I knew the location, I would turn off my phone and hope the sun roasts
his stupidly perfect tan into charred bits. Bits I’d remember later when
cutting into my nicely seared steak.
Yes. That’s about right. I think that sums up how I feel about the man.
The man.
I roll my eyes as the phrase flits through my mind. He is the literal
definition of the man.
The one who makes an obscene amount of money and has no qualms
flaunting it with his designer everything. The one who has his nose held in
the air when he walks past the sea of desks toward the elevator—an elevator
he refuses to share with anyone else while he’s in it. Let’s not forget he’s
considered a savior to the board when he comes through with creative ideas
to keep our company at the top of all the others.
Every man here wants to be him, and happily settles for being his
doormat, while every woman wants to slide into his pants.
And yeah, I can admit it—he’s hot. Because why wouldn’t the CEO of a
fortune 500, the asshole of the century, and bane of my existence, be New
York’s hottest bachelor?
 I mean, it’s just like every romance book you pick up and swoon over.
Only, here’s the thing. He’s not some redeemable asshole and I am not some
shy, timid wallflower—at least not when it comes to him.
Nope. It’s the exact opposite. He is a dominating whirlwind of force that
crushes anything in his way, never looking back at the havoc he’s wreaked.
While I’m the uncertain waves in the ocean, going from soft kisses upon the
shore to torrential waters as soon as his breeze hits me.
Where he’s hard edges and high cheekbones, I’m delicate and soft
curves. While he commands the room with his presence, I’m happy to sit at
the back and dip out early so I can watch TV on my couch.
But then there’s the fact that while I’m not the best socialite, I can also
be a firecracker with a bad mouth, and an even badder bite. (I know that’s
not a word; don’t correct me when I’m venting.)
I’m five foot seven, with wavy red hair, and a body that still holds the
frame to prove I was once an avid volleyball player. And even with the
extra cushion from my love of cupcakes, I’m still very confident in my skin.
Not to mention, my face—yes, my face—has appeared in three Sephora
shoots because I know my way around a makeup palette.
Though if I’m being honest, I’d much rather blog about it than be
subjected to the blinding lights and constant bickering of photo shoots. It
was an awesome experience, but it also affirmed that what I currently do in
marketing is right where I need to be, just in the orbit of the makeup world.
See, I’m something of an advocate for beauty products that are clean,
cruelty free, and are still vibrant while giving what they need to. It’s the
passion I seek outside of the four glass walls of the building I occupy nearly
sixty hours a week.
Yep. That’s right. Sixty. Because fuck you if you don’t count the emails
I answer at home, or the errands I run off the clock. I do. I count every last
second and add it to my timecard each week.
My asshole of a boss used to argue with me and the finance guys, but
soon enough, he realized if he wanted the best personal assistant, he was
going to have to pay for it.
Why haven’t I left? Well, the check for one. It’s cushy and allows me to
afford my obsession with pretty shoes and horror movies. Plus, I really like
the VP, Mrs. Charlotte Wessinger. She’s a goddess in the marketing
industry. Respected by peers, colleagues, and the community alike. Not
only that, but she teaches me her ways when the douchemago isn’t around.
While I have no problem mouthing off to the disrespectful assholes of
the world, I'm a tad shyer when putting out my work—my art, as Charlotte
calls it. It’s one of the only things, besides my insistent patch of eczema on
my left ankle, that I’m self-conscious about, and slowly but surely, she’s
given me the encouragement I need to send out my articles.
I’ve sent out three this week, all to the biggest magazines in the makeup
industry, and have even started a website. Granted, there’s nothing there
besides a blank slate and little “under construction” text on the page, but it’s
a start.
I think they say it’s the first step that’s the hardest, so it’s got to count
for something, right?
“Your eyes are so big, they look like golf balls. What are you thinking
about?” The resident nosey Nancy stands at the edge of my desk, eyeing my
to-do list. She turns her recently sculpted nose up when she sees my
Christmas tree doodles on the side.
It’s true, I could be utilizing this time to go over things on said list, but
also, getting lost in thought while watching the first snowfall of the year is
far more enticing.
I nod toward the floor to ceiling windows, but Nancy doesn’t bother
turning around. Instead, she raises her thin blonde brows and widens her
dark blue eyes as if to ask her question again.
I’ll be honest here. I’m not a fan of nosey Nancy. She’s the personal
assistant of Charlotte, and believe me when I say, I wish only jealousy of
her position played a part in my distaste for her. But alas, it doesn’t even
begin to scratch the surface. Nancy is just... perfect? At least, she thinks she
is.
She has the body every model aspires to have, hair you see in
magazines, and flawless skin she gets from “drinking her berry water.” Her
words, not mine. But the thing is, her idea of perfection makes everyone
around her miserable. Not only because she tells me I shouldn’t have my
iced coffee with a blueberry muffin, or when it’s the third time in a week
I’ve had fast food delivered, but because she thinks everyone wants to look
like her.
 Spoiler alert, I like my curves, and according to my BMI, I’m a healthy
weight. So she can suck it.
Then there’s also the fact that she’s the office busy body. A walking
water cooler. You only tell her something when you want the entire building
to know. Learned that little tidbit the hard way when I first got hired and
told her what a dick the big guy is. That was an awkward first meeting.
But also, I really am jealous as hell she works for Charlotte and leaves
work on time. Every. Single. Day.
That shit has to be nice.
Nancy clears her throat, reminding me of her presence, as if I could ever
forget it. “I was enjoying the snow. Looks like we’ll have a white Christmas
after all.”
She scoffs, pointing a blood red nail at the pad of paper on my desk.
“From the looks of it, you have plenty to do. I could bet my bottom dollar
you don’t even have an outfit for this evening’s party.”
I finally glare up at her, peering between a fan of lashes. “You’re right.
How about I get started on that while you go get those nails filled. You’re
long overdue.”
Nancy’s mouth drops open, but I’m only able to bask in the afterglow of
her silence for a moment before the secretary drops a note on my desk. “Be
nice, ladies.”
My eyes roll in a complete circle, but when they land on Marge, the
irritation making my nerves itch, subsides. No one with a soul could be ugly
to Marge. She’s nearing sixty and has worked here longer than anyone.
She’s the momma to those who need a shoulder to cry on or to give some
wise advice. The calm in the storm, an anchor keeping us from drifting to
sea. Even the CEO can’t bring himself to be less than a gentleman when
she’s near.
Hell, the one time she walked up right in the middle of him chewing my
ass out, he snapped his mouth shut, turned on his heels, and finished his
chastising in a professional email. I almost considered picking up my desk
and moving all the way to the back near hers, but I knew he’d have a fit if I
wasn’t within yelling distance. That man loves to control things...
“I just wanted to make sure she had herself together, Marge. You know
she puts her hobbies first sometimes and has to be reminded of her
priorities.” Nancy’s red lips curl into a smirk, and I have to fight the very
real twitch in my palm not to slap her.
She knows marketing isn’t my forever job, and she may or may not
have seen me typing a few articles. But to say I don’t put in the work here,
is a total flipping lie, and she knows it. Like myself, it’s clear she’s the
personal assistant to the wrong person. She fawns over my boss while I
sneak around to work with hers.
I’d asked her to switch, but that somehow it made it back to him and he
had another fit. Honestly, it’s probably because I’m the only woman in the
building that will actually do my job and not try to screw him.
Marge nudges her thick black frames back up her nose. “I’m sure she’s
got everything under control. Thank you, Nancy. Now let the girl work.”
Nancy brushes her bleached strands from her shoulder but doesn’t argue
as she returns to her side and flops down at her desk.
A relieved breath huffs from my lungs. “Thank you, Marge.”
“Don’t thank me just yet, young lady. You do have a dress for this
evening, right?”
I sigh, knowing that my next string of words will have her momma
voice coming out to play. “I’m not going.”
“Run that by me again, dear.” She leans her right ear toward me, and I
have to bite into my lip to keep from smiling.
“Marge. Listen. I’m here enough as it is. I don’t want to stay here longer
than I already do, at a party two floors below here, where I won't even feel
comfortable enough to drink. I’d rather go home, take a nice long bath, and
watch a scary Christmas slasher or something.” I hear the high pitch in my
voice and hate that I’m whining, but really, what I said is the truth.
Although I’ve been lucky enough to not have to set things up for the
bash, I still ordered the majority of the stuff, and let me tell you, it’s going
to be a snooze town. I have plenty of other things I can do, and none of
which involve being on the thirteenth floor.
“You can’t not go.”
“Marg—”
“Of course, she’s going. Why wouldn’t the personal assistant to the
CEO be at the annual Christmas party?” The deep voice of Satan's best
friend coasts across the air, filling my body with the fight or flight response
it’s learned since working for him.
 Reluctantly, I swivel in my chair to face my boss, Roman Chen.
The six-foot-two, lean muscle machine, with the tailored suit and
thousand-dollar watch. He’s got broad shoulders, a sharp jaw, and lips that
look like mini pillows. And his hair? It’s the only thing not professionally
kept because he can’t keep his big hands from skirting through it when he
gets flustered—which happens a lot. It’s dark and falls over his head in that
bad boy type of way, which pisses me off even more.
Ugly souls shouldn’t be so damn hot.
“I’m pretty worn out, sir. I thought I’d sit this one out.” I let the sarcasm
drip into my words at the term, relishing in the way he rolls his dark eyes.
“Let’s not tonight, Miss Cartier.” He pockets his hand, and I know it’s to
keep from pushing his hair back and showing me that I bother him. He nods
to Marge but keeps his pointed gaze on me. “Did you complete the list she
gave you?”
“The one she just put on my desk two-point-two seconds ago?”
“No need to be crass, Miss Cartier. Get it done. Then figure out what
you’re going to do about your,” he pauses, his eyes dropping down the
length of my frame and the act forces my back straighter. Damn these glass
desks, “wardrobe situation. This is a semi-formal event, so I expect you to
dress as such.”
Without another word, he nods to Marge and disappears into his office
as if he didn’t completely bulldoze my plans for the evening.
Dick.
Marge pats me on the shoulder, an apologetic smile on her face as she
returns to her own desk. And when I look down at the list, it takes
everything in me not to throw one of my red bottom heels at his window.

Lunch from Saint Mary’s. Half a smoked turkey club panini

and tomato basil soup.
Dry cleaning from fourth street. (lost ticket)
Coffee from Tony’s.

I stare at the list for three more seconds, remembering how, during my
interview, he claimed I’d basically be running the office and not getting his
laundry. That sweet scenario lasted two weeks. Now I do both. And I
almost bet if it was legal for him to ask me to clean his house, I’d have to
do that too.
The thought of ordering DoorDash and pulling up Favor flashes through
my mind, but another look over at nosey Nancy, who’s now perched on her
theoretical pedestal, with a smug smirk on her face, makes me realize I need
to take an extended lunch break.
Maybe if I’m lucky, I’ll get run over by Santa’s reindeer.

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H ow can anyone surrounded by fresh falling bits of movie-like snow,
walking down main street, where the Christmas lights are twinkling
and the wreaths are mounted on every post, still feel like the Grinch?
Okay, not the whole I wanna ruin Christmas for everyone vibe, but it
damn sure doesn’t give me the warm and fuzzies like it used to. Instead,
every shop acts as a flashback to the countless hours spent searching for
decorations, only to have Roman email me back with his discrepancies. So
much wasted time I’ll never get back.
I take a deep breath, reminding myself that while the guy is a tool, this
is only temporary. Since I’ve finally taken the plunge and started sending
off articles, it’s only a matter of time before something catches in the wind.
Even if it takes a hundred more articles, I’m still trying.
Yeah, trying to escape.
II laugh to myself, hauling the few shopping bags over my shoulder as I
enter St. Mary’s, and dump my depressing thoughts at the door. The low
light, deep red brick, and flush of greenery are just a few of the things I
adore about the quaint shop. As expected, the line is atrocious, wrapping
around the front, but it doesn’t bother me. It means more time away from
the office, spent surrounded by the smell of freshly baked goods, warm
soup, and ambient music.
Scrolling through my email, I grin as I scan a report sent over by
Johnathan in the contracts department. That man is a magician when it
comes to the tight deadlines imposed on him, while somehow still having
the time and energy to hike every weekend, volunteer at dog shelters, and
knit at the senior center. A damn genie is what he is.
 “That smile never fails to bring out my own.” A soft voice flows
through the chatter of the restaurant as it nears me.
The tone winds through my tight muscles and relaxes them in a similar
way to when you hear the theme song from your favorite childhood show.
My smile grows as I peer up at the owner of the smooth voice.
Trenton Baker.
High school reading teacher, Lego extraordinaire, and owner of the
sweetest cocker spaniel I’ve ever met. He also happens to be my ex.
We embrace in a platonic hug, and since he’s only a few inches taller
than me, his wild blond strands tickle the shell of my ear.
I flinch at the intrusion, and he must feel it, because he giggles as he
releases me. Yeah, he’s a giggler. And no, it’s not the reason we broke up.
Nope, we broke up because of the man sitting at the top of a chrome
building, who is the literal opposite of the guy standing in front of me.
Where Roman is tall, tan, and dominating, Trenton is short, pasty, and
submissive—I mean, attentive. We were together three long years, one of
which was before I joined B & R marketing. But the other two were while
most of my life was spent in the office.
Working for Roman sucked up too much of my time, and soon I felt bad
for the guy who was off on holidays and weekends, having to spend them
alone on the couch. Don’t even get me started about his long summers. He
always tried to tell me he didn’t care, or that he was grateful for the time we
did spend together.
But the guilt was heavy. It wasn’t fair. And while he reminded me
nearly daily that his hours were spent building with Legos and playing
Dungeons and Dragons with friends, I couldn’t make him wait.
Was there also the tidbit when he said a makeup blog wouldn’t be wise
because it isn’t a sustainable career? Yeah, there was that too, but mostly, I
felt bad.
Plus, to solidify my decision even more, there was the fact that when I
did cut the cord, he was more than happy to support the decision. Didn’t put
up even an iota of a fight. But then again, that's Trenton. He’s complacent in
nearly every aspect of life, including the bedroom. While I wanted
something rough and commanding, he wanted cuddles and the lights turned
off.
Nice guy. Just not the one for me.
 “What has all your pearly whites showing today, Pressy?”
Ugh. I forgot to mention the cringy nickname. Isn’t it the worst? “Just
looking at a report. The guy in charge of the department is pure magic. I
wish I had his ability to plow through work.”
Trenton’s murky blue eyes narrow. “You still haven’t quite gotten your
sea legs yet?”
“Not quite.” I ignore the way the comment feels condescending and
makes my chest tight.
I know he doesn’t mean anything by it and it’s my serious insecurities
speaking to what I’m already upset with myself about. Because it’s true, no
matter how hard I try, or how much I delegate to the department managers,
I’m always behind.
Clearing my throat, I shuffle forward with the slow-moving line. “So,
how is everything?”
Trenton beams, scratching his scruffy five o’ clock fuzz as he delves
into the past year. During the next twenty minutes we wait to order, I learn
about his latest batch of students, the after-school club he’s started, and the
sweet baker he’s recently started dating.
“How are you?” he finally asks, paying the cashier for his lunch.
I shrug, ignoring the burn radiating behind my eyes. Nothing has
happened in the three hundred and sixty five days since the last time I saw
him. Nothing he’ll be proud to hear, anyway. “Ah, you know. Just working.
Learning a lot from Charlotte.”
“That’s great to hear. Did you finally give up on the makeup thing? I see
you toned it down quite a bit. You look great.”
Even the nice guys can be total assholes.
I open my mouth to tell him that this toned-down look took thirty
minutes and four different palettes to find the perfect neutral shade, but the
ping of my phone stops me. I hold a hand to put a pause in conversation,
but Trenton kisses my cheek and takes his lunch from the counter.
“Duty calls, I know. But it was nice seeing you, Pressy. Take care of
yourself.”
A huff works its way from my nose as I nod, then grab my own bag
from the counter. After stopping at the condiment station and filling the
sack with napkins, I look at my phone.
 Asshat: Coffee from Winfey’s instead. And also, change the tomato
to chili.
Where’s that damn reindeer?

