We Wish You A Naughty Christmas: A Christmas Collection Read online

  We Wish You A Naughty Christmas

  A Christmas Collection

  Skye Warren

  Krista Lakes

  Penny Wylder

  Willow Winters

  LJ Shen

  M Never

  Jo Raven

  Frankie Love

  Jade West

  Caitlin Daire

  Ashleigh Zavarelli

  BB Hamel

  Bella Love-Wins

  Isabella Starling

  Amelia Wilde

  Wren Williams

  Charleigh Rose

  Annika Martin

  Melinda Minx

  Tessa Thorne

  Penelope Bloom

  Kara Hart

  Linnea May

  Kylie Walker

  Jay S Wilder

  Contents

  Mafia Cinderella by Skye Warren

  Mafia Cinderella

  Mistletoe Kisses by Krista Lakes

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Cake for Christmas by Penny Wylder

  Cake for Christmas

  Collared for Christmas by Willow Winters

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Epilogue

  Rock Hard by LJ Shen

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Epilogue

  Naughty or Nice? by M Never

  Naughty or Nice? A Very Merry Decadence Christmas by M Never

  Exposed for Xmas by Jo Raven

  Hailey

  Kaden

  Hailey

  Kaden

  Hailey

  Kaden

  Acknowledgments

  Author Note

  Let’s “Merry Christmas” by Frankie Love

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  A Family Affair by Jade West

  A Family Affair

  Yule Be Mine Soon by Caitlin Daire

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  A Nass Family Christmas by Ashleigh Zavarelli

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Epilogue

  Happy Tindermas by BB Hamel

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Taken by Santa by Bella Love-Wins

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Christmas Camgirl by Isabella Starling

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Silver Bells, Wedding Bells by Amelia Wilde

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Epilogue

  Merry F*cking Christmas by Abby Brooks writing as Wren Williams

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Dirty Santa by Charleigh Rose

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Epilogue

  The Ski Mask by Annika Martin

  Bianca Moreland

  Yuri

  Bianca

  Gifted for Christmas by Melinda Minx

  Doro

  Kieran

  Doro

  Packed In by Tessa Thorne

  Packed In

  Deck Her Halls by Penelope Bloom

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Santa’s Wish by Kara Hart

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Naughty Night by Linnea May

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  A Naughty Christmas Surprise by Kylie Walker

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Possessed by Jay S Wilder

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Afterword

  Copyright © 2016 by the authors.

  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.

  Part I

  Mafia Cinderella by Skye Warren

  Once upon a time…

  The crunch of tires on gravel yanks me from sleep.

  My heart pounds like I woke up in the middle of a bad dream.

  I scramble off the mat, the concrete freezing on my bare feet. An upturned crate gives me the boost I needs to see through the one-foot-high window at ground level. Through the grime on the glass and the weeds outside, I can make out the silhouette of a car. A long black car.

  A limousine.

  My breath comes faster. How long has it been since I’ve seen a limo? I don’t remember ever seeing one, not specifically, but I must have since I know what it is. And my father was a wealthy man. A powerful man. I may have even ridden in a limo as a child.

  The driver opens the door and a man steps out. Tall with broad shoulders. Dressed in a sharp black suit. Even from here I can make out the telltale ink scrawled on his hands, across his fingers. A dangerous man. Another man follows him out, slightly shorter but even more muscled. Protection? A subordinate?

  Low voices travel through the cracks in the window pane—undecipherable but enthralling all the same. I’ve seen very few men. Except
for Jorge, but he’s more of a boy than a man. And a bully. These men are even bigger than him. How much will their backhands hurt?

  I should be afraid. I know how cruel men can be. The other women here whisper stories when they think I can’t hear. Memories from the whorehouses.

  But I know that women can be just as cruel.

  The door slams open. Mercedes steps inside the small space, her hair bleached blonde, still pitch black at the roots. “There you are.”

  I swallow hard, anxiety a thick knot in my throat. They lock me in every night. Where else would I be? Something must be wrong. Mercedes usually doesn’t show up until later. Usually it’s Jorge who lets us out of our rooms so we can start working. Jorge and his gun.

