His for Christmas Read online

  There was a long silence. Finally Mr. Thompson sighed. “I appreciate loyalty. I value it. But your loyalty needs to lie with the company. I need a complete report of what happened on this project. It’s not just about protecting the people around you, especially since they didn’t do the same for you. It’s about making sure this doesn’t happen again.”

  After a beat Noah nodded. “I’ll tell you everything. But you need to understand, it was a culmination of mistakes that led to us losing that deal. And some of it was just plain bad luck. But I was the team lead, and I take responsibility for the outcome.”

  “Sit,” Mr. Thompson said gruffly. Then he turned to me. His eyes narrowed. “And you. Outside. Now.”

  I scurried out of his office. Unfortunately that didn’t provide much protection because Mr. Thompson followed me. Damn it.

  Nerves ate me up from the inside like acid all through my body. My heart was pounding. I started babbling. “Look, I’m only here for one more week, but if you want me gone early—”

  “Ms. Cole.”

  “Just so you know, I’d never even met Noah Waters before today and never plan to again, so it wasn’t anything like flirting or—”

  “Angel, listen to me. Part of the reason I was firing Mr. Waters was because I could tell he was holding back information about the project failure. I assumed he was covering his own ass. But we handle large-volume deals all the time. Losses happen. Mistakes happen.”

  “Oh.”

  “I don’t go around firing my employees right before Christmas for making mistakes.” He paused. “Or for speaking out of turn.”

  Relief coursed through me. “Cold but generous,” I murmured.

  His eyes darkened. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking I’m a good man, Angel.”

  “Too late.” The words came out a whisper.

  He reached for me, his hand one inch from my face. I was sure he’d cup my cheek. Sure he’d lean down and kiss me, standing outside his office with Noah Waters waiting inside. And I wouldn’t have turned away. I told him with my eyes just how much I wanted to feel his lips on mine. I didn’t always do the smart thing. Almost never, in fact. I did what felt right, and this felt right. His eyes locked on mine, his hands on me. He felt right.

  “You do something to me,” he muttered. “I don’t like it.”

  And just like that, a splash of cold regret doused any desire I had. Any hope. I may as well have rolled around in the snow for how I felt as he went into his office and shut the door.

  I don’t like it.

  Chapter Seven

  I closed the last of the files, satisfied that I’d finished my work before leaving. A bittersweet feeling because today was my last day.

  It was also Christmas Eve, and most of the building had already left. At seven o’ clock, it felt much later. Snowfall had grown heavier all day. It verged on a storm now, darkening the streets as people rushed to get home with last-minute packages. Lights were on in Mr. Thompson’s office, and I knew he was still there, because he’d come in early this morning—and hadn’t left yet.

  I stared at the office door, which was cracked open. In invitation?

  That was wishful thinking. I couldn’t see inside, but maybe that was for the best. Even if I went in there, what would I say? He wouldn’t care that I was leaving. For good, this time. I was just an awkward situation he’d be glad to get rid of.

  But I cared. Tears sprang to my eyes, and I hated myself for being so transparent. How had I started to fall for my boss when I’d only worked here for two weeks? When the first time we’d met, he’d made me come so hard I couldn’t breathe? When he watched me and listened to me and even flirted with me in that gruff, brutal way of his?

  Okay, so maybe the crush wasn’t that far-fetched considering.

  Still, I shouldn’t be thinking about saying anything else to him. Not even goodbye. I left a quick note for Christy letting her know the work I’d done, so she’d know where to pick up. Then I grabbed my purse and headed for the elevator.

  I refused to look back at the office. Refused to care. I made it inside the elevator. The doors slid shut behind me… until a hand pushed in to stop them.

  Mr. Thompson.

  “Going down?” he asked.

  I averted my eyes and nodded. Outwardly I remained calm and collected, but inside my senses went haywire like they did every time he was nearby. The size of him, filling up every spare inch in the elevator. The heat of him, making my skin tingle.