Finally in the back seat of a taxi, covered in bags of holiday decorations,

holding crinkly dry cleaning, lukewarm lunch, and a piping hot coffee, I
melt into the stiff seats. I don’t bother untangling myself, knowing it will be
more of a hassle to gather everything back up when we arrive in a few short
miles.
The snow is coming down much harder now sticking to the benches,
and roads that it was melting from earlier.
This type of weather was a foreign concept to me before moving to New
York. I grew up in the south of Texas where it was something of an
anomaly. And when we did experience it, it was more like shaved ice, rather
than anything soft you could actually play in.
I remember one year when my mother tried to make a snowman, and he
looked like one of those freaky ones from Doctor Who. Even though it gave
me nightmares for a week, I cherished it because my mom made it.
I was something like a surprise, or miracle baby, as she used to say. I
was born when they were older, so I wasn’t an expected addition. My mom
was forty-five, and my dad was sixty. They were great. Awe-inspiring.
Fantastic. The perfect parents with the ideal marriage. Everything about
them made my heart swoon, and even during fights, they still fought with
love.
I clear my throat, wiping the lone tear that escaped my eye with my
shoulder. Anytime I think of them, no matter how many years have passed,
it’s always hard.
My dad died when I was twelve. He was already well on his way to the
grave before I was conceived from his long years of smoking and a poor
diet, but he held out for as long as he could. And my mom... Well, she
passed away the year I started college, two days before Christmas. I think
living without her soulmate took a toll and she waited until she knew I’d be
okay.
 And I am okay. I mean, I’m as good as I can be. There will always be so
much I wish I could ask her, and even more that I want to tell her. I still
sometimes forget how I like my steak, or which generic detergent is as good
as the name brand. And since my mother and me had totally opposite
personalities, I know she’d have some good advice about my current
situation. She was the calm wind to slow my raging waters for so long.
She’d tell me exactly what the hell I’m supposed to do to combat the
vicious man who signs the checks that pay my rent.
But she’s not here. And when I talk to the stars at night, they don’t
answer. So while I’d normally think I'm left to navigate the horrible waves
his winds cause and hope for the best, something’s different today.
The snow. It makes me recall something she’d said when she saw
through my fake smile about the terrifying snowman.
Things aren’t always going to be pretty, dove. Some things we get
excited about, and work very hard to create, don't always match up to our
expectations. Sometimes, it’s even a little scary. But at the end of the day, as
long as you did the best you could, be proud. Because I’m sure as heck
proud of you. And who knows, maybe one day, you’ll move somewhere
where the snow is soft, and you can make a real snowman.
Without working for Roman, I wouldn’t have met Charlotte, and
without her, I wouldn’t have been brave enough to do something I’ve
wanted for a long time.
This place. It’s my icy snowman that gives me nightmares. But one day,
I’ll get to make one like Frosty.
Until then, I guess it’s a good thing I’ve learned to love scary movies.

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I love pissing people off.
Always have, and probably always will. It’s been a long-time
fascination of mine how someone can let another person affect them in
such a way, that it dictates their entire mood. For most people I encounter,
it’s a funny occurrence, something I forget the moment I leave them. But
there is one person who I make it a point to aggravate and think about her
tuffy expression long after she storms away—the redhead, my little
personal assistant, Miss Presley Cartier.
Garnering a reaction out of her is something like a hobby of mine. Or
perhaps more like a running record I have, where I add an invisible tally
mark every time I successfully piss her off. And then when I become bored,
doing nothing more than swiveling in my chair at my desk, I contemplate
what I can do next to invoke the best responses out of her.
Why? Because I’m an asshole. It’s how I was raised—by my asshole
father.
It’s a toxic cycle I find too time consuming to break. It is what it is, and
I am what I am. I don't dig deep into my past childhood traumas to figure
out why making my PA’s life hell gives me more pleasure than landing a big
client. I don’t psychoanalyze how when her pale cheeks turn pink, my dick
gets hard. Or when she stomps out of my office, her ass jiggles obscenely
and I picture it bent over my knee, wiggling from my hand slapping across
the smooth surface.
I don’t care why I do it because I don’t plan to stop anytime soon. It’s
not as if I can sleep with an employee, especially in the way I’d want to
with Presley, so riling her up is the next best thing.
 It could also be because I have a thing for getting a smart-mouthed and
strong-willed woman to submit. A dangerous affliction, but worth it a
million times over. And though Miss Cartier puts on a pretty good front, I
can see behind her faux exterior. She’s nothing more than a brat looking for
a little guidance.
“Sir.” The secretary’s sweet, maternal voice comes over my phone’s
intercom, putting a halt to my wayward thoughts. “I have a list from Tabitha
on what else needs to be done for the staff holiday party.”
A grin splits across my face, the idea formulating before I even mutter
my thanks.
My hands twitch at my sides, eagerness sweeping through me at the
thought of sending my assistant the new list. But watching the way her face
contorts as both defiance and submission fight for control is too good a
thing to not witness in person.
Still, I wouldn't mind warming her up.
I grab my cell from the glass desk and type a quick message. Around
this time, I’m sure she’s getting my lunch, and now that I’m thinking about
it, I’m more in the mood for chili, thanks to the weather.
After I press send, I turn back to the computer, tapping the spacebar to
bring the screen to life. I click through a few marketing reports and
potential deals, then scroll through a few influencers’ pages.
Though I have an obsession with enraging the small woman, I can say
she does a damn good job at what I initially hired her for. She delegates
everything to the right departments and inflicts deadlines shorter than the
ones I give her to allow for accuracy checks. Her reports are always perfect,
too.
Which leaves me nothing to do.
I steeple my hands, leaning my elbows on the armrest, then turn my
chair to gaze out the window. It’s darker now, the sun hidden under a vast
sheet of clouds, and a steady stream of flurries has begun to fall. From the
looks of it, we’ll have a thick sheet of snow when Christmas rolls around in
a few days.
Mom and Dad will probably be miserable. They hate the cold, always
venturing off somewhere warm and sandy when the first wave of chilly
weather flows through. As soon as I was old enough to be left alone with
the nanny for weeks on end, they were on the first plane to the Bahamas or
Jamaica. Sometimes Barbados and Grenada.
My nannies were left to feed me, take me to school, ensure I did my
work and made my soccer games. With so much idle time, and nothing to
keep myself busy in-between the lax schedule, I learned a thing or two
about people. I became overly observant about their mannerisms, their
habits, and their tells. It was then I figured out they could be ruled by their
emotions—controlled even, when enraged.
My nannies let me frustrate them with my experimental defiance or with
my foul mouth and stubborn palate. I pushed about six of the women to quit
over the next few years, and it was then I realized I wasn’t a fan of
completely compliant women. They weren’t much fun.
When I was finally old enough to drive and didn’t need anyone to be
there legally during my parent’s absence, they finally allowed me to be
alone. I can admit I missed having the nannies there to fuck with, though,
leaving me all the more bored.
When Christmas rolled around, everything seemed exponentially triter.
There was something about the way the season was portrayed as one of the
biggest family holidays that put me in a sour mood. And I didn’t like that. I
didn’t like that I was letting others dictate my mood. I decided after my first
Christmas alone, I would set out to enjoy the next one.
The following year, I woke early and did my own present shopping
online with the deposit my parents left in my account as a gift. After that, I
took a walk in the snow, watching it tumble from the sky in peace while all
the kids were inside, playing with their freshly unwrapped toys. The serene
environment gave me a lot of time to think—to consider what I wanted to
do with my future.
When I would finally venture back inside, I found joy on the couch,
watching movies like Home Alone and eating popcorn until I fell asleep.
I don’t think the majority of adolescents would have been able to do
that. They would have been too consumed with missing their parents, too
distraught to control their feelings.
But not me. I had learned how to be in charge of my own happiness.
I still am. Though I can’t lie, the tranquility that came with waking up
on that quiet day isn’t the same as it used to be. Perhaps because I no longer
take those long, quiet walks, or maybe because the newest Christmas
movies always revolve around romance. I’m not sure.
But I do know, I’m bored again.
Yet another reason why I can’t help myself around my PA. There’s so
much damn life in her eyes when she's mad, and it always makes me
wonder if she has that same fire when she’s in the midst of an orgasm.
Or does she crumble into herself, spent and exhausted?
Either way, I can almost bet she’s a screamer.
As if summoned by my thoughts, a huge ruckus at my door causes me
to turn around. A tangle of limbs, bags, and my lunch fumbles through my
office door.
I don’t make a move to get up, and instead lean back, watching as she
silently curses when one of the bags gets caught on the handle. After
another painful minute of her struggling, she makes it through and
somehow manages to place my lunch and drink down without spilling a
drop. She then dumps everything else on the floor—my dry cleaning
included.
“Thanks for opening the door, sir.” She spits the last word with extra
emphasis, I assume hoping I understand the double-edged meaning behind
it.
I do, but what she doesn’t know is that it also shoots straight to my
cock. Too many times have I imagined her saying that word while thanking
me for her third orgasm.
With a coy smirk, I watch as a light shade of rose creeps across the
bridge of her nose. She’s so damn responsive, it only drives my desires to
toy with her even more. It’s my favorite thing.
It’s evident to everyone that I like playing with people, yet even
knowing this, she still lets her body respond. I’m beginning to wonder if she
does it purposefully, as if she inherently wants to please me. Even if just
secretly.
It makes sense, if so. I’ve always known my little Presley Cartier would
be more than I bargained for.
I can already tell she’d be responsive for me in other ways, eager for
every touch. But she’d also put up a fight. She wouldn’t want to submit; she
wouldn’t want to give me control over her. But I’d take it. I’d own it. And
after that, there would be no going back.
 Unfortunately, it’s a temptation I won’t get the pleasure to explore.
It will have to remain a desire I’ll always have burning into my
thoughts.
So for now, I’ll settle with watching the pink rise on her cheeks instead
of her ass. I’ll observe the fierceness behind her eyes rather than feeling her
cunt clamp down on my cock. I’ll let her expend all her energy on carrying
my dry cleaning, so I can fuel the fantasy of her out of breath as I drive into
her again and again
For now, at least.

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T he demonic spawn sighs to himself before leaning forward, resting his
chin on a closed fist. “I’d greatly appreciate it if I didn’t need to have
my freshly washed clothes re-starched due to your negligence.”
Fucking asshole.
For the sixth time in the past hour, I consider if my miniscule savings,
and the temporary pause on my shoe addiction, will be enough to get me
through a job search and the two-week waiting period for a check.
Probably not.
I huff, and my wild stray hairs blow away from my face. “Well, it’d help
if you got up and assisted me, Mr. Chen.”
“And why would I do that? You’re the assistant here.”
My mouth drops open at the same time forty-five insults flip through
my mind. All of them involve colorful phrases about where he can stick it,
and none of which include places the sun shines.
Don't get me wrong, I’m well aware that being the CEO of anything can
give a person a big head. Perhaps even a little extra sprinkle of authority
makes him feel more powerful. But complete lack of chivalry? Disgusting.
Instead of getting myself fired before Christmas, I snatch his clothes off
the floor one by one and lay them over the arm of his en-suite couch. It’s a
pretty, tan leather, complimented by the pops of green art Marge paired with
it.
When I’m done, I grab the other bags and hook them across my
forearm. “Well, it’s been great, but I have to go deliver this stuff to the
people setting up on thirteen, and I’m sure you’re ready to eat your lunch.”
 I turn to walk away, my heels burning with the anticipation of being free
from his scrutinizing stare. But when he clears his throat, my eyes literally
roll so far back, it physically hurts. “Did you need something else, sir?”
“I do,” he says simply, and I fucking despise not only the way his voice
reminds me of a not safe for work voice actor, but also my body’s visceral
response from it. My core tightens, and a shiver reverberates down my
spine. I have to force myself to keep my back to him so he can’t see what I
don’t even want to feel. “Drop your things off and come back. And make it
brief, Miss Cartier. I know you’re easily distracted.”
Now that’s true. My mind shifts from thought to thought in a matter of
minutes, which is why I needed Charlotte's help with my blog post entries. I
can never stay with one coherent idea without drifting off to something
completely related, but also irrelevant.
“Yes, sir.”
I hurry from his office before he decides to make me memorize
whatever he has to say now.
After grabbing the additional bags that I dropped off by his door, I pass
by nosey Nancy and a row of others working diligently at their desks. When
I reach Marge, she eyes me over her spectacles, her features tight as she
takes in my exasperated sigh. “Are you alright?”
I click the elevator button harder than necessary, my eyes cutting to
Roman’s office. He’s still in the same spot, drinking the coffee I was
tempted to spit in and scrolling through his phone. He must feel me staring
daggers inside his skull because he clicks a button on his desk that drops
dark shades over his glass walls, enclosing him in complete privacy.
I hate those fucking blinds. They’re one way, so while we can’t see him,
he can clearly see us. It’s so creepy.
“Presley?”
I jolt at the same time the elevator doors ding, sliding open to an empty
cabin. Readjusting the copious number of bags on my shoulder, I paste on a
wide smile for Marge. “Oh, I’m just peachy. I mean, it’s the day before we
get a whole week off, so not much can ruin my day.”
“Knock on wood when you find some, would you dear?” She smirks,
going back to work on her computer.
The ride down is quick, and when the doors open, I’m not even
remotely surprised by the slight chaos taking place. The foyer just before
the wide double doors is littered with empty shopping bags, tape, and rows
of extension cords holding hot glue guns. Ladders, tall and short, rest
propped against the walls. While inside, I can make out the beginnings of
the party I spent weeks designing, starting to take form.
Yes, weeks of designing. Here’s the thing about our company’s
Christmas shindigs; they aren’t just for the company. All the members of
the board make an appearance, sure, but so do the vast majority of our
clients. From the social media influencers with millions of followers, to the
small businesses who now own franchises. It was yet another marketing
idea from Mr. Chen a few years ago, and the board ate it up.
Really, it’s just more work and unpaid hours of entertaining while
networking rather than enjoying a real company Christmas party. Part of me
wonders what Roman would look like handing out cheesy annual awards
and making company toasts if it were the average gathering. The image is
quite unsettling if I’m honest, though.
I manage to squeeze through the double doors, and the tingle radiating
up my forearms reminds me the bags are beginning to cut into my
circulation.
“Drop them over there, Pres.” Monica, the lead in the recruiting
department, and my good friend, points over at one of the few undecorated
tables as she sashays her way over to me. Her long dark hair is pulled up in
a tight bun, her beautiful amber skin glowing under the low lights. Like
nosey Nancy upstairs, Monica has the body of a gymnast, only she isn’t
nearly as snooty and never passes judgement when she sees my daily
DoorDash being dropped off.
After dumping the bags, I take a second to admire everything already
up. This year's theme is winter wonderland, and Roman decided to put a
dark spin on it. Everything I ordered needed to be navy blue, twinkling
white, or glittery silver. And to say the social media team delivered with the
execution is an understatement.
Dark, heavy, velvet tapestries drape over every wall, and the tables all
don similar covers, with white roses in tall vases. Crystal and glass
decorations also adorn the space, while white lights hang in uniform rows in
the air, attached to the columns. The most impressive, of course, is the
flocked twelve-foot Christmas tree standing in the center. It’s the last thing
to be decorated, but already, it's a statement piece.
 “We could use some help decorating that beast later,” Monica says as
she rips through the bags and takes out the iridescent snowflake placemats.
I nod. “Of course. I have to go see what else Chen wants, but then I’ll
be down.”
Monica smirks but quickly swallows it back when she catches my death
stare. She has an absurd, and rather infuriating notion that some type of
sexual tension intertwines within the hate that bonds the CEO and me. She
also seems to think he goes the extra mile just to infuriate me because I
suck miserably at hiding my reactions.
While the former is complete bullshit, the latter is definitely true. He
goads me and it works ninety percent of the time. But I do the same.
Something about watching him lose even the smallest bit of composure and
push his long fingers through his mussed hair sends a shiver of triumph
through me every time.
“I’ll be back, and when I am, no talking about him or I disappear.” I
wiggle my fingers how I imagine a magician does during a trick while
Monica rolls her eyes at my antics.
I take my time wadding back to the elevators, and even more so walking
to his office. I know he’s peering at me from behind the privacy shades—I
can feel him. It's a searing type of fire rolling up and down my frame,
followed by ice of his absence, letting me know where his eyes are trailing
over me. And as sick as it is to admit, it doesn’t bother me. Not like it
should, at least.
But I don’t dwell on the reason, or my lack of understanding why.
Instead, I snatch the notepad off my desk and don’t bother knocking before
swinging his door open.
Already I feel the air grow thicker as I enter, his eyes still on his phone
even though I’ve made a show of entering.
His lack of a response doesn’t faze me, and I lower myself stiffly onto
the chair across from his desk, sighing as loud as I can. I mean I do have
things to do.
“No need for the theatrics, Miss Cartier.” He draws his words out
slowly, finishing typing whatever message he was in the middle of before I
walked in. Seemingly satisfied, his eyes drift over the message one more
time before he sets his phone face down on his desk and gazes at me.
 It’s dark and damning, and makes all the muscles in my body tighten in
unison.
I talk a good game, and may even have a bit of an attitude, but when it
comes down to it, my body knows something my mind can’t seem to grasp.
And being alone, well, that only convolutes the battle between fight or
flight.
“Can I be frank with you?” His low timbre is smooth and dare I say,
enticing, making me want to respond yes when I already know better. I
imagine this to be what rats see when they find cheese not knowing there’s
a trap underneath.
Still, I take the bait. “When have you ever not been, sir?”
He smirks. Ugh. That damn smirk. “I like this game we play, you and
I.”
“Game?”
Roman nods, standing from his chair and moving to the front of his
desk in a fluid motion, barely giving me time to sink back into my chair to
maintain distance.
His dark eyes remain on me as he leans his hips into the glass and
begins to slowly roll up his left sleeve. I wash a thick swallow back but
force myself to hold his stare while my traitorous core tightens at the act.
“You see, Miss Cartier, I won’t outright say what it is we play.” He
pauses, before moving to the other arm and repeating the process of
carefully folding the fabric. Each flick of his wrist and curl of his fingers
sear into my mind, and I loathe that I’ll be thinking about it later. “But I like
it.”
Did my nipples just draw tight? Yes.
Is there a pulse down under? Also, yes.
Have I thought about hate fucking my boss because his face is so pretty,
and I want to know if his bite is worse than his bark? Abso-freakin-lutely.
But today, right now, when I’m not only doing my normal workload but
being forced to go to this stupid party I don’t even have a dress for, to work
some more, I refuse to lose our little game.
Squeezing my thighs together, I shake my head and clear my throat.
“Sorry, sir. Can’t say I know what you’re talking about. And, also, I’m not
sure if I’d ever voluntarily play a game with you.”
 He leans back, folding his annoyingly defined arms across his chest and
peering down at me as if I’ve said something mildly entertaining. The light
above his head casts a dark shadow over his face, and sickly, instead of
being more nervous, I’m more aroused. It’s then I realize how we’re
positioned—him up above, looking down, while I’m seated, mere inches
away from his groin with my face turned upward and my chest heaving.
It’s submissive.
I am not submissive.
It’s as if we both have the same thought at the same moment. His smile
widens as he kicks himself from his desk and moves back around to sit,
while I disregard my heart hammering into my chest and furrow my brows.
“What did you need me for?”
“You were gone for so long, I emailed you the list so I wouldn't forget.”
Roman picks up his phone and resumes his normal business as if he hasn’t
just wasted my time.
I scoff as I get to my feet, trying to remember the new heels from
Alexander McQueen that I’m getting myself for Christmas.
“Oh, and Miss Cartier, can you remember the number six for me?”
Don’t turn around. Don’t turn around. Don’t turn around.
“Yes, sir.”
I make it out the door in my next breath, but before it closes behind me,
I swear I hear the faintest whisper. Whether I imagined it or not, it rolls
down my spine and ignites my nerves into a startling frenzy.
Two little words. One phrase.
Good girl.