  He’s watched me for years, hunger in his eyes. Every night I’m afraid he’ll step into my room. And every night he locks me inside, instead. Because he’s afraid of Margo and Mercedes. I don’t know how long that will keep him away.

  “What’s happening?” I ask.

  Is one of the women in trouble? Is Tia okay?

  Mercedes and her sister, Margo, run the factory, which is a fancy word for the sweatshop of forty women. Thirty nine, since Rosa disappeared last month. Rosa’s knuckles and wrists had swollen with arthritis. And then one day, she was gone.

  Antonella’s movements get slower every day, especially now that we’re deep into winter. Luciana’s failing eyesight makes her stitches crooked. The women are nothing more than fancy sewing machines to be bought and sold, to be thrown away when they break.

  Mercedes narrows her eyes. “Watch your tone. Don’t forget who’s in charge.”

  My teeth clamp together. I could never forget that. Not as long as there are locks on the doors and guards patrolling outside. Not as long as I’m forced to work twelve-hour days so Mercedes and her sister Margo can buy those fancy shoes she wears.

  My gaze lowers, hiding my defiance. “I saw a car outside.”

  “We have a visitor. Get dressed.” A pile of clothes land at my feet.

  I stare at the fine gray fabric like it’s a snake, coiled to strike. “What’s happening?”

  “I said get dressed.” She glances behind her, and I know her sister’s coming.

  Between the two of them, I’m more afraid of Margo with her black hair and blacker eyes. Mercedes doesn’t hurt us unless she has a reason. For Margo, breathing is a reason.

  My fingers tremble as I slide off the thin shorts and tank top I wear day and night. Naked. Vulnerable. I’ve worn the same clothes for a year. They get washed once a week when the rest of the women get to do laundry. They’re threadbare now, only held together by the extra stitching I’ve put in.

  Margo appears in the doorway.

  She takes in my bare body with a smug smile. I look down, ashamed. I’m hardly a woman. Too skinny, too dirty. Especially beside these two women with their waxed bodies and glossy lips.

  “He’s here,” Margo says, tossing a pair of black shiny heels at my feet.

  I glance up in time to see fear pass over Mercedes’s face.

  Dread settles in my gut. Mercedes and Margo are in charge here. They’re free to leave each evening. They have money—lots of it, judging by the new clothes and jewelry they wear. Whatever Mercedes is afraid of, it will be so much worse for the women here.

  Whoever this man is, he must be terrifying.

  And they’re preparing me for him.

  “Please don’t let him take me.” The words are like acid in my throat, burning my tongue. I hate begging, but the thought of being taken away is much worse. I know what happens to women outside this building. I’ve heard the stories. They run through my head like a black and white film reel, crude and degrading.

  It’s with shaking hands that I pull the grey skirt over my hips and button the suit jacket. The linen feels rough compared to my well-worn clothes, scraping over my nipples. Air brushes between my legs. There isn’t any underwear.

  Margo raises a darkly penciled eyebrow. “Pathetic.”

  “She’ll have to do,” Mercedes snaps.

  A shiver runs up my spine. “I won’t let him take me.” I won’t let him touch me.

  Margo’s eyes narrow. “If you don’t want your little friends to get hurt, you’ll do whatever the fuck I say.”

  And like that, my small defiance is crushed. I’ll do anything for the women. They’ve been good to me, never treating me like an outsider. Never resenting me for who my father was. They didn’t make me feel guilty that I never worked in a whorehouse like they did.

  That might change, if the sisters are giving me to a man.

  “Don’t hurt them,” I whisper.

  Margo sneers. “Calm down. He’s not going to fuck you. He’s the most powerful man in the state. He doesn’t need a stupid slut like you.”

  Relief floods me. At least I won’t have to do that.

  Just as quickly, my mind fills with every other horrible possibility. For years we’ve operated on the same work schedule in the same warehouse. The only deviations are when a new woman is brought in or when one is killed.

  “What does he want with me?” I ask, my voice breaking.

  “You’re going to be our secretary for the day,” Mercedes says, her tone business-like. “When he shows up at the door, you greet him. He’ll ask for us, and that’s when we’ll come out. You’ll sit there and look busy until he’s gone.”