  The musky male scent of him, turning me to liquid. God, I need to get out of this elevator.

  Either that or I needed never to leave it.

  Out of the corner of my eye I watched him step inside and press the button for the lobby. The elevator began moving.

  “Do you have plans?” He cleared his throat. “For Christmas Eve?”

  I blinked. Why was he making small talk after avoiding me for two weeks? And how embarrassing would it be to tell him no, I didn’t have any plans?

  I was saved from that embarrassment when the elevator shuddered to a stop, well before we would have reached the ground floor. The lights flickered and went off. I blinked as low yellow lights appeared from the bottom of the walls, giving me just enough illumination to make out the shadows.

  The elevator doors didn’t open.

  “What’s going on?” I whispered. Something about the darkness made it seem like I should be quiet.

  He pressed the buttons, but they weren’t even lit. “The storm must have taken down the grid.”

  Crap, just what I needed, to be trapped with the man I had an inappropriate and completely unrequited crush on. My heart began beating faster, as if this was some kind of private makeout session instead of just bad luck. “Security will know to look for us, won’t they?”

  “Yes.” A beat passed. “Maybe not. There aren’t many people with access to this elevator. And most people leave early on Christmas Eve. In fact, why are you still here?”

  “I don’t have any family in town.” I didn’t have any family at all, but he didn’t need to know that. My daddy hadn’t responded to my letter from jail, and maybe that was all I deserved after running away from home, for not trusting him enough to stay. Stupid girl, he’d called me.

  Sometimes I thought running away had been the smartest thing I’d ever done.

  “I see,” Mr. Thompson said.

  And I thought that, somehow, he may have figured it out. Who spent the night before Christmas filing papers for a boss who didn’t even like them? I did, apparently. Who stuck around at the end of a temp job because they didn’t want it to be over? Me again.

  Stupid girl.

  I’d always believed I’d prove my dad wrong, but I never had, and days like this, I thought I never would.

  Mr. Thompson pulled out his phone. Light from the screen filled the elevator with a blue glow, making it feel more intimate, more wrong. And more clear, as the faint light lit his face. “Damn,” he muttered. “Signal is shit in here. Try yours?”

  “I—I don’t have a cellphone.”

  He glanced at me, and I felt his surprise overcome his frustration. “Why not?”

  A blush heated my face. Thank goodness it was too dark for him to see the proof of my embarrassment. At least I hoped so. I certainly couldn’t see the tan color of his skin or dark mahogany of his hair. He was all angles and shadows to me now, more a dream than reality, which made it easier somehow to tell the truth. “I can’t afford one.”

  I expected him to look away. I wanted him to look away, to give me some relief, but instead his gaze sharpened even further. And I knew he was taking note of my clothes that didn’t quite fit or the winter jacket with holes in it. “How long have you been working temp jobs?”

  Oh God, was he going to find out now? At the very end? It wouldn’t matter if he fired me, but if he found out I’d lied and told the authorities, I could be put back in jail.

  “This is my first job out of school,” I said vaguely, desperately
, hoping it would be enough.

  “Have you applied for permanent positions?”

  “Um. Yeah.” I’d applied to a hundred positions, both permanent and not. Each time disclosing my criminal record. And then, when I’d gotten hungry enough and scared enough, I’d skipped the disclosure. And the HR person for Thompson Industries called me the next day. “Haven’t found one yet.”

  “Why not?” The question was blunt. And painful.

  “There are a lot of people looking for jobs. And not that many jobs. And, well, I’m not the brightest bulb. I know that too.”

  He made a dismissive sound. “That again.”

  “It’s the truth,” I said. Liar. “But I think I can do a good job. If I can find someone to take a chance on me.”

  Like you. But I didn’t say that. All I was hoping for now was that he wouldn’t ask any more questions. If I could make it out of this elevator, out of his sight, he’d forget all about the mousy temp assistant he’d had. And I’d be safe.

  “I’m sure I’ll find something soon,” I said hastily, attempting a smile.