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T his time, I do use Favor to gather the last-minute needs for the party
and head back downstairs. The desire to help with decorations
suddenly replacing my will to sit at my desk, which is only a yard
away from his office. The room that just completely upended my current
psyche and brought feelings to light I take pride in keeping in the dark.
In all the time I’ve worked for the pompous asshole, I’ve felt many
emotions—anger, resentment, annoyance, and even a bit of jealousy. But
complete and utter want?
Never.
Not here at least. In the privacy of my room, surrounded by four walls,
under a thick duvet when the rain is pouring down and my moans can’t be
heard even by me? Maybe.
Sounds absurd, I know, but it’s not as if it would ever happen in reality
and the idea of making an arrogant man like him crumble when I make him
come? Instant O.
Ignoring Nancy’s scoff as I shut my computer down for the afternoon, I
float to the back of the office and stab the elevator button.
“That bad?” Marge asks, though a telling grin on her face has my brows
raised in question.
“Cat got the cream?” I ask, popping a hand on my hip.
She chuckles. “Not yet.”
I narrow my eyes but don’t probe her further and slide into the cabin.
When I make it down, everyone except Monica has left for lunch. She’s
putting down the placemats I gave her. “Not hungry?”
 She shrugs, applying a glue dot to one mat before pressing it on the
table. “I wanted to at least finish up with this so when we came back,
someone could start setting out the name plates.”
“Hmm.” I nod, grabbing a stack of the mats and joining her at the other
side of the round table.
“What about you?”
“I ate something while I was out. Oh, you’ll never believe who I saw.”
She tosses me an unopened package of the glue dot applicator. “Spill.”
“Trenton.”
Monica’s thin eyebrows shoot into her hairline. “Mister goodie-two-
shoes, who can only have missionary sex in the dark, Baker?”
My head falls back and the first bout of genuine laughter I’ve had all
week spills out.
I may have forgotten to mention that tidbit. Missionary only. Which is
fine and all, but since he saw toys as competition and not his partner, the
position made it extremely difficult for me to sneak a hand down and get
me where I needed to be. Which means yep, you guessed it, I only came
about five percent of the time.
“Yep. He’s dating a baker, still building his Legos, and living his best
life.”
Monica guffaws, pressing another placemat down as I work on tearing
open the glue dot package. “His best life is right. He wasn’t for you, girl.”
“I know.” I shrug, giving up on trying to peel off the plastic and rip the
top completely, popping it through instead. “I’m not sure who is.”
My current career already gives me minimal time to date, and the dream
I’m chasing gives me even less. So running into a guy that can handle my
chaotic schedule, and deal with my eccentric shoe collection and horror
movie marathons, while simultaneously giving me real orgasms?
Improbable.
“Well, we aren’t trying to get you hitched. You need someone with a
schedule like yours, and a dick that makes you scream. Lord knows you
could use it.”
My stomach clenches as I let out another cackle. “Scream?”
Monica moves to the next table, and I follow suit, applying glue to the
back of the mat. “Bitch, yes. I don’t know if you know this, but you need to
give up some of that control you hold on to. Let someone else take the reins
and fuck your ass six ways to Sunday.”
“Wait, wait, wait. What?” Monica has accused me of being many things
—bouncy, sometimes introverted, spicy, and even timid, but never as
someone who needs control.
“You misunderstand. I’m not saying you’re a control freak by any
means, but think about it, Pres. You give us department heads even stricter
deadlines than what Mr. C. gives you—”
“So that I have time to check over things and get them fixed if need be.”
“Why are we the heads of the department if you have to check our
work?”
“So that Roman doesn’t rip me a new one if something isn’t done to his
standard,” I counter.
She smirks. “You want things perfect for him because you want to
please him.”
“Back the fuck up.” I hold up a hand, failing at keeping my mouth from
gaping. “Please him?”
Monica shrugs, ignoring the frustrated blush blooming across my face.
“You say you hate him.”
“Duh.”
“Why?”
I shoot out my hands in an “isn't it obvious” gesture. “He’s literally an
asshole.”
“Because he tells you, his personal assistant, what to do?”
“It’s how he says it,” I grit out. “And let’s not get started on his
condescending attitude.”
“Alright, let me ask you something else. Promise you won’t get all
pissed off, though.”
Rolling my eyes, I place my three mats down and move to the next
table, strategically placing a bit of room between us. “Be my guest, Dr.
Phil.”
“Does it motivate you when he gives you more work than you can
handle?”
“I...” My eyes flit back and forth as I think about all the times he’s
giving me more than I thought I’d be able to do and I took it as a challenge.
Yeah, I was always annoyed by it, but it also felt good accomplishing his
feats. “I guess.”
“And does it turn you on when he praises your hard work?”
My eyes widen at this, but I don’t answer. I can’t. Why? Because then
I’d have to acknowledge it. His “good jobs,” “great works,” and
appreciative smirks were becoming too much, but I soon found out that
when I emailed him, he only responded with a generic “thank you.”
For the past year, I’ve been able to avoid those praises and up until ten
minutes ago, have been able to fester in my general hate for the man.
“Exactly. Look, this may be a little TMI, but we’ve been friends long
enough, I feel like I can tell you I have a thing for degradation.”
My brows snap together. “You like being called names?”
“Among other things, but I suspect you have a thing for being praised.
Not only that, I think you’d make a good brat.”
“Okay, wait. Girl. Hold on. First, doesn’t everyone like to be told when
they're doing a good job? I mean, I bust my ass up there and probably put in
more hours than anyone else. And second, a brat?”
She guffaws, wagging a finger at me. “First, you do more than your job
entails every damn day and don’t give me that bullshit about wanting to be
a good employee. You just want it perfect for him. And secondly, you
deliberately poke at Mr. Chen, a man who is your boss, that you rip and run
for all day long, just to get a reaction. You're sassy, only to him—”
“And nosey Nancy,” I interject.
“Yeah, but you make it a point to give him extra attention while also
aiming to please him in the ways you know he wants.”
“So I don’t get fired, Monica. In no way, shape... ugh, hang on.” I hold
up a hand as I fish my vibrating phone from my pocket.
But the moment I see the number rolling across the screen, my heart
leaps into my throat, and all thoughts of kinks, along with my possible
secret need to please my boss, leap out the window.

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B y the time I realize I’m biting too deeply into my lip, the sour taste of
copper hits my tongue. I know better than to play with fire, to let
another person dictate what I do, yet, once again, I let Presley do just
that.
Now I’m left with a vexatious hard-on, and new images I know I won’t
be able to rid myself of anytime soon.
For the tenth time, I attempt to resume work and go over files sent by
the social media team, with new people they think are up-and-coming. And
just as I begin to forward them to my PA who I can’t purge my thoughts of,
my personal cell clatters against the glass desk as it vibrates with an
incoming call.
Tapping the green button, I press the phone to my ear. “Yes?’
“Hello. May I speak with Roman Chen, please?” The syrupy sweet
voice on the phone asks, and I have to hold in my annoyed sigh.
“You called my direct line. Who am I speaking with?”
An awkward laugh rings out, grating against my nerves.“Yes, a habit,
forgive me. My name is Chelsea Stone, and I’m calling in regard to an
employee of yours who submitted an article.”
“I employ well over six hundred people; you’ll need to be more
specific.”
“Ah, yes. I’m sorry. Presley Cartier.”
“Cart-ier,” I correct.
“Yes, Cartier. She submitted an article with an application for
employment and I have you listed as her current employer. Do you have a
moment so I can ask you a few questions?”
 I nod, though the woman can’t see me, and force my jaw to unhinge. “I
do.”
The muscles in my neck tighten as I listen to the woman ask me
questions about my employee. My assistant. The small woman who has
plagued me with the internal struggle of what I want versus what I know I
shouldn’t have.
Like now, I should be furious that one of the best PAs I’ve ever had is
on the verge of leaving, but instead, I’m relieved she won’t be on my
payroll. It eliminates the dilemma I’ve had about her since the very
beginning.
Absentmindedly, I answer Ms. Stone’s questions as I recall, yet again,
what I did moments ago with Presley. Just another thing I shouldn’t have
done, but the way her entire frame tensed as I hovered over her, and the
blush that crept up the delicate column of her neck while she watched me
roll up my sleeves made it well worth it.
And then there were those light brown eyes—full and round. They were
wide with anticipation rather than their normal defiance, and that only
yanked at the strings holding together my composure, and for a second, I
thought they might snap. It would have been interesting to say the least, but
it affirmed my suspicion that she does in fact feel the underlying dynamic
swirling between us.
I finish my conversation with the woman and place my phone face
down on the table. My fingers trace over the edge of the armrest as I lean
back in my chair and rotate to survey the city, contemplating what I feel
weighing heavy in my chest.
It isn’t disappointment, or anger, but something similar to freedom and
anxiety. It’s a strange combination, and I’m not sure what I’m meant to
make of it, or if I even want to. Instead, I brush it away and focus on the
darkening scene outside the window.
The snow is falling heavily now, the dancing of the flakes replaced with
a squall. I’ll need to go home and get changed before tonight’s party, and
since it seems as if this may be the last one my PA will join me at, I intend
to make it one she’ll remember.
Decision made, I slip my suit jacket on, followed by my undercoat. I
only make it a few feet from my door when Charlotte's incessant assistant
stops me. She’s nothing but long, lanky limbs and fake breasts. She totes
herself around the office as though she’s what everyone should aspire to be,
but in reality, she’s nothing more than a sub-par assistant with a horrendous
superiority complex. Not to mention, her weekly advances are taxing
considering she hasn’t the slightest idea what successfully coming on to
someone like me would mean. How it would feel.
Sex with no give and take, with no power, restraints, and only pretty
words, doesn’t work for me. No, I crave more.
I need more.
There has to be pain mixed with my pleasure, limits pushed to new
heights, dripping and panting and begging, until we’re both shaking from
giving everything we have. I want to be addicted to her scent, to her
pleasure, to her arousal when it first begins to blossom.
Nancy would crack within the first two minutes.
The bleach in her hair has seemingly seeped into her bloodstream and
given her some type of false bravado as she presses into my space.
I don’t bother shielding her from the grimace pulling down my features
as her overbearing perfume assaults my airways. “Miss Cunnings. Is there
something you need?”
She bats her caked eyelashes at me. “Presley hasn’t been back at her
desk all afternoon, and I’m not sure she’s even bothered with getting a dress
for tonight. I was thinking perhaps I could accompany you to the party in
her stead. I’m sure Char won’t mind.”
“Mrs. Wessinger. And Miss Cartier is taking care of my needs, rest
assured. A replacement won't be necessary.”
Her mouth pops open, but I don’t allow her the opportunity to waste
anymore of my time and stride to the back near the elevator.
Marge smiles as I approach. “Headed out, sir?”
“I am. When will the package be delivered?”
“Within the next hour. I’ll make sure to give it to the recipient at the
proper time.”
I nod and tap the button. “Allow the rest of the staff to go home if they
need to. The weather is worsening.”
Marge wastes no time pulling up a blank email and begins typing out
the announcement. “Anything else, sir?”
I run my tongue over my teeth, shoving a hand in my pocket as I
contemplate telling her about Miss Cartier. She’ll need to train the new
assistant, after all. But as I open my mouth, the elevator door dings and
slides open.
“Will I see you tonight, Marge?” I ask instead.
She grins as she finishes up the email, a knowing twinkle in her eye that
has me slightly curious. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

I’ve been in the shower longer than normal, and even the scalding water
working into my muscles does little to ease the tension—to ebb the images
of my redheaded assistant inches from my cock.
It’s nothing new for me to think of her in submissive positions, nor is it
foreign for me to find my length as it is now, hard and throbbing to feel her.
But the knowledge she may no longer be working for me heightens my
arousal, and tonight, it seems as if I can no longer ignore it.
For the seventh time since I’ve known the woman, I relinquish my
control on my emotions, and let them take over.
With one hand flat against the subway tile, I let the other fall to grip
around the base of my dick. With my eyes closed, Presley’s soft face
appears, only instead of sitting in a chair in front of my desk, she’s on her
knees, restrained and bound in a Hishi box tie. Her wet mouth parted and so
close to my cock, I can feel her warm breath coast along my length.
Just the visual of her squirming against the restraints, the tremor
working through her as she fights for friction where she wants it the most.
The inevitable blush painting her body shades of rose as she gives in to
letting me own her pleasure...
My hand moves faster, a heat blooming low in my spine as my blood
soars, rushing through my ears and drowning out the sound of the water
splashing against my back. Deep, guttural groans escape me one at a time,
until finally searing white heat erupts through my body, blurring the image
of my pet with streaks of vibrant colors.
The other hand joins the one on the wall while I allow my lungs to catch
up with my racing heart, and my muscles relax. After I wash up and exit the
shower, I notice a text lighting up my phone’s screen that makes me smirk.
Marge: Delivery made, sir.
 Right about now, her face will be red as she paces in front of her desk,
that inner monologue of hers urging her not to accept my gift. But in the
end, the secret desire to please me will win out. And that will be the last
thing I need to know that what I have planned for this evening will in fact
happen.
After that, she’s mine, and there won’t be any going back.