  Margo grabs my wrist. With a twist, she has my face pressed to the wall. “And you won’t say another word, got it? Welcome to MM Textiles. How may I assist you? That’s all. Say it.”

  My lips press against uneven concrete, a cold kiss. The chill of it seeps into my skin, into my bones. She twists harder, sending pain up my arm. “Welcome to MM Textiles,” I gasp out. “How may I help you?”

  “That’s right. Those are the only words you say to him. If you say even one more word, Tia will have a very bad day. Now, say it again. I want to be sure you understand.”

  Tears spring to my eyes, not because of the way she bends my arm.

  Because I know she means it about Tia.

  When I turned fifteen, I started to fight them. Fought so hard and so often, I was sure they’d kill me. Maybe I wanted them to. Then one night I heard a loud bang. The crazy part is how no one screamed. Not Tia or any of the women in her room. No one made a sound when Margo went inside and shot Tia in the knee. They silently bandaged her up while I was still locked in my room, banging on the door, screaming for them to let me out. It’s a miracle she survived.

  I’ve been obedient ever since. I can’t let them hurt her again.

  Margo leans close enough that I feel her breath, hot and sticky against my neck. “Say it, bitch.”

  The words are ripped from me. “Welcome to MM Textiles. How may I help you?”

  We pass through the main room to get to the stairs. All the women look nervous. They know something’s wrong. There’s an energy in the air—of expectation, of fear. They can all see the strange clothes I’m wearing. And even worse, the shoes. As if I’m going somewhere.

  Tia catches my eye, a question on her face. What’s happening?

  I give a short shake of my head. I don’t know.

  And that much is the truth. Why do they need me to pretend to be a secretary? Whatever angle they’re playing, it means that one of the women will be hurt. I only hope that it’s me.

  I protect all the women, but it’s Tia I love the most. She was here when I showed up, a heartbroken little girl who’d watched her father get gunned down. I didn’t know that he was in the mafia. I didn’t know about his enemies. All I knew was that he smelled like pine needles and sang to me when I got sick.

  Tia let me cry for five days. Then she told me I was done crying. I was a lucky one, she said. Other twelve-year-old girls got sent to brothels. That’s what had happened to her. That’s where most of the women go first, until they’re too old to be wanted by the men there.

  For some reason the man who killed my father, my father’s se
cond in command, sent me here instead. Maybe it was a form of respect for my father’s position in the family—that Viktor would kill him and sentence his daughter to servitude, but keep me out of the whorehouse.

  For seven years, I’ve tried to be grateful.

  “Sit down,” Mercedes says at the top of the stairs. There’s a desk that’s little more than a folding table, the wrinkled army green surface filled in with something black over the years. A small black chair waits for me behind it, its leather padding cut open, spilling beige foam from its edges.

  Every muscle clenches. I’ve never been this close to the front door.

  Not since I came in, and I don’t even remember that. I don’t remember how the sun feels on my face without a dirty window between us. I don’t remember what it feels like to be free.

  My whole body cants toward the door, aching for the touch of fresh air.

  But I know better than to run.

  I still remember the pop of the gun and the thud of Angelica’s body. Jorge stands guard at the door, most of the time, but that day it was Margo who took his gun and shot her. And I remember how she beat Tia afterward, as a warning to the rest of us who might run.

  The lumpy office chair might be made of needles for how it hurts. I can almost feel the breeze in my face. Instead I’m here, a few yards away from a glass door that’s been painted black.

  “Remember what Margo told you,” Mercedes says, brown eyes narrowing. “Not a word except for what we told you. Don’t even make eye contact.”

  Margo gives me a cold smile. “Say it.”

  My throat feels dry. “Welcome to MM Textiles. How may I help you?”

  Mercedes puts a laptop on the table, clicking on the screen until a blank white page sits in front of me, a curser blinking mildly. Her hands are shaking as she stands, smoothing her black skirt. I’ve never seen her nervous like this. Who is this man? What does he want?

  Then Mercedes disappears into the back room with Margo, and I’m left staring at white page, a blinking cursor. I only have vague memories of computers, of phones. The only technology I’ve touched in the past few years are the old sewing machines. This doesn’t feel real. I expect to wake up on my mat and start work like every other day.