  “Jesus,” he muttered. Then without warning, he banged on the elevator doors. Bang bang bang. I jumped back, startled, my heart jumping into my throat.

  The silence that followed rang in my ears. No footsteps came running. No shouts asked if we were okay.

  No one was there.

  I bit my lip. “Mr. Thompson?”

  “I think, considering all that’s happened, you can call me Gage,” he said wryly.

  My eyes lowered in the dark. “How long do you think it’ll be?”

  “Not long.” A longer pause this time. “I don’t know. There’s always someone from security on standby even when the building is mostly empty. But they might be patrolling the grounds. They might be unable to get here due to the storm. For all I know, they could be in one of the elevator cars, stuck just like us.”

  “Oh.”

  With a muttered curse, he started pacing. Since the elevator car was small and his stride was long, he could only go one-and-a-half steps before turning. And with each turn, his movements got a little more jerky, his stride a little more clipped. He practically vibrated with tension; it filled the air, making me jittery and hot.

  “Don’t like small spaces?” I asked.

  He turned to face me. “What?”

  “Small spaces. They make you stressed? That’s understandable.”

  He laughed shortly. “No, the space isn’t the problem.”

  Was the problem… me? It seemed crazy that a girl like me could impact him this much, but clearly he was upset. Hurt arced through me. He’d already told me he didn’t like me, didn’t like the way I made him feel, but it still hurt to be reminded of it. “I’m sorry,” I said, hating how my voice shook. “I’m sure they’ll get us out soon.”

  He swore. “Don’t look at me like that.”

  “You can’t see me.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Angel. I can see you in the dark. I can see you with my eyes closed. I see you in my dreams. I can’t seem to stop seeing you.”

  The air rushed out of me. “Mr. Thompson?”

  “Don’t Mr. Thompson me. You know exactly what effect you have on me with those goddamn ugly skirts and those goddamn ugly heels. And that smile. So fucking innocent. Do you practice that?”

  Tears stung my eyes. “Why do you talk like that to me?”

  I waited for a sharp retort, something angry and cutting, but it never came. “Because I’m an asshole,” he said shortly. “Because I don’t know how to deal with you. With this.”

  Pain laced his words, and my anger melted away. “You don’t have to deal with me.”

  I won’t be here tomorrow. Won’t see you again. Am I the only one sad about that?

  “I want you,” he said, his voice raw and rough like an open nerve. “I need you. But I can’t touch you.”

  Because of what he’d told me? It seemed impossible that it would hold him back if he really wanted something, wanted someone, and yet he seemed so torn. Like a wolf with his paw caught in a trap—except the trap wasn’t a physical thing made of metal. The trap was his own past, his own mind. His own fears. My heart broke for the mother who’d seen her rape every time she’d looked at her child. It broke even more for the child who’d seen that shame in her eyes and understood he was the cause of it.

  I can’t touch you.

  If he couldn’t touch me, then I could touch him. I could be the bridge between us, my hand on his arm, his skin hot under my palm. His whole body stilled at the contact. I felt his muscles flex under my hand as a shiver ran through him.

  “Don’t do that.” Almost a growl.

  “Why not? You won’t hurt me.” To prove my point, I squeezed gently.

  For a moment, his whole body leaned toward me. I was sure he would kiss me, but then he yanked himself away. “God, Angel. Do you want to be raped? Is that what this is about? Some sick game of chicken? Because I will do it. I’ll hurt you, and I won’t even feel sorry for it.”

  His words sickened me—not because I believed them, but because he did. He really believed he was capable of hurting me. I knew otherwise. And as for feeling sorry… he was already suffering deep, searing regret for things he hadn’t even done, for crimes his father had committed.

  “I’m not afraid of you,” I whispered.

  “Then you’re an even bigger fool than you thought.”

  I winced. He’d said it to hurt me, and it had worked. For a moment, I turned away, facing the corner as I blinked back tears. But I knew how badly he wanted me, and that was enough to lend me courage. The courage to help him. Nothing I said would convince him. So I would have to show him instead.