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I t took way longer than I anticipated, but the thirteenth floor is complete,
and if I do say so myself, it’s utterly stunning. Everything is perfect, and
I might go so far as to say I’m excited about attending, even though I'll
have to shadow Chen and work.
I mean, this could be my last one, after all.
Replaying the phone conversation in my head on repeat, I hum as my
nerves dance frantically throughout my body.
I got the call. I got the freaking call!
If disposing of bags and a plethora of trash in under five minutes was
part of the Olympics, I’d be taking home the gold medal. I wave a quick
goodbye to Monica before racing up the two flights of stairs to get to
Charlotte’s office. She’d been gone all afternoon with meetings, but
promised she’d be back before the party to finish up some emails.
While I’m not sure if I expect anything, I damn sure don’t expect what I
open up the stair access door to.
The entire floor is empty. Every damn desk. Even the custodial cart in
the corner is left unmanned.
What the hell?
Before I can register the anger working through my veins that everyone
went home and no one even had the decency to text me, I notice Charlotte’s
office light on. The annoyance disintegrates immediately as I take long
steps to her door.
Inside, Charlotte is staring intently at her computer, her warm brown
skin glowing from the bright screen. Her eyes scan something while her
freshly manicured hands work on peeling a tangerine. I watch her struggle
to peel it open for at least a minute before she resorts to pulling a bobby pin
from her grey coils and using it to pierce into the fruit.
I knock softly on the doorframe. “Need a hand?”
Charlotte’s shoulders drop, a relieved sigh filling the air as she tosses it
to me. “Please. I was about ready to throw the damned thing across the
room.”
Laughing, my nimble fingers work quickly, stripping the skin and
handing her the naked tangerine before tossing the peel in the trash. “Do
you know where everyone is?”
“You didn’t get the email, dear? Roman sent everyone home early so
they'll have enough time to dress and make it back. The weather’s getting
fairly nasty and will get much worse before it gets better, but it should stop
in a few hours.”
My eyes flash to the windows behind her, and I realize just how long
I've been on the thirteenth floor. Everything is covered in a blanket of snow,
and with the amount still pummeling from the dense clouds, I can only
imagine there will be at least six inches by tonight. Just another reason why
I should be home watching Krampus or something.
“You didn’t get the email?”
My gaze shoots back to her, my brows drawing down in confusion.
“No.”
Grabbing my phone, I flip through the last dozen emails I’ve gotten
today and none of which are about leaving early. I grunt, flopping down in
the oversized upholstered chair in front of her desk.
Charlotte tilts her head and purses her ruby lips, but after a moment, she
smirks and leans forward, resting her chin on a loosely clenched fist. “How
was your day? Did you hear back from anyone?”
“Oh!” I perk up, my excitement back in full effect. “Allure called! Not
only are they going to buy my article, but they are also going to feature it!”
“Get out! Tell me everything, dear.”
“They said they couldn’t offer me anything permanent right this minute,
but they absolutely devoured my article, and when she found out I edited it
by myself, she asked me to edit a few sample articles as well.”
“Congratulations! I knew you’d get a bite! You’re a phenomenal writer.
And your sincere passion behind it only makes it all the better.”
 Her praise fills my chest with pride, and I have to swipe away the
sudden tears burning the brim of my eyelids. “It wouldn’t be possible
without you. Thank you, Mrs. Wessinger.”
She bats a hand away as she stands, rounding her desk to pull me into
an embrace. “Hush, you sweet girl. That was all you. You just needed a
little push, is all.”
When Charlotte releases me, she holds me at arms-length, the deep lines
around her cheeks amplified in her wide smile. “So, will you be leaving me
soon?”
This coerces a soft laugh from me. “Not anytime soon, but this will
more than likely be my last Christmas party. Sorry to leave you with
Nancy.”
She barks out her own laughter now, returning to her seat and pointing a
sharp nail at me. “I’ll make Roman hire a man next time and get the poor
girl laid. Then maybe she’ll be more tolerable. But not too tolerable,
though. She fields calls like a Pitbull.”
I shake my head and sigh. “Speaking of the Christmas party, I still don’t
have anything to wear.”
Charlotte’s dark eyes flash to me, and her grin blooms into a full-blown
smile, a look in her eyes similar to Marge’s from earlier. “Actually, I think
something was delivered to your desk a while ago.”
My head whips around, and I do, in fact, notice the large white box
sitting on my chair. I must have been in such a rush and bothered by the
empty office that I walked right past it.
Charlotte stands, pulling on her coat. “I better head out, but I’ll see you
in a bit, dear.”
“Uh, yeah. I’ll see you.”
I follow her out, stopping as I near my desk. The gold script catches me
off guard, and I’m barely able to mumble a goodbye as I read it.
Oscar de la Renta.
Who in the hell...
But I don’t really have to wonder because there’s only one person I
know who can even afford it.
A knot forms in my throat, and my hands shake slightly as I open the
box.
“Oh my God.”
 I draw in a quiet gasp when my eyes take hold of the deep blue, velvet
fabric. Already, I can tell it will be the most luxurious thing I’ve ever had
the pleasure of draping over my body, and just like that, I contemplate even
putting it on.
Why the hell would he get me this?
My mind flips through any possible reason why Roman Chen, my boss,
and the biggest asshole I’ve ever met, would dare buy me something like
this. We’ve been to three other Christmas parties together and none of
which has he ever even given input to what I wear, let alone got me
anything.
After a few more moments, I pull out my phone and dial Monica.
“What’s up?”
“I think—no—I know, Roman bought me a dress for tonight.”
I’m met with silence.
“Monica?”
“How do you know?”
“Because it’s an Oscar de la Renta,” I hiss out. “Who the hell else
would get me a dress worth five grand. Damn sure wasn’t Trenton.”
“Nine grand,” Monica corrects me, giggling into the receiver. “I told
you something was up between the both of you.”
“This is serious; stop laughing. Why would he do this?” The more I try
to rationalize it, the dizzier I become, and eventually drop into my chair.
My eyes find his office and an intense wave of butterflies flutter in my
stomach.
“Do you think he knows you may be leaving? Maybe it’s a gift so you
stay?”
I blink a few times to break the strange spell keeping my gaze locked on
his dark office. “I mean, maybe? I don’t know.”
Monica yawns. “They probably called him for a reference, and he
doesn’t know what else to do but shower you with gifts?”
I chew on the inside of my cheek and run a hand through my hair. It’s
not a total reach. The woman, Ms. Stone, did say she would talk to my
listed employer, but a kind, very expensive gesture wasn't what I had in
mind for whenever Roman found out. I expected a much more hostile
response.
“Are you going to wear it?”
 I scoff, running a hand over the soft buttery velvet. “I don’t have a
choice. The weather is getting worse, and I don’t have time to shop.”
“Well, get your ass moving and get ready. Send me pictures because I
know you’re going to look sexy as hell, girl.”
“Thanks, Moni—”
“Or, it could always be for the reasons I’ve told you since day one.
There’s something brewing between you both, and now he doesn’t have to
worry about hitting on an employee.”
“Bye, Monica.”
I hang up before she can utter another word and make the situation even
worse than she already has. Too much has happened in a day. Between
getting a call back, finding out I may have a bit of a kink, and learning I’ve
been unknowingly trying to be deviantly submissive, I’m exhausted.
On more than one occasion, I’ve had to freshen up in the morning after
just barely making it when I rolled out of bed, so I created an emergency
work bag. Rummaging through the bottom drawer of my desk, I find the
satchel carrying my back-up palette, travel flatiron, and some bobby pins.
With one last look at Roman’s office, I grab the dress box and disappear
into Charlotte’s office. Her full-length mirror is now my savior.
Though, with a gesture this bizarre, and my sudden wound nerves, I’m
beginning to think I’ll need something else to save me tonight.
I’d prefer if it was clear, chilled, and rhymed with Sheila.
Tequila. I’m going to need Tequila.

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I look delightful. No... that’s not the right word. Stunning? Gorgeous?
Nope, none of those either.
Another half twirl and a glance at my ass, and the term shoots to the
forefront of my mind. Delicious. Yep. That’s it.
Though the phrase may be cliché, the dress fits like a damn glove,
forming to every curve I’ve been granted and accentuating both the girls up
top and my derriere. Even with my mock neckline, my breasts appear even
perkier, and the insanely low back meets the top of my ass in a dangerous
kiss.
Just below the dip of my spine, the dress loosens, the long center thigh
slit giving me ample room to walk without restrictions. Luckily, I already
had Loubi Queen ankle strap sandals on, and they pair with the dress
seamlessly.
My hair is pinned to the side, falling over my shoulder in long, uniform
waves, and the style allows for me to discard my day's jewelry and only
wear the small studs I had stashed in my purse.
Not to toot my own horn but... toot.
I don’t care what anyone may say, if you look good, you feel good, and
I don’t even think nosey Nancy can mess up my current mood.
With a few extra minutes to spare, I go through a few emails and set an
auto-response for the holidays, even though I know I’ll still be checking
them periodically anyway. Satisfied, I power down the machine and gather
all my items in a pile on my chair so I can grab-and-go when the party ends.
I adjust the dress and run my hands down the soft fabric as I reach the
elevator, but when the doors slide open, the air evaporates from my lungs.
 Roman Chen leans against the back mirrored wall, his hands resting on
either side of his hips on the safety bar, his fingers tapping against the
metal. A midnight black suit conforms to his body in a perfectly tailored fit,
showcasing the muscles he hides under his usual jackets. A slim blue tie
matching the color of my dress rests against his chest. His feet are crossed
at the ankle, and his normally mussed hair is brushed back with a thick lock
that drops onto his forehead in a Johnny Depp sort of way.
He’s never looked more like a God than in this moment, and I think
Hades himself would relinquish the throne if Roman looked at him with the
same dark gaze he’s currently setting my skin on fire with.
My entire body tingles as I step into the cabin, holding my breath in an
attempt to hinder the intoxicating scent of his Chanel Blue. But it’s too late.
It seeps into my very pores and makes me lightheaded.
His eyes follow a trail down my dress, and I don’t miss the way his
pupils dilate, even though his blinks are low and lazy, feigning
nonchalance.
“Miss Cartier.” His voice drops a heavy weight into my core, and I find
myself both hating and loving it at the same time.
Why isn’t he getting out?
“Mr. Chen,” I reply, pressing a finger on the door open button.
“That won’t be necessary. I’m headed to thirteen.”
Releasing my hand, I drop it to my side. “Then why did you pass it?”
“To make sure you had gotten ready. We both know you get distracted.”
Ignoring his comment, I move to the next very obvious issue with us
both occupying the small space. “Okay, but you never share a ride with
anyone.”
Roman huffs out a large sigh and kicks himself off the wall. He takes
two large steps toward me, eliminating the space between us in a second
and sucking every last particle of air from the elevator in the process.
His head drops near my ear, his warm, minty breath coasting along my
neck and sprouting goosebumps down my covered arms. “Is there an issue
with me taking a short elevator ride with my personal assistant?”
My center tenses, and the heaviness moves lower, making my clit pulse.
Words completely lost, I shake my head.
Even though I can’t see him, I swear I can feel him smirk as he taps the
button for the thirteenth floor.
 When he backs away, he takes his warmth with him, and I resent the
shiver that travels down my spine. I shouldn’t want him so damn close to
me.
We wait in awkward silence before the doors slide together, enclosing
us in a space where his relentless winds have no one to destroy but me. But
even knowing that, I gather up the courage to ask what I really want to
know.
“Why did you buy me this dress?”
“Because I knew you didn’t have time to go get one, and I wanted you
to look presentable.” He says it so matter-of-fact. Almost as if it should
have been obvious.
Annoyance works through the fading arousal. “And when, Mr. Chen,
have I not looked presentable?”
His eyes flash to me but before he looks down to fiddle with his stupid
watch, I see the hint of amusement in them. He thinks this is funny?
Maybe it’s the knowledge I won’t be working for him forever, or the
fact that today has been taxing enough and I’d much rather be at home than
be subjected to this, but my moxie triples.
Before I can rationalize what I’m doing, I smash my hand over the stop
button, halting the elevator.
“Always so dramatic,” he muses, readjusting the cuffs of his jacket.
“I’d like an answer, sir.” My hands circle around my waist as I raise a
brow. But when his gaze flits to where my hands are, I suddenly feel naked
and clear my throat while shifting my weight on my heels.
He must sense my discomfort and tilts his head, letting his eyes rove
back to my now flushed face. “You always look presentable, Presley.”
The sudden use of my first name catches me off guard, but I somehow
manage to brush the odd sensation it gives me to the side. “So why did you
get me this dress?”
Roman leans back, a smugness curling the corner of his lips. “Would
you like the truth?”
This gives me pause. Why would I not?
The memory of him asking me to remember the number six flashes
through my mind. Does this have something to do with that?
“Yes.” I hate how weak my voice sounds. “The truth, please.”
 He returns to the space in front of me, soaking up the air and making it
hard for me to focus. When I don’t immediately look up, he hooks his index
finger under my chin and lifts. It’s soft, yet forceful, leaving me no room to
move against it.
My breath comes quicker as our gazes meet, and I’m ninety percent sure
my body is about to combust at any second from how strongly my nerves
are vibrating.
“I purchased this dress for you because I knew how it would look on
you.” He pauses, lowering his hand to lightly grip around my neck. “And I
knew how it would look when thrown on the floor.”
And then his mouth crashes against mine.

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I knew the moment I saw Presley in that dress we would end up here,
with her sweet mouth attached to mine, and me, completely devouring
her. She tastes how she looks—vibrant and full of that sass she
constantly throws at me.
Already, I’m fucking addicted.
My hand tightens around her throat, drawing her closer until her breasts
are pressed against my chest. She’s so goddamn soft, she molds to my body,
even fully clothed.
But the sexiest thing? She doesn’t put up an ounce of fight. Instead, her
hands tangle in my hair, and the slight burn of her nails scratching through
my scalp to grip me closer radiates down my spine.
We press harder together, all the pent-up frustration spilling over into
kissing each other breathless. But when she moans into my mouth, my
blood soars, racing through my ears until I can only hear my thumping
pulse. It matches hers beating against my chest.
I let my hand slip to her covered collarbone, and I force her back to arch
as the safety bar presses into her spine. She breaks the kiss in a sharp
breath, but the motion ignites a foreign irritation in my chest and I bite into
her swollen bottom lip to bring her back.
I want her lips to stay on me. Need them to.
Grabbing one of her thighs, I only barely lift before she drops one hand
to my shoulder and uses it for balance to curl her leg around my waist. And
it’s then I allow my tongue to slide out and swipe along the seam of her
mouth.
She opens immediately.
 Her warm tongue slips out and dances with mine in what feels like a
never-ending tango. The more I give, the more she takes. The harder I move
against her, the more frantic she becomes. Like she can’t get enough.
Hmm... It will be fun taking away her control later.
I break from her mouth and trail languid licks and kisses down her jaw,
ignoring her groans of objections. My lips graze along what little flesh they
can get to until reaching the patch of skin just beneath her ear. Her
frustrated grunts turn into open mouthed moans, the beautiful sound singing
praises to my libido and pushing me farther.
I nibble at the flesh, reveling in how her body interchanges between
heady whines and tense muscles to greedy grabs.
Presley lifts her other leg, joining it with the one wrapped tightly around
my waist. Her dress parts perfectly, falling to the side and pressing her silk
covered cunt directly over my erection.
She uses the safety bar as leverage, one hand holding tightly so she can
tilt her hips for more friction.
I smile against her throat. “Naughty girl.”
Ignoring her groans of protest, I unhook her fingers from both the metal
and my neck and hold them above her with one of my hands.
“Tell me.” I keep my body pinned to hers, hindering her from being able
to move as I brush my nose lightly over hers. “What have you done to earn
the reward of coming?”
“I-I—” Her eyes widen, her once tiny pupils now bleeding into her
irises. A beautiful rose color takes over the bridge of her nose, and I decide
in this moment I want to see the rest of her body that same color.
“That’s what I thought.” I move back to the crook of her neck, scraping
my teeth up her delicate flesh before catching her earlobe between them.
“When you show me that you can be a good girl, I’ll reward you. That’s
how this game works.”
Her chest heaves up and down against me as she attempts to catch her
breath, and even through the thick velvet, I can feel her pebbled nipples.
“And how do I show you that?”
“So, you’d like to play?”
She huffs, agitation mixing in with her arousal, making her all the more
needy. Never have I wanted someone as badly as I want her. My body is
fucking pulsing against her, compelling me to consider forgoing everything
I have planned and just taking her right here.
But visions of her on my desk help me reel myself back under control.
My voice drops. “I need you to answer me, Miss Cartier. Would you
like to play?”
Her head moves up and down frantically, forcing me to pull back and
grab her chin between my thumb and forefinger. “Aht, aht. Use your words,
darling.”
Somehow, the blood in her cheeks darkens, and for a moment I wonder
where the pain in my ass Presley went. But then she smirks, narrowing her
eyes. “Yes, sir. I want to play.”
I smirk in return before placing a soft kiss on her lips. “Atta girl.”
Slowly, I back away, lowering her legs until I’m confident she can stand
on her own. When her heels hit the floor, I put only enough space between
us so I can slip a hand in my pocket and pull out a satin bag. Unlatching the
small string, I take out the two Ben Wa Balls and hold them in front of her.
“Do you know what these are?”
Presley looks from the silver in my hand to my face, then back again. “I
do.”
“I want you to wear them,” I state simply, already having closed my
hand and moving my fist down her side.
She closes her eyes against my light touch, the friction just barely
reaching her through the rich fabric. When I reach the small sliver of flesh
showing beneath the slit of her dress, she stalls her breathing as her lashes
flutter open.
“Is this for real?”
I chuckle but pause. “It is. Second thoughts?”
Her beautiful eyes are open now and examining the calmness of my
schooled features. I knew the moment she put the dress on that she wanted
to please me, but I also want her to vocalize her desire.
But before I have time to worry that she may be having those second
thoughts, she surprises me. “This isn’t Fifty Shades.”
I smile wide now. “Oh, but Mr. Grey was on to something.”
I let my hand dip lower, brushing against the sensitive skin just outside
her panty line. A tremor works through her while her head falls back
against the elevator mirror simultaneously. “I—I.”
 Uncurling one finger, I slide it inside the elastic. She opens her thighs,
allowing better access but I don’t move in farther. I need to hear her say it.
“Tell me what you want, pet.”
A frustrated moan spills from her wet, parted lips at the use of my
endearment, but she manages to bring her face down and focus her hooded
gaze on me, sass dripping into her words. “I want you to put your little
jingle balls in me.”
That smart mouth will be the end of her; she just doesn’t realize it yet.
Instead of granting her a response, I find her slit with my wandering fingers.
I can’t stop my eyes from closing, and I have to clamp my jaw shut to
keep some semblance of composure. She’s fucking drenched.
I slip one of the balls from my palm and in between my thumb and
index. Pressing the cold metal to her core, I let my hooded gaze flash to
hers.
Her lashes are low, her blinks lazy as she tries to calm her breathing.
“Are you ready?”
She starts to nod but must think better of it. “Yes, sir.”
I press it inside her, reveling in the tremor that works down her arms as
she holds on to the bar for support. I want to take a moment longer to
appreciate her like this—the trust she’s putting in me to do this. But
knowing if I do, I will say fuck everything and take her, I make quick work
of putting the other one in right behind. Her warm walls clasp around my
fingers, and it takes more control than I’d like to admit to draw my hand
away.
“How does that feel, Miss Cartier?”
Presley bats her eyelashes for a few moments, almost as if she’s doing
more thinking about how she feels about what’s happening than the real
evaluation of the Ben Wa Balls.
Words found, she grins. “Like the main character.”
I hold my arm out, letting her loop hers around mine as I press the
button for the elevator to open the doors. “Oh, darling. But you are.”

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I hate my boss. I do. Really. I know what transpired in the elevator may
contradict everything I’m saying—what I’ve always said—but I mean
it. He was just too dominating, too powerful and all-consuming for me
to do anything but melt under his commands.
And don’t get me wrong, I’m not a weak woman. I’m not someone who
dry humps people she hates in a freaking elevator, but I wasn’t thinking. My
mind was complete and utter mush, ruled by the fire rolling in my body and
acting of its own accord.
Did I like it? Oh, my God, yes.
Did I want to stop? Also... no. No, I didn’t.
But what just happened goes beyond anything I even consider outside
the walls of my wildest fantasies.
He... I... my free hand lifts to my swollen bottom lip.
Even though realization begins to settle in, my head can’t physically
wrap around what we did. What I let him do. Hell, what I wished he would
do. And my prickling skin from where our arms are currently connected
proves that I wanted him.
I’m still on fire everywhere his hands were and everywhere I wanted
them to be. And God, I wanted—want—him. More than I have ever wanted
anyone in my entire life.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Roman Chen is a complete and utter asshole. He moves to a tune of his
own, that no one around him is good enough to hear, and he couldn’t give
two shits about anyone else but himself.
 If that’s the only truth, then why do I feel like I was everything to him in
that elevator. As if I consumed him as much as he did me? That I had him
on the brink of his own sanity?
I swallow down over the thick lump in my throat and exit the cabin,
keeping my pace in tandem with his. But the second my other foot drops,
the very real awareness that there are two little balls nestled in my pussy
hits me. No, like literally hits me.
My steps falter as the small jostle of the metal pushes them against my
clenching walls, the intense sensation making my insides coil. He pauses,
allowing me a moment to adjust, if that’s even possible, and I have to shift
at least three times and take double the deep breaths before I’m ready to
walk again.
His stance is straight and unbothered as we near the doors, his hand
running through his hair to fix the wayward mess I left it in. My eyes trace
the movement, my clit pulsing around both the Ben Wa knowing how his
hands feel grabbing at my body.
As though he can read my thoughts, he smirks, his dark eyes flashing to
me in his periphery. “I know you can do it for me, darling.”
My breath stutters at his words, and the desire—the need—to show him
I can do it engulfs me. I want him to be proud of me.
What the fuck is happening?
His arm slips from mine to open the door, and while I understand why
we can’t enter a work party linked to each other, a small piece I hate even
acknowledging whines in protest.
Roman gestures with his open hand, and I reluctantly nod, entering in
front of him to the warmth and chatter of the already in progress party
embracing me.
It’s completely dark, with the floor only illuminated by the soft white
lights and twinkling silver; it really does look like the winter wonderland I
designed.
“You did amazing, pet.” His voice is nothing more than a fleeting
whisper, spoken so low I almost think I imagined it until he winks as he
passes by me.
My traitorous heart flips, the praise filling my chest with a lightness that
makes me freaking giddy. But before I’m able to register how I really do
like when he gives me his appreciative words, a bouncy Monica saddles up
to my side.
“What. Was. That?”
My face jerks to hers, a warmth spreading across my cheeks. She has a
knowing smirk sprawled across her face, and I struggle with either the urge
to hide inside the Christmas tree or feign ignorance.
I do the latter.
“Nothing. I was just thanking him for the dress.”
Monica sucks her teeth between her lips, rolling her eyes. “Or were you
thanking him for the quickie y’all just had?”
“Monica!” I screech, my eyes darting around frantically to see if anyone
heard her. When no one seems to notice us, I lower my voice to a stern hiss.
“We did not have sex.”
Her smile grows impossibly bigger. “But you did something.”
I let out an exasperated sigh, running a hand over my hair to make sure
my bobby pins are still in place. “It was nothing.”
“I’m sure. But I’ll leave you be until you’d like to spill. And speaking
of spill.” Monica juts her head toward a dozen people gathered by the tree,
taking pictures. “I can’t believe Shawna showed up.”
My eyes travel through the small crowd to find the popular social media
influencer we currently work with. The woman is everything nosey Nancy
wishes she was. Standing at five-nine, with natural blonde locks, Shawna’s
probably the healthiest woman to walk the earth. That’s how we booked her
—a nutritional influencer who needed to be plugged in with farm-to-table
companies.
Naturally, she’s surrounded by a few photographers, and a couple of my
coworkers, but it's who she has her arm on that gives me a moment of
pause.
Roman stands beside her, his arm loosely wrapped around her thin
frame, laying on the upper part of her shoulder.
It’s not jealousy, but something dangerously close to discontent that
washes over me, drowning out everything else.
Here I am, barely wanting to shuffle around because of the balls making
my pussy clench—the reminder of what we did never too far from thought
—while he’s having a photo opp.
 Ignoring the strange swell of emotions, I excuse myself to walk around
—albeit slowly—and do my job. I mingle, make sure the board is happy,
and connect with guests of our VIPs to establish rapport. The entire time, I
do my best to keep my back from Roman and his dark gaze, but I can’t
deny the constant tingle I feel when I know his eyes are on me.
Soon enough my core is sore from remaining tight and I find Monica.
She’s not far from where I left her, and just over her shoulder I feel him
staring.
I chew on the inside of my cheek, a sudden need for that liquid savior.
“You didn’t smuggle in any of the good stuff by chance, did you?”
Monica laughs as though I've told her the best joke. “Yes, ma’am, I did.
Right this way.”
Reluctantly, I follow behind, trying my best to navigate walking across
the large hall again while simultaneously squeezing my pelvic floor to keep
the balls inside. Even after so long, and with the distaste in my mouth for
Roman’s nonchalance, my nerves are still spiking, sending waves of shivers
up my core.
We reach the table where our names shine in a pretty silver script on the
folded card-stock marking our seats. To my surprise, Nancy is sitting with
her chin resting on her fist, a pouty look scrunching up her features.
At first, I think of not speaking, but after following her narrowed gaze, I
find the source of her misery—Shawna.
Monica hands me a glass half filled with ice and something clear. The
sweet, woodsy smell invades my airways, and I waste no time taking the
drink back in one heady gulp.
The liquid burns its way down my esophagus, and I welcome the instant
tingle. I hand the glass to Monica and nod for another as I gingerly take a
seat next to Nancy.
Her muddled eyes flash to me momentarily before she grunts. “What?
Come to throw it in my face?”
My brows snap together in confusion. “What?”
Nancy jerks her hand toward where the influencer stands, who’s utterly
enamored in whatever her and Roman are talking about. I roll my eyes at
the way my chest tightens. What happened in the elevator doesn’t change
who he is. He’s still an asshole who can charm a girl within the first ten
seconds of meeting her, and I’m foolish to think otherwise.
 “She’s wearing the same dress,” Monica says, seeming frustrated I
didn’t see the similarity immediately.
Sure enough, I see they do both have on a black evening gown, with a
sweetheart top and cluster of embellishments running through the formed
bodice.
Monica hands me another drink, and I down this one as quickly as the
first. “Sorry, Nancy. But try not to let it mess up your entire night.”
“Easy for you to say. Look what you have on. Where did you even get
that?”
My mouth pops open to respond, but a warm, heavy hand finds my
shoulder. “Doesn’t she look incredible?”