  With trembling fingers, I began unbuttoning my dress shirt, just like he’d done two weeks ago.

  Despite the darkness, he noticed immediately. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Making a point,” I said, repeating what he’d told me in the office that day with Noah Waters. I pulled my shirt from the waistband and faced him.

  His breath caught. “Stop that right now.”

  I dropped the shirt on the floor and toed off my shoes. He backed up—but there was nowhere for him to go. His back hit the elevator wall, and he leaned back, pressing his head against the wall and staring at me through slitted eyes. His jaw must have been clamped shut the way the words came out. “I. Said. Stop.”

  “I heard you. But I’m not going to listen.” I gave him an apologetic smile. “I stopped working at noon. It’s Christmas Eve, you know.”

  “Not funny.”

  I reached behind me and unclasped my bra. I held it to my breasts as the straps fell down around my arms. “This isn’t a joke.”

  “It’s not going to be a joke when you’re lying there, broken, hurt, because you didn’t fucking take me seriously.”

  I didn’t want my fingers to tremble as they worked at my skirt and my stockings, but I couldn’t help it. Not with his threat hanging in the air.

  “Angel,” he said sharply.

  I stilled, looking down. “What is it you like to do to girls?”

  “Not girls, Angel. What I did before—that was scratching a fucking itch. What I want to do to you… is take you. Without a care for whether you like it or want it. Without making sure you can even move after that.” He laughed shortly. “No, that’s not true. The truth is I don’t want you to be able to move. I want you fucking shattered underneath me. Understand?”

  Oh, I understood. I understood that he thought he would hurt me, just like his father had hurt his mother. That he saw those impulses inside himself, the ones that wanted to pin me down and fuck me, and saw the pain and shame and hatred from his own conception. I understood that he saw the past repeating itself, and he cared enough about me to warn me away.

  I couldn’t bear the thought of him in pain, believing the worst of himself. Because he wasn’t his father. He wasn’t a rapist. And he wouldn’t harm me, not really. I believed th
at—and I was about to stake my life on it.

  I released my hold on the bra and let it fall to the ground.

  He turned his head away as if the sight of my bare breasts—even in the shadows—was painful. Then he slid to the ground. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he muttered hoarsely.

  “You won’t,” I promised him.

  But he didn’t believe me. Of course he didn’t believe me; that was why I needed to prove it.

  I sank to my knees in front of him. He started to reach for me… and then pulled his hands back. He reached up and grabbed the shiny metal bar that wrapped around the elevator walls. “I’m not going to touch you. You may be fucking suicidal, but I’m not going to help you do this.”

  A rough edge of fear marked his voice, and it hurt me to hear. But it also strengthened my resolve.

  I put my hands on the bar beside his and leaned forward, my breasts right in front of his face.

  “Oh God,” he muttered and leaned forward, rubbing his face over my breasts, feeling them with his cheeks, his nose, his eyelids. Running the five o’clock shadow of his jaw over my tender flesh, abrading me. “So fucking beautiful.”

  He was lost in me, learning the shape of my breasts, breathing me in. And I was lost in him, gripping the bar tight through the pain, moaning softly when he caught one nipple in his mouth. He sucked, making it wet, just like he’d promised that first day, and my legs clenched together in response.

  “Feels so good,” I whispered. “Want more.”

  I knew my words were slurring as if I were drugged, and I was, high on the pleasure coursing through me, but he needed to know I was okay. It must have worked, because he did just what I asked. He licked and sucked and bit his way to my other nipple and sucked me there until I cried out.

  He never released his grip on the bar.

  I felt a little mean for teasing him this way, even though I hadn’t meant it as a tease. I pulled back, and he groaned, sounding almost desperate. Then the sound changed, grew more urgent as I began unbuttoning his dress shirt.

  “Wait,” he gasped. “It’s enough. Just let me… let me touch you again. Let me use you.”