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T he tingle radiating down my center disappears when I realize it isn’t
Roman hovering behind me, but instead Johnathan.
Stupid Presley. Get yourself together.
I remind myself that I still despise Roman no matter what my hormones
want me to believe as I turn to face the brilliant man who is in charge of the
contracts department. His light hair is brushed to the side, his dark grey suit
looks nice, fitted to his broad frame, and his dazzling green eyes are alight
with something mischievous.
He’s a nice guy, and definitely a safer option to spend my evening with
than the man who seems to have forgotten about my existence entirely.
Giving him a sly smile, I ignore the burn of Monica’s stare heating the
side of my face. “Well, I’m surprised you could spare time from your
volunteering and mountain climbing to join us.”
He huffs out some laughter, greeting both ladies at the table in a subtle
nod before turning his gaze back to me. “I’m glad I was able to shave some
time to slip away. I would have been devastated to not have witnessed you
in such a beautiful gown.”
The compliment is sweet, and I smile accordingly. But I can’t help but
wonder why it doesn’t light up my body the way it did when Roman told
me I did a good job on the decorations. Or when he knew I was capable of
holding in metal balls while attending a whole ass Christmas party.
“Join me for a drink?”
I rub at an annoying ache in my chest as I stand. “Sounds perfect.
Coming, Monica?”
 She crosses her delicate arms over her purple dress, her lips pursed in a
strange look. “Nope. I’ll watch from here I think.”
Before I can ask her what the hell she’s talking about, Johnathan places
a big hand on the small of my back and directs us to the punch table. I keep
my steps small, trying my best to ignore the growing heaviness between my
legs.
“So, how’s everything going up on the fifteenth floor?” he asks, pouring
us both something from the large crystal bowl.
I shrug, taking the drink and realizing there’s a fuzzy warmth blooming
through my veins. It only takes me a second to discern the two shots of
Tequila went into an empty stomach.
Oh, shit.
My eyes scan the table for a possible starch I can shove in my mouth to
absorb some of the liquor. “Ah, you know. Same old, same old. But people
like you that turn in phenomenal reports are the only reasons I’m not getting
chewed out every day.”
Jonathan turns and surveys the hall where more people are beginning to
gather around the tree. “I don’t know how you work for the man. So close, I
mean,” he adds when he sees my brows furrow. “Don’t get me wrong, he’s
incredible at what he does, but he’s also scary as hell. The man has an aura
around him that makes me nervous.”
I face off with the man everyday, and besides the incident in the
elevator, I have never been nervous around him. Unable to particularly
relate, I pass off an awkward laugh. “He’s not all that bad. Just wants stuff
done right is all.”
“Still. Huge kudos to you, knowing how to handle someone like him.”
“Yes, I’d say she handles me just fine, Mr. Thorp.” Roman’s voice steals
the air from between us, and I internally curse at my heart’s sudden uptick.
Johnathan straightens his spine, and I have to bite into my lip to keep
from grimacing. He’s his boss, yeah, I get that, but also, he’s just a guy.
“Good evening, Mr. Chen. Wonderful party, as always.”
I see Roman nod from my periphery, but I can feel his eyes on me. “All
thanks to Miss Cartier here.”
“I had plenty of help,” I say, lifting my juice before downing the rest of
the glass.
 “Let’s not be modest, now.” I hear the way his words are double-edged,
and a blush blooms along my cheeks. “A word, Miss Cartier?”
I bite down on my lip and survey the table one more time for some kind
of food. The last thing I need is to have a word with him while my veins
hum with alcohol. Even though it’s just a buzz, I know myself well enough
to know I can get a little handsy.
“Is it important? I was in the middle of talking to Johnathan here.”
Johnathan stiffens and raises his hands in mock surrender. “Oh, it’s
okay, Pres, go ahead. I’ll catch up with you in a bit.”
Without even waiting for me to object, he disappears into the crowd,
leaving me standing awkwardly with my boss. Roman side-steps, moving
into the now vacant space in front of me. My eyes move of their own
accord, trailing up his suit until our gazes meet.
“How are you feeling?”
“Flustered.”
“Hmm,” he replies, sliding his hands into his front pockets. “Because
your friend left without a fight?”
Even though he’s speaking about Johnathan, I can’t help but think of
Trenton, who also was more than happy to leave. I don’t miss him or
anything, but it did always make me feel... inadequate. Like I wasn’t good
enough for him to stick it out with me.
Damn, tipsy thoughts. Or not. I’m not sure, but the vulnerability I
suddenly feel has me folding my arms around my center.
“Don’t do that.” Roman takes a step forward and tugs firmly on one of
my hands, forcing my arms to drop. “Come with me.”
I nod, blinking away the burn radiating behind my eyes. Christmas is
already a relatively emotional time for me, and I know better than to drink
alcohol.
Roman allows me a moment before guiding me through the double
doors. His hand doesn’t completely connect with my back, but I can feel the
heat of his skin along my spine and my body acts accordingly, my core
clenching around the balls.
When he taps the button for the elevator, the doors open immediately.
We step inside, and for the second time in three years, I’m alone with Mr.
Chen in an elevator.
 My heart hammers into my ribcage, the memory of half an hour ago
playing on repeat in my mind. It almost seems unreal to think about, but
when I chance a quick glance, the darkness in Roman’s eyes confirms it
was, in fact, very real.
He’s quiet for the short ride to our floor, and when we exit, he waits for
me to get off in front of him before we walk straight into his office. He
closes the door behind us, flipping the lock closed.
The clunk of the lock drops a lump of anticipation into my stomach and
a tingle extends through my limbs.
“Can I be honest with you?” he asks, pulling out a chair and gesturing
with a subtle nod of his head for me to sit down.
I swallow thickly as I oblige. “Yes, sir.”
“I’m proud of you.”
My brows ticking together displays my slight confusion. “For the
party?”
He kneels down on one leg, resting a hand on the edge of my knee. My
breath catches as I stare down at him, watching as he moves painstakingly
slow, walking his fingers up my thigh. His fingers dip under the fabric of
my dress, continuing their ascent to glide beneath the elastic of my panties.
I spread my legs open for him, even tilting my hips to force his hand to
move closer to where I want it. Where I need it.
Roman smirks as he slides one finger through my slickness and inside
my pussy effortlessly, twisting his hand until he finds what he’s looking for.
My eyes slam shut, my back arching off the chair at the invasion I feel
like I’ve waited forever for. I let a needy moan slip past my lips.
“You did such a good job keeping these in.” His voice is low and
gravely. “This calls for a reward. Would you like that?”
I barely get the word “yes” out before his hand disappears, taking the
Ben Wa Balls with him and leaving me utterly empty. But as I whimper for
his return, he moves quickly, lifting me by my hips and placing me on his
desk.
I gasp when the cool glass meets my skin as I lie back with the guidance
of his hands.
“Now there are rules here,” Roman says, slipping off his tie in one fluid
motion. “My desk can only handle so much movement. So you’ll have to
hold still.”
 He hovers over me, drawing my hands above my head and making
quick work of tying them in some type of knot with his silk tie. He tugs on
the makeshift bondage, then moves around to tie it around the leg of his
desk. His commanding actions drive a shiver of anticipation through my
body that I can’t subdue.
Seemingly satisfied, he removes the monitor, freeing up some room for
me before walking to where my knees dangle off the desk.
Everything about this has my nerves on high alert—from the delicate
desk, to not being able to move my arms, to the open window. Every sense I
have is heightened and tingling, and in turn, causes my arousal to shoot
through the roof.
His hands skate up my thighs, and I fight to arch against his warm
touch. “I want to reward you for two things, Miss Cartier.”
Roman’s right hand yanks at my panties, snapping the elastic and
ripping the fabric with barely any effort. “The first is that I want to tell you
how much I enjoy some of the things you do.”
When he moves the heavy dress over my leg, a cool breeze skims over
my pussy and I clench around nothing. My breathing increases at the light
sensation and goosebumps sprout along my legs.
“I like how when you concentrate extremely hard on a task, your nose
scrunches up.” He trails a heavy finger along my inner thigh. “And how you
always offer to get Marge food when you order, since she’s always the one
to receive your order and hold on to it while you’re off somewhere else in
the building.”
The finger reaches my clit, and he circles it briefly before dipping into
my wet folds. Electricity shoots up my center, and I don’t realize my back is
off the glass until he uses his free hand to press me back down. “Warning
number one, darling. Stay still.”
“I like on days when you’re feeling down, I can always get you to smile
with a simple piece of Lindor’s chocolate.”
My eyes flash to him, and somehow over the multiple sensations, I
manage to mutter, “What?”
He nods simply, as if he hasn’t just dropped such a significant bomb in
the room. Since my first year, any day I wasn’t my normal bubbly self, I
would always return from lunch to a chocolate on my desk. I never knew
who did it, but I didn’t care because it always made me so happy.
 His thick finger presses inside of me, and I gasp, my heart trying to
keep up as my mind wraps around other things I blew off but could have
been because of him. But he doesn’t allow me to ask and instead lowers his
face to where his finger curls inside of me.
I give up on keeping my eyes open, and the lingering questions on my
tongue dissolve as I let my head fall back, enjoying the feel of him inside
me.
“Eyes on me, darling. Now, tell me who made you this wet.”
My lips part but nothing comes out at first. His mouth is close to where
I need it, and all I can focus on is his warm breath coasting over my pussy.
“I asked you a question.” Roman’s voice is stern now, an underlying
threat coating his every word.
“You, sir.”
“Hmmm.” When he hums, he presses his closed mouth to my clit and
the deep timber vibrates against it. “Alright. Time for your second reward.”

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B efore I can take my next breath, Roman runs the flat of his tongue
from my entrance to my clit, curling his tongue before running it
back down again. His pace is borderline torturous, sending waves of
pleasure through my core.
I do the best I can to stay still, but then he slips in his fingers and begins
to twist, and I start to pull at his tie around my wrists. The more pressure he
uses with his tongue, the wider I open my legs.
The acts of misbehaving don’t go unnoticed, and he gives me a warning
by digging his free fingers into my thigh in a bruising grip. The pain coils
with the pleasure, sending me further to the edge of ecstasy, and it’s then I
realize I’m panting for air.
Just as Roman picks up pace, his wordless promise to push me over the
edge, a tell-tale ding of an elevator shoots unnaturally loud through the
office walls.
Instinct has me jolting upright, only to be caught against the soft
restraint of his tie.
“Warning number two,” he mutters before resuming his brutal pace.
My mouth drops open, my heart hammering against my ribs at the
sudden interruption. Somehow, I’m able to angle my face and look out the
one-way shades at the empty office. Sure enough, nosy Nancy exits the
elevator, a frown pulling down her taunt face.
“Mr. Chen. Some—”
“I want you to stare at her while I make you come.”
My eyes snap to him. “What?”
“You heard the instruction, Miss Cartier.”
 I huff through my nose, but his tongue returns to where I need him,
erasing the annoyance in a second. I’m so fucking close, my nerves have
already started coiling, but watching each slow step of Nancy approaching
has my pulse in my throat, fear twisting with the other emotions running
rampage through me.
“I-I-” Shit. I can’t stop it.
Roman’s fingers curl at the same moment his mouth closes around my
clit, sending me over the edge. I bite into my arm as my body implodes on
itself, muffling the sounds of my cries the best I can.
But he doesn’t relent. Even with my walls clenching around him, he
continues to lick long, slow strokes, prolonging the orgasm.
Nerves have my eyes pinned on Nancy who is only a yard away from
his door, but still my hips chase Roman’s mouth that’s coaxing out every
last bit of my release. She tries for the door, giggling at the handle that I’m
only now realizing is locked.
It’s the most erotic thing I’ve ever done by far, and already, I know I
want more.
I want more of him.
My gaze follows Roman as he stands upright, fixing my dress back over
my legs before walking to where my head lay against the table. His hooded
eyes rove over my face, his focus only on me in this moment, Nancy and
her retreating steps already forgotten.
He taps my bottom lip with his finger. “Open.”
“Why?”
His head tilts, an amused smirk curling the sides of his mouth. “Be a
good girl and open. Now.”
I flare my nose but obey, letting my lips part just enough for him to
slide two fingers inside. The taste of myself on his calloused fingers has my
insides trembling all over again, and I immediately suck them deeper into
my mouth, cleaning myself off of him.
His other hand moves up and tucks a wayward hair behind my ear
before his thumb traces down my jaw. “Such a good girl.”
I moan at the same moment the elevator doors open for Nancy to
disappear.
Seemingly satisfied, Roman withdraws his fingers and unties me,
rubbing soft circles over my wrists. He then snakes a hand behind my back,
helping me up and off the desk.
“Would you like to go back to the party?”
I shake my head. “No, sir.”
He reassembles his tie as he watches me gingerly sit in one of the
oversized chairs. My nerves are still humming, but it wasn’t enough. I
remind myself again that I loathe the man in front of me despite how good
he makes me feel, and that perhaps we’re doing this to get it out of our
system.
You can’t hate-fuck someone if you didn’t technically have sex.
Once he fixes his tie, he runs a hand through his hair. “I’d like to leave.
Do you want to come with me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll tell you now. If we leave, a punishment is owed, and I intend to
collect.”
“For what?” An odd combination of anxiety and excitement weave
together in my chest.
“Do you recall the number I told you to remember this afternoon?” He
steps closer, leaning forward and closing me in as he places both hands on
either side of the arm rest.
I nod. “Yes, sir. Six.”
“It’s seven now.” He moves his face closer, running his nose along the
edge of my jaw and up, then sliding around the shell of my ear. I shiver
against him but don’t move an inch. “One for every time you made me lose
control. For every time I had to go against my ability to never let another
person dictate my mood. For when I had to come in my hand and not over
this smooth skin.”
His words travel straight to my clit, soaking me all over again, and have
me struggling to take in enough air. Everything about him is overwhelming
and intoxicating, and like this, it's hard to remember anything other than
how bad I want him.
“Are you sure you want to leave with me?”
As much as I say about Roman, one thing is for certain, he always
makes sure to have my explicit consent. He wants me to know that while he
is running this entire show, I am in control. “I’m sure.”
He smirks. “My house or yours?”
I am in Roman Chen's house. Roman. My boss. The guy whose coffee I was
tempted to spit in just hours ago.
Now I’m sitting in his penthouse, which is surprisingly beautifully
decorated, waiting for him to get something from the kitchen. My eyes take
in as much as they can as I try my hardest not to focus on my nerves—
because right now, my leg is bouncing a mile a minute and I’m sitting on
the literal edge of my seat.
His apartment is at the top of a building, a little shorter than our office,
and it just so happens to be on the thirteenth floor. Like I’d expected, it’s a
direct reflection of him. Everything is clean, modern, sharp edges, and
designer tags. I can almost guarantee his Persian rug costs more than one
year of my rent.
A skinny tree stands by his floor to ceiling windows overlooking a
snowy New York. It’s adorned with silver ribbons and blue bulbs, and
appears to be a small replica of the one from the Christmas party. A long
wreath drapes around his huge island, with small, twinkling lights providing
some of the only illumination in the apartment.
Well, that and the colorful lights outside the window. They stream
inside in pretty blurs of color, staining his wood floors with festive hues.
The soft sound of Roman closing his fridge makes me jolt, my
shoulders tensing up next to my ears.
His dark chuckles fill the air as he walks toward me, his loafers growing
louder with each step. “Are you having second thoughts, Miss Cartier.”
I jut out my chin, compelling my shoulders to drop as I look up at him.
“Nope. In fact, I would go so far as to say this is much less exhilarating
than I anticipated.”
“Ah.” His brows rise in mock surprise, his lips turning down in the
corner as he slides off his shoes. “How disappointing.”
He takes a seat on the opposite couch as me, setting a glass of water on
the concrete coffee table. Next to it, he puts two orange, oval tablets that I
recognize as Motrin.
My eyes flash from him to the pills and back again. “What is this for?”
“Pain.”
 I scoff. “I know that. But for who?”
“You.”
“Why?”
He runs a hand through his thick hair before leaning back and propping
one ankle on his opposite knee. “Think of it as premature relief. It will kick
in right when you need it.”
Realization falls heavy into my stomach, my core tightening and clit
pulsing at the same time. He said I was going to be punished, but he didn’t
tell me how it would be executed. And now, I’m nervous to ask.
I saw my bottom lip between my teeth, wondering if I should be a
smartass or more docile considering I’m in his domain. Oddly enough
,though, I trust that he’s not going to hurt me. Maybe he is and I’m
willingly walking into his flames.
Or maybe that’s an assumption. I’m not sure how this works. It’s not
like we talked about—
“I see those wheels in your head turning, Miss Cartier. If you have a
question, please ask.” He adjusts in his seat, peeling his jacket off before
placing it on the armrest.
I release my lip and straighten my back. “Do you plan on hurting me?”
A smirk. “In the best ways.”
“What if it’s too much?”
“Then I stop.”
I ignore the way the idea of stopping brings an ache to my chest. “Is
there some type of word or something I need to say to stop it?”
His brows furrow, and his head tilts slightly. “Have you never been
spanked before, Miss Cartier?”
A vicious blush immediately rises through my entire body, and with
words impossible to grasp, I shake my head.
Roman’s eyes flare at the same time his frown deepens, almost as if he’s
disappointed and excited at the same time. “That’s quite a shame, pet. If
you’d like me to stop, I’ll need you to say red.”
“Are you like...” I can’t bring myself to ask. I mean, I have an inkling.
A very strong inkling, but to outright question it seems juvenile.
“What we are doing tonight is enjoying each other. Engaging in
consensual sex with a few extra perks. Should you decide this is something
you’d like to continue, we can talk about what I am.”
 “Continue.” I play with the word and the very idea a few times. I would
like nothing more than to experience his tongue on me again. “Why just
me? Why do I have to be the one to say if we continue?”
He begins rolling up one of his sleeves, showcasing his corded forearms
inch by tortuous inch. “Because I’ve already decided.”
“And that is?”
His eyes darken as he pauses his movement, stealing my ability to even
breathe properly. “You're mine.”
Mine.
His.
The two words wrap around my body and send a flush of wetness
between my thighs. Why does that turn me on so much?
“Alright. Tell me how this is going to go.” I lean forward, popping the
two pills in my mouth and taking a swig of the water.
“Strip,” he says simply, rolling up his other sleeve. “There will be
seven.”
My eyes flit to him in an attempt to gauge his seriousness, but when he
merely looks at me as though he’s bored, I grin.
Easy enough. It’s not like I have on panties considering he ripped them
from my body, and I didn’t wear a bra because of the thick velvet fabric. So
really, it’s just a quick button and zipper.
I make quick work of undoing the back but take my time stripping it
from my shoulders and down my arms. It drops from my body, pooling
around my feet.
When I look back up, Roman remains seated, his leg still crossed over
the other with both his sleeves rolled. The only notable changes in his
demeanor are his pupils erasing his dark irises, along with an odd-looking
stick now grasped in his hand. One side is flat, almost like a fly swatter,
while the other has a fuzzy ball.
“Where did you get that?”
He shrugs, an annoyingly smug look on his face. “You’re not very
observant.”
My heart rate increases, and I have to swallow twice in order to get the
sudden lump in my throat down to release.
I lift my shoulders. “Now what?”
 He drops his foot, and the echo of his sole hitting the wood floor makes
my stomach tense. He gestures to his lap. “Lay down.”
My clit pulses, anticipation coiling low in my belly. I quickly brush
away the line of sweat that’s started at my temple and take a tentative step
over my dress and toward him.
I gingerly sit next to him at first but then he slides a hand up my back
and into my hair. He pulls me toward him, pressing his mouth to mine in a
brutal kiss, coercing my lips open with his tongue and taking control.
My body feels like it’s on fire—the constant build-up and drop of
nerves beginning to overwhelm me. My breasts are heavy, my nipples
drawing tight, and suddenly, I need them in his mouth.
I’m becoming needy—wanton, even. My fingers claw at his shirt and
reach for his hair, but when I brush against his ends, he breaks away from
my mouth, and moves me forward.
Caught off guard, I lose balance and tip over, my front meeting his lap.
A sharp pop rings out, followed by a stinging sensation radiating across my
ass.
Before I can register what just happened, his hand caresses the light
burn. “One.”
“Oh.” I barely get the word out before another snap of the leather piece
comes down across my butt in the same spot.
This time I gasp, surprise, pain, and arousal vibrating through me.
“You count the rest, Miss Cartier.”
“I-I…” I pause, collecting myself. “I thought spanking was done with
your hand.”
“The only spanking I do with this hand will be on your pussy. Would
you rather I do that?”
Another slap. This one ricochets against my clit, and I moan out the
number. “Three.”
His heavy hand rubs over the spot, as I finally grab onto the cushion of
the dark leather, using it as purchase to arch my back.
A finger swipes through my folds, surprising me. I lurch up, but he
forces me back down. “You’re so wet for me, Presley. Perhaps you’re
enjoying your punishment too much. Maybe I should stop and think—”
“No,” I squeak out. “Please. More.”
I can’t see him, but I imagine him smiling. “Tell me what you want.”
 “I want you to spank me with your little magic stick.”
He groans inwardly, making me shudder. “Why?”
“Because I deserve it.”
“Why?”
I honestly don’t know the reason why, but I can guess. “For teasing
you.”
Another slap.
My back arches. “Four.”
“You knew you were teasing me? Every time you mouthed off, or
walked away from me, shaking this perfect little ass, knowing I was
watching. Biting that lip and giving me those wide, submissive eyes. You
knew.”
The second time he says it, it’s no longer a question.
“Yes.”
A scoff leaves him, and this time, the pop is much harder. The pain is
like lightning, shooting up my spine and into my limbs. I want more.
“Five.”
“Naughty girl. You’re dripping over my thighs.” His hands continue to
circle the spot, but his fingers finally dip inside where I’m aching for them.
He pumps them inside me slowly at first, his fingers curling and
twisting until he has me writhing on top of him. The build is damn near
instant, my nerves seizing as he picks up speed.
But then all at once, his fingers disappear and another slap rings out.
I cry out. My stolen orgasm has me shaking, my composure burning to
shreds as he rubs away the pain.
“S... six.”
“Each number is a time you teased me. Sent me home with nothing but
desire for your cunt coming around my cock to be a mere fantasy. For the
times you made me go against my own belief of not letting anyone affect
me.”
His hand returns to my trembling pussy, and he resumes fucking me
with his digits. This time, it’s harder, and his thumb joins in, rubbing
against my clit so fiercely, I convulse. At the exact moment my nerves
combust, Roman hits my ass again, sending me over the edge.
When my orgasm comes, it’s like being thrown into a tidal wave. My
breath is impossible to catch, my body heavy and weightless, like a never-
ending ride that makes you feel close to death, but in the best possible way.
My teeth find his thigh, and I don’t care that I latch on as I ride the wave
out until everything stops pulsing.
It could be seconds, or hell, even minutes before I finally come down,
the white spots ebbing from my vision and the colorful lights staining the
floor coming back into focus.
“Seven,” I breathe.
“Hmm,” he purrs, his hands working my back in small circles.. “Such a
good girl.”
The praise loosens my chest, and now, I have a desperate need to please
him more. Twice now, he’s given me the best orgasm of my life, and I want
to do the same for him.
But before I can even mutter a word, he shifts beneath me. “You did so
well,” he concedes, rubbing my back and helping me to my feet.
His hand drops down to mine and he interlocks our fingers, before
kissing my damp forehead “Now. Let’s clean you up.”

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I knew she would give me more than I bargained for, but I never
imagined just how much. Presley has proven to be something I can say I
have missed out on.
Every fight, a wasted opportunity.
Every moment alone, a chance I should have taken.
This woman is a muse, a diamond hidden under the sands of my
ignorance. And now that I have her within my grasp, I don’t plan on letting
her go. It’s much too late for that.
I’ve already committed her taste to memory. The way she arches her
back and the spot that makes her whimper. I meant what I said. As soon as
she says yes to continuing this anomaly we’ve only just discovered, she is
mine.
I lead her through the apartment and to my bathroom. I tap the button on
the wall to start the floor warmers, but when she kicks off her heels and lets
her toes touch the cold tile she shivers against me.
She’s always been confident in her skin, and it shows now. Her hands
are not wrapped around herself, shielding her body even after the
vulnerability she just showed. I admire that.
After turning on the shower to the perfect temperature, I let her get in
first, before stripping down myself and following behind. The lights are still
off, and the room is only illuminated by the Christmas decorations shining
through the open door. Still, though, she doesn’t look at anything besides
my face. It’s almost as if she’s trying to rationalize or come to terms with
what’s happening.
Or about to happen.
 When I open my mouth to tell her to get out of her head, she speaks.
“What else have you done besides leave me chocolate?”
This catches me off guard, and I actually laugh. It’s such a rare sound to
hear, it even surprises me to hear it. But that’s the thing I’ve always
appreciated about Presley, she brings out a side of me I’ve repressed for so
long. And now, I’m beginning to see that sometimes allowing someone else
to dictate your mood isn’t so trivial.
“When your eyes flash to Charlotte's office one too many times, I know
it means you're eager to work with her on something. I always take long
lunches on those days so you're free to be with her.”
Her cheeks flush with that beautiful pink blush I’m coming to like.
“What else?”
“I think I’ll keep some things to myself, Miss Cartier. It means more to
me that way.”
She doesn’t argue or even seem disappointed at my denial, but instead
chews on the inside of her cheek and nods.
Shifting away from the water falling overhead, I grab the body wash
and squirt it onto a loofah. She watches me lather it up, not saying a word.
When I begin to wash her, she moves her limbs accordingly, lifting her
arms, and spreading her legs.
When I reach her slit, she tenses, her eyes fluttering shut as she sucks in
a sharp breath.
Though I’ve been careful for the majority of the night, I can’t control
my cock’s response to her anymore. It twitches and brushes against her
thigh, coercing her to finally look down.
Her eyes flare when she sees it, and I smirk, continuing to wash her
shoulders. “Do you see something you like, pet?”
She opens her mouth, her gaze still trained down as her small pink
tongue peeks out, swiping over her swollen bottom lip. “Yes.”
But before I can make a remark, she drops in one graceful motion, her
knees hitting the tile and her hands finding the outside of my thighs.
I take in a breath, careful to keep my face impassive as she inspects my
cock growing larger from her intense stare.
“I don’t think this will even fit in my mouth, let alone anywhere else.”
Though her words are low and probably meant to be only for herself, I
answer her anyway. “You’ll make it fit.”
 Her bright eyes flash up, connecting with mine. I see the challenge and
doubt swirling in her orbs, but I run my thumb across her wet jaw in
encouragement, my own clenching shut at seeing her in such a submissive
position.
Her small hands wrap around my cock, and her eyes never leave mine
as she parts her mouth, slipping out her tongue to drag it up my length.
I hiss through my teeth, the slow pace of her tongue chipping away at
my composure. She must sense it, closing her mouth and running her pouty
lips down my cock before using her tongue again.
Though she just started, I’m already done with her cuteness, so I weave
my hands through her hair, yanking her softly to tilt her head. “Be a good
girl and open up.”
She does as told almost immediately, dropping her jaw and taking my
head in her warm mouth. A deep groan rips from my throat as she caresses
the tip with the flat of her tongue.
“You’re such a little tease.” I pull her head closer, grinning when her
fingers dig into my thighs. But other than the sharp bite of her nails, she
shows no discomfort. That just won’t do.
I yank her harder this time, getting her to loosen the tight ring she has
on my cock as she gags. Shaking my head, I tsk, mock disappointment
coating my words. “Uh, huh, darling. I know you can take all of me.”
Her nose flares in combination with her pupils, but the nerves seem to
vanish, replaced by determination to please me. She holds me firmer, her
cheeks hollowing out as she sucks me deeper into her mouth.
It’s getting harder for me to keep my face steady. “That’s it. Just like
that, pet.”
I guide her with my hand tangled in her hair, a mix of her wet mouth,
the shower hitting my back, and the warmth beginning to bloom in my
spine forcing me farther past her lips.
Finally, I shut my eyes against the euphoric feeling, but it only lasts a
moment before one of her hands disappears.
My gaze flashes down and not much to my surprise, Presley has her
hand between her legs, rubbing in vigorous circles over her clit.
I force my hips forward, throwing her off balance and making her grab
onto me again for stability. “Look at my greedy little slut. Did you ask me if
you could come again?”
 Her eyes widen, panic staining her pretty cheeks pink.
“You’re going to make me come, and only then will I reward you again.
Do you understand?”
She manages to nod before resuming, only now her hand joins her
mouth, twisting around as she works me up and down.
With all the pent-up tension from earlier, it doesn’t take much longer
before electricity shoots up my spine. I barely get the words out in time.
“Decide where you want my cum. Now.”
Presley acts as if I’ve said nothing at all, her head moving faster now. I
give in and fuck her mouth in tandem, one hand braced against the tile, the
other guiding her head just as I did in my fantasies. Her sweet gags act as
music, and the last chord I need to catapult me over the edge.
Fireworks explode behind my eyes as I spill everything down her
inviting throat, and my beautiful girl doesn’t spill a fucking drop.
I hold my hand out, helping her to her feet, but the moment she rises, I
grab onto her hips, lifting and hooking her around my waist before pushing
out the shower door.
She giggles, burying her face inside my neck. “Did I do good, sir?”
Instead of answering her, I toss her small body on the bed, not giving a
single fuck she’s drenching the sheets.
Under the glow of the Christmas lights shining through my bedroom
window, she looks like a piece of art you’d see in a gallery. Her pale curves
decorated in tan freckles, highlighting the dips of her body. Her breasts are
perfect tear drops, her dusty pink nipples drawn tight. The assortment of
colors falls over her skin, and I realize then I could stare at her like this for
hours and never grow bored.
I could find a dozen constellations in those delicate markings, and then
turn around and find a dozen more.
“You are perfect.”
Presley catches her lip between her teeth, failing miserably at keeping
the ridiculously wide smile from lighting up her face.
“Are you ready for me to reward you for such a good job, darling?”
Somehow her grin grows, and she nods. “Yes, sir.”

OceanofPDF.com
F or what feels like the millionth time, I can’t catch my breath. My heart
is fluttering a mile a minute, threatening to jump out of my chest and
into Roman’s.
He takes his precious time, climbing into the bed and hovering over me.
Unable to help myself, I grab either side of his face and pull him down to
meet my lips. He greedily kisses me back, slipping his tongue past my lips
and taking control of everything.
Our slick bodies press against one another as I squirm uncontrollably,
titling my hips upward as he tries to keep me in place. But he’s just as lost
in this as I am, both of us so invested in pleasing the other while
maintaining what we’re supposed to be—him, the asshole boss who is
actually sweet as hell, and me, the insubordinate employee who actually
wants nothing more than to please him.
Two horrible and jagged puzzle pieces that fit together perfectly.
He breaks away from my mouth and uses a strong hand to pin me down.
Despite my whimpers of protest, he slips his other hand between us and
grabs ahold of his already hard cock. He drags it through my folds, my back
arching in response.
I start to think of a joke about after only one night with him and I’ll be
needing a chiropractor, but he must read it on my face and slams into me all
in one go.
I scream out, a delicious mix of pain and incredible pleasure tightening
every muscle I have while I attempt to adjust to his size.
“You got it, darling.” He draws nearly all the way out, and my pussy
clenches around what he leaves inside. His heavy hands find my hips, and
he pauses, his dark gaze finding mine. “Take it for me.”
Roman drives back into me, his pace steady and his force hard. Every
time he hits that delicious spot, my moans groan louder and wilder. The
only relief I get is when his head drops to take one of my nipples into his
mouth.
He sucks the peak with the same force as his drive, and before he
releases me, he bites down hard enough I screech out.
“You’re such a good fucking girl, Presley,” he grits out, returning to his
torturous pace as before.
My hips jerk up to meet his every thrust, and after the third one, he
slows to a complete stop. I open my mouth, fury ready to take whatever
punishment he throws, but the sound of a wet slap has me gasping for air.
“If I wanted you to fuck me, you’d be on top,” he says casually, swiping
a soft hand over my throbbing clit.
“You spanked my pussy.” My voice is strange, low, and sounds nothing
like me.
He nods. “I did. If you’d like for me to impale this pretty little cunt,
ask.”
His cock slips out, and I nearly cry at the loss. He leans back on his
heels, his hair dripping over his perfectly defined chest. My hand itches to
brush it back.
“Tell me what you want.”
I chew into my bottom lip, squeezing my thighs together. “I want to be
on top of you.”
Roman thinks it over as if he might consider denying my request, but
after a moment, he nods and changes position, sitting with his legs straight
out and his back against the sleek wooden headboard.
He motions with his hands for me to come to him, but when I move, he
shakes his head. “Crawl.”
I scoff, shaking my head. “I’m just on the other side of the bed.”
He smirks. “Hands and knees, Miss Cartier.”
I roll my eyes playfully but do as told, pushing my damp hair to the side
and digging my knees into the soft mattress as I crawl to him. I do my best
to make a show of it, batting my lashes slowly, swaying my hips from side
to side, and biting on the corner of my lip.
 It seems to do the trick because I only make it halfway to him before he
has me in his arms and positioned right over his length. Once either of my
legs are on the outside of his, he drops me down, being true to his word and
impaling me.
My head falls back in a heady moan, and I waste no time lifting and
falling over and over again, hitting the perfect spot.
Roman’s hands take free rein of my body, his calloused fingers working
over my stomach, my breasts, my collarbone, and landing around my neck.
He holds me there for a moment before squeezing just enough that my
pussy flutters around him.
“Show me how you make yourself come when you think of me.”
I suck in what little air his tight grasp allows.
“You’re so sweet. You feel so fucking good. I want to see that pretty
face come again. Show me.”
He keeps his hold on my neck, but his eyes belong to the hot trail of my
hand moving down my center. I find that sweet bundle of nerves and begin
to massage them as I continue to bounce.
Roman’s free fingers flick and play with my nipple, drawing moans out
of me one by one, and my steady pace becomes erratic, goosebumps
flooding my arms as I near the edge of release.
“Look at how good you look fucking me, darling. You do it so well.
Don’t stop,” he purrs, pinching my nipple. “Right there.”
I yelp, and he swallows it, his hand disappearing as he takes my face in
his hands. The kiss is soft and sensual, filled with long pulls and lip bites.
“Make me come, sir. Please,” I whine against his mouth, my body now
trembling and on the brink.
“Since you asked so nicely.” He takes over completely, shoving his hips
up at the same time he bats my hand away and takes over circling my clit.
“That's it. Come for me, Presley. Because you feel too fucking good for
me to hold off anymore.”
His words and another hard swipe over my bundle of nerves give me the
edge I need, and we catapult together, groaning into one another as I
continue to move up and down.
We ride the wave for what feels like forever, only slowing our
movements when we can make out the breathing pattern of the other. I
collapse against his chest, my heart beat pounding into his while my pussy
still pulses around him.
Roman whispers in my ear what a good job I did and strokes my hair,
until a heaviness moves over me. It's one of peace, happiness, bliss, and
sleep.
“What do we do now?” I whisper into his neck, not wanting to move
from his warm embrace.
“I’d like to live everyday as if it’s Christmas on the thirteenth floor if it
means doing this with you.”
I smile, forcing myself to lean back so I can look into his eyes. “Sounds
perfect to me, Mr. Chen.”
He nods, matching my smile with a soft laugh as he pulls me back down
on top of him. “Then Christmas it will remain, Miss Cartier.”

OceanofPDF.com
 ONE YEAR LATER

I adore my boss.
No. That’s not right. It doesn’t feel strong enough. I’m utterly
smitten in a non-sexual way.
If she was on fire, I’d run my car into a fire hydrant and figure out a
way to channel the water directly on her. If she was drowning, I'd jump
inside and let her latch onto my back as I doggie-paddle us to safety. If she
found herself stranded on an island and I knew the location, I’d recruit the
national guard to send out the whole platoon to rescue her.
Yes. That’s about right. I think that sums up how I feel about Mrs.
Stone. She’s been a phenomenal boss, and because of her, I am now the
executive editor for one of the most widely known makeup magazines.
Oh, you thought I meant Roman?
Yeah, I love him too.
He’s still a pain in my ass, but I return the same energy, and the sex after
the punishment is always worth it.
Like now.
My core is currently on fire, the muscle aching and trembling as Roman
withdraws his hand for the third time.
“Please.” I hate that tears can be heard in my voice but denying my
orgasm that was literally starting is torture. He’s gotten way too good at
deciphering the precise moment to cut it off.
At this point, it’s more like cruel and unusual punishment.
Isn’t there a law about that? Or against the constitution?
 Either way, I feel as though I’m being ripped at the seams, losing the
last bit of sanity I’m barely clinging on to.
“Will you ever do that again?” He slides out of me to the tip before
driving back in. He does it two, three, four more times until easing back and
letting me find my voice.
Was it fun unbuttoning his pants while he was on the highway? Yes.
Did I find myself entertained when I found him already hard and
waiting for my mouth? Of course.
Was making him come while he spoke through the car's Bluetooth with
an important client the best thing I’ve ever done? Abso-freakin-lutely.
He’ll only get mad if I lie, so I sigh, relenting to what I know will be
more punishment. “If given the opportunity, yes, sir, I will.”
He lets out a guttural groan, picking up speed and returning his thumb
to work my clit in incredibly perfect circles. “You’re going to be the death
of me, Miss Cartier.”
“Probably. And it’s soon-to-be Mrs. Chen to you.” I moan, latching my
fingers on the edge of the granite countertops, and titling my hips so his
cock rubs against my walls at the perfect angle.
He hums his approval, moving his hand gripping my hip to pinch one of
my nipples. When I yelp, he smiles. “My perfect little slut. You are so
fucking beautiful.”
My heart purrs from his words, and after that, it doesn’t take long before
I’m right at the edge again. The overwhelming mix of emotions swells in
my chest, and before I can stop them, tears pool in the corners of my eyes,
knowing what’s to come.
But Roman doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even ebb the pressure.
When I find his hooded gaze, he only smirks. “You can come now,
darling.”
“Oh, thank fuck!” He twitches, and I correct myself quickly. “Thank
you, sir.”
Another two swipes of his finger and we come together, falling apart on
his kitchen counter at the same time Freddy Krueger catches his victim on
the TV. I watch in tandem as he tears her limb from limb while my own
body implodes on itself, my violent orgasm ripping through my body until I
nearly collapse against the granite.
 Roman catches me in time, yanking me against his chest. I loosely wrap
myself around him and let him carry me to the bathroom, smiling as he
murmurs sweet nothings in my ear.
“You’re such a good girl. I’m so proud of you.” His big hand brushes
my hair back as he manages to keep me in his arms and turn on the faucet.
Knowing I won’t let go, he sits at the edge of the tub, checking the
temperature while his free hand caresses my arm, smoothing the
goosebumps.
“I have a surprise for you.”
“What is it?” I try to sit up, but my muscles are nothing but mush now,
barely allowing me to lift a hand to grasp his chin.
He leans down, presses a soft kiss to my lips and stands, still holding
me like an infant. “I’m going to set you down, and then show you, alright?”
I nod, albeit reluctantly, and brace myself as he slowly lowers me into
the small pool of warm water.
A hiss streams from my teeth, but the slight sting is short lived as the
warmth engulfs my aching muscles and relaxes them.
Once satisfied I’m okay, he disappears out of the bathroom door, and a
few seconds later is back, an iconic Louboutin box in hand. This perks me
up, my back straightening as I hold out my hands in a greedy “gimme”
motion.
“Did you get me those black hot chick heels to replace my old ones?”
My favorite classic black pumps that saw way too many days and had
reached a point where I felt comfortable to loan out. Let’s just say Monica
is still on my imaginary shit list.
He nods but keeps the box far enough away that my wet hands can’t
touch it. He smirks when I pout, and really, I don’t know if there is anything
in this world sexier than Roman Chen, naked in our bathroom, holding a
brand new pair of Red Bottoms.
He peels the lid off slowly, and when he tips the box for me to see
inside, I fear I may actually pass out.
Yes, inside the box is a pair of classic black pumps. But they aren’t just
black. They are painted with mini murals of Jason, Freddy, Jack from The
Shining, Ghost face, Micheal Myers, everyone in horror. White roses lay in
between some of the killers with splashes of red blood that remind me of
the Queen of Hearts. They’re perfect.
 I fucking love this man.
Energy restored, I rise from the tub and only make it halfway before he
sets the box on the counter and prepares for my arms wrapping tightly
around his neck.
I feel him smile against my ear. “Merry Christmas, future Mrs. Chen.”
My face hurts from how hard I’m smiling. I release his neck and kiss his
lips so many times, I feel his hardening cock pressing into my thigh.
Tonight, I think I’ll let him try that Hishi box tie he’s asked to do. Only
maybe instead of ropes, we could use Christmas lights.
Decision made, I smirk, batting my eyelashes playfully. “Merry
Christmas, sir.”

The End.

OceanofPDF.com
 Preview of The Four Leaf

Samantha

The desire to get shitfaced drunk and dance naked in my living room to
songs from the nineties is strong right now. So strong, in fact, I have to
make a mental list of pros and cons to keep from saying screw it and
actually doing it.
But alas, the cons side is much longer, and the current scowl on my
sister’s face from across the bar is borderline murderous. Her perfectly
arched brows are raised so high they nearly touch her hairline. And with the
terrifying way her iconic plump lips are stretched into a tight line, I add
another bullet point to my imaginary list.
They say twins can almost read each other’s minds, but I don’t think the
gift is exclusive to womb buddies. My sister has always had this sort of
radar when it comes to my bullshit, and the majority of the time she’s able
to stop my shenanigans before I even get the chance to commit to them.
So now, with her reading the internal struggle on my face, I already
know I won’t be vibing on my new washable rug while sipping wine and
swaying to Waterfalls by TLC.
I sigh, both at my own resignation and my sister's triumphant smirk,
before glancing back down at my clipboard–the reason I’m overwhelmed in
the first place.
Being the manager of a ritzy hotel on a main street is one thing that
already comes with an array of never-ending duties. But add the fact that
it’s Saint Patrick's Day, and the city's parade marches right in front of the
hotel, then, well, you have yourself a place with no vacancies and not an
empty seat in the in-house pub.
The number of needy guests this year seems to be at an all-time high,
while the amount of sudden renovation projects required is astronomical.
Not only that, but the handymen in the area are either off, charging double,
or booked up.
Go figure my parents' pride and joy would choose the busiest time of
year to start giving me gray ends at the prime age of twenty-five.
It sounds like I’m complaining, and while yeah, I partially am, I do love
this place and all the stress that comes with it. Even though it means I don’t
get home until after my weekly shows have aired and my cat has curled up
in my spot, forcing me to maneuver around her. I mean, what kind of cat-
mom would I be to disturb her when she’s gotten comfortable? I’m the late
one, after all.
With another pass over my list, I finally decide what to tackle first. I’ve
become relatively handy with the old plumbing and figure with all the local
festivities happening tonight, no one should be without a working faucet or
stuck with a clunky-sounding toilet.
Glancing up to tell my sister I’ll see her later, the large flat screen on the
wall behind her catches my eye. Like ninety percent of the time, a sports
channel plays across the screen. It’s a recap of yesterday’s rugby game with
two USA teams, and one player is currently being showcased for his
incredible performance.
Number twenty-four. Adrian Santiago Stokes.
My heart leaps into my throat when his hazel eyes and a thick forest of
black hair appear on the TV. To the rest of the world, he’s exactly what they
describe. Six-three, two hundred and fifty pounds of pure muscle, always
contributing to seventy percent of the team’s points.
But I know the man off the field. The man who tempts my heart with
going into cardiac arrest. The one I’ve secretly wanted since the first
butterfly took flight.
I sound like a total creep, but we actually grew up together. Our parents
were longtime friends and when Adrian and I were around five, they all
decided to renovate and open a relatively small historic hotel downtown.
As one can imagine, we spent countless hours together running down
the halls before it officially became The Four Leaf. We played hide and
seek in the areas that weren’t off-limits or under construction. Did our
homework in the massive kitchen, which was the only place with decent
light. Got in trouble when we had sword fights with paint sticks, and always
seemed to be sent to Boston Common Park to play until the sun finally set.
My sister, Adrian, and I grew up within these walls. Learned how to
cook, fix a leaky pipe, and clean those small vents in the bathroom. My
sister, Willow, figured out how to drive, thanks to the expansive parking lot.
And Adrian taught himself how to play piano from the grand piano in the
ballroom by just watching videos on YouTube.
Somewhere between all that, and a crap ton of other memories
embedded around this place, I fell for him. I mean, how could I not? He
was everywhere, in everything.
Whether he was helping me with math, or we were watching the newest
release on Netflix, he tattooed himself into all of my best and worst
moments, all the while stealing more of my heart. It was a crush that
gripped me by the throat and didn’t let go.
Until it did.
Kind of.
Naturally, I was always too scared to ruin my friendship with him, and
after a small incident that gave me a very ‘friend-like’ nickname, I’ve had
to learn to keep my feelings in check. But no matter what I tell myself about
our completely platonic friendship, my body doesn’t agree. The visceral
response when I see him is slightly embarrassing, and don’t get me started
on the aftermath left in my panties.
But who can blame me? The man is one of those guys they made in
stone back in Greece to depict the Gods, while also having the personality
of your favorite German Shepherd. I know, comparing him to both a God
and a dog, but it fits. The guy is loyal, kind, smart, strong, protective, and
sexy as hell, while also slightly terrifying.
“Are you going to ogle Adrian all night, or actually start on that list?”
My sister pops the top off a green bottle and hands it to an eagerly waiting
patron. Her blonde ponytail whips back and forth as she moves gracefully
behind the bar, performing some type of choreography only she and her
barbacks know the footwork to.
I roll my eyes and tap my pen on the metal piece of my clipboard. “I
was just thinking how convenient it would be if he were here.”
 It’s not a complete lie. Adrian did more work than my sister and I
combined when we were growing up here. Probably the very reason he sold
his shares to us as soon as he could, then split.
My sister guffaws as she cashes out a customer. “I’m sure. I bet it’d be
awfully convenient if he could fix the leak between your legs too, huh?”
A vicious blush burns across my cheeks as I gape at her and a few of the
chuckling guests. Asshole. She’s always been that way. Straightforward and
unfiltered. Even when we were kids, she loved making things awkward for
me and Adrian any chance she could.
I open and close my mouth twice before narrowing my eyes. “I’ll be on
the top floor, working in the far wing. Call if you need something.”
Willow chuckles, jerking her head to the man seated at the end of the
bar. “See how she didn’t deny my claims, Tommy?”
One of our long-time guests pats his round belly and grins my way. “I
did, and now you got the poor girl running to the top floor.”
“Oh, yeah, because the third floor is so high up there. We’ll still be able
to hear her journal entries from here. Dear diary, today Adrian did–”
“You are such a cunt, Will,” I hiss through my teeth, twirling on my
heels, my hands gripping the clipboard so tight it squeaks under the
pressure.
“I have one, and I like to lick them, but I’m not one, Sam. Have fun
upstairs!” my sister calls after me, and I have to really fight the urge not to
flip her off.
Her need for a reaction out of me has been an ongoing battle since fifth
grade when I swore on a pinky promise I didn’t like-like Adrian. She knows
I lied on it and refuses to let me live it down.
Winding through the tight crowd, I exit the bar and enter the lobby.
From the looks of it, you’d think it wasn’t attached to one of the most
popular pubs on the block. It’s empty of anyone except the receptionist and
bellboy huddled across the wide counter.
When my parents renovated, they kept a lot of the detail and original
lighting, but some things had to be redone to help modernize the place a bit.
The check-in counter and doors have the original dark oak, while the gold
metal accents have been restored to their previous shine. But things like the
horrendous wallpaper and dingy carpets were replaced.
 Overall, I really like how it somehow mixes both worlds. Cozy yet
elegant. Historic yet contemporary.
I wave to the pair as I pass by and walk to the elevator on the left, then
head to the top floor. Because the parade is on the east side of the building,
the west is completely vacant. The rooms are booked with check-ins
starting in a few hours, but for now, it will be a guest interruption-free zone
while I work.
The long hall is similar to the lobby, sporting the rejuvenated original
hardware, elaborate crown molding, and vintage sconces and chandeliers,
but has also been given a modern feel as well. The walls are snowy gray,
the doors dark oak, and the carpets a deep red.
I check over my list as I walk to the nearest maintenance closet. There’s
one on each floor, so we don’t have to haul stuff up constantly. Deciding on
running through the smaller jobs first, I grab my electrical bag and get
started.
An hour later, I’ve managed to fix three loose light fixtures, two
beeping smoke detectors, one crooked keyless entry, and four janky toilet
flushers. I mean, I’m feeling insanely proud of myself, if I’m honest. Saved
about a thousand bucks already, considering what the locals are charging
right now, and barely broke a sweat.
See, I don’t need Adrian, I internally snap at my sister as I move down
to the next room on my list, 3T. My eyes flash to my list and I stop mid-
step.
Dammit. Instant karma has to be the worst possible thing. Or perhaps
the wicked bad energy I know my sister is pushing through the floors.
Either way, I’m now pouting because this is the room with the bad sink.
The sink that haunts my freaking nightmares. It has a mysterious leak
no one can seem to find, and even with replacing the plumbing underneath
twice, it still drips.
With a heavy sigh, I unlock the door, prop it open, and haul my large
bag inside. Unlike the typical hotels, our rooms open to a small living area
with two chairs around a fireplace. It’s an electric built-in, but it gives the
illusion of a vintage vibe. Behind the seating is the king-sized bed, and on
the right is the door to the bathroom. It’s an odd setup, considering if the
door is open, you have a direct view of the stand-in shower, but it hasn’t
seemed to pose a problem thus far.
 I drop my heavy tool bag on the floor outside of the bathroom and prop
the door open. Inside, the perpetrating sink rests inside a beautifully
refinished wooden cabinet with iron claw feet. Kneeling, I swing the doors
open and expose the plumbing. Naturally, the little bowl I placed beneath
last week is a quarter of the way full, and a droplet is growing heavy at the
bottom of the pipe.
After turning off the pipe, I make quick work of emptying the bowl,
cleaning the bottom, and throwing on gloves. My plan is to take out all the
parts, put water in each one, and hope that I see something. If not, I’ll seal it
with new plumber’s tape and will have to figure something out after the
holiday rush.
I grab my trusty, adjustable pliers and get to work on the pipe.
Normally, the pipes are a pain in the ass to loosen, but I guess today I’m
due an extra workout, because no amount of turning is doing anything to
budge it.
Deciding to readjust, I get on my knees and use both hands now,
yanking with small bursts of energy. Having to run up and down the hotel,
I’d say I’m a pretty in-shape person, with great stamina. But the way I’m
currently struggling for air as I fight the sink, has me considering just how
in-shape I really am.
Again, I yank, this time with a frustrated growl, hoping it will give me
some type of extra testosterone. But instead, my grip slips from the pliers,
and I fall back awkwardly, hitting a very hard… person.
Before I even look up, I feel the burn lighting up my entire face, but
when I see familiar hazel eyes and black tousled hair, I beg for the floor to
collapse altogether.
“Hey, Adrian,” I breathe.
“Hey, Sammy.”

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 Acknowledgments

Thank you for reading the first book in the Holi-night novella series. Stay
tuned for my pop up books in the series!

As always, thank you to my hubs who made this book possible with
wrangling the kids and cooking me yummy meals. To my kids for always
walking in when I’m writing the spiciest scenes. And to my incredible
alphas and betas.

Garnet, M.L., Salma, Matti, Tasha, Gab, Andrea.

Y’all are the offing bomb and I hope you never leave me! & of course
Lauren for the help *insert winky face*

Thanks to my amazingggggg editor and cover designer. Mackenzie and Ria,

I don’t know how I got so lucky but y’all are incredible.

Again, thank you to everyone! I can’t wait for the next holiday I randomly
decide to pop one of these bad boys out! Stay tuned.

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 About the Author

Lee Jacquot is a wild-haired bibliophile who writes romances with strong heroines that deserve a
happy ever after. When Lee isn't writing or drowning herself in a good book, she laughs or yells at
one of her husband's practical jokes.
Lee is addicted to cozy pajamas, family games nights, and making tents with her kids. She
currently lives in Texas with her husband, and three littles. She lives off coffee and Dean Winchester.
Visit her on Instagram or TikTok to find out about upcoming releases and other fun things!
@authorleejacquot

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 Also by Lee Jacquot

I wrote a couple books other books!! Check them out here!

Holinight Novellas
Christmas on the Thirteenth Floor
The Four Leaf
Liberty Falls
Hollows Grove

Wicked Wonderland Duet

Queen of Madness (Book 1)
King of Ruin (Book 2)

The Emerald Falls Series

The Masks We Wear
The Masks We Break
The Masks We Burn

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