My Favorite Holidate: A Standalone Holiday Romance

Fable

As the music pulses, he drops the snowman ornament onto the desk, then covers my mouth with his with zero hesitation. This isn’t a three-second practice run. This is not a mistletoe moment. This is a stolen office kiss. I clutch the fabric of his expensive shirt, clinging for dear life as his lips crush mine. I back up against the edge of the wood, my ass barely above the lights I strung last week.

It’s a hard, deep kiss from my billionaire boss. I grip his shirt harder, tugging him closer. My blood rushes to the beat of the sultry song.

It’s a full-body kiss, and I can’t get close enough to him. I yank him nearer, and he grunts—a carnal noise against my mouth. A low, dirty groan. His right hand grasps one hip, then his left hand comes down on the other. He’s bending over me, my back bowing on his desk.

Wicked images flash before my eyes.

Me scooting up on the mahogany then lying back, tugging him on top of me.

Him hiking up my leg.

Him grinding against me.

“Oh god,” I gasp into his mouth.

I didn’t plan to say that out loud.

He breaks the kiss, eyes wild, mouth lush, and—I steal a furtive glance down—cock hard. It’s tenting his tailored suit pants. Wilder Blaine is outrageously aroused by me.

This is like waking up to learn I now speak French. I have a whole new way of understanding the world—a world I want to take a delicious bite of. I wind my fingers tighter around the collar. “I’m ruining your shirt.”

I say it with zero guilt.

“Don’t care,” he mutters with even less concern then scoops me up, lifting me onto the desk, making sure I don’t knock the lights around it as he sets my ass on the wood.

I tremble, then glance around the office. It’s huge, with windows overlooking the field. With a massive desk for the owner. With me on that desk. Have I had boss fantasies before? I don’t think so but right now, all I want is to be taken in the morning by this powerful man.

I lean back farther, making my intentions clear. The Christmas music is my wingwoman, the song turning sexier.

“Fable,” he says as a warning.

“Yes, Wilder?”

His eyes squeeze shut. There’s that battle again. But only I can assuage it.

“Practice,” I urge. “Practice with me.”

He opens his eyes and shakes his head, but it’s not a no. It’s resignation to this lust. “You,” he mutters.

That’s all. Just you.

In one fell swoop, he pushes a folder of papers off to the side. My skin tingles from the thrill of watching them fly.

He roams a hand along the outside of my thigh. I’ve never been more grateful to be wearing a skirt. His strong palm travels down my leg, and I whimper. I actually whimper. It just feels so good. His touch is nothing like the caresses I’ve received from other men I’ve dated. Wilder is strong, determined, and focused completely on me. When he reaches the hem of my skirt, he plays with it then murmurs, “What am I going to do with you?”

Touch me.

But I’m afraid to say that out loud. Afraid to voice how potent this lust has become. I’m not sure I need to speak though. I use my body instead, letting go of his shirt collar and grabbing his tie. Then I find words.

“Kiss me again,” I say as I tug his mouth back to mine. His stubble whisks across my face, and I’m sure I’ll have whisker burn when I leave.

He kisses me deeply but with tenderness too. With a sigh. And a groan. With one hand on my skirt. His mouth coasts down my jaw, then to my throat, and he’s kissing the hollow of it. Has anyone ever kissed me there, like this? Like I’m precious and sexy all at once? No. No one has. I feel like I will die from desire. I’m clutching his tie, and he’s kissing my throat, and his hand…

I gasp.

His hand is inching up and under my skirt.

Yes, yes, yes.

The word beats in my veins. It thrums in my body. I need this so badly. And I don’t want to take a chance he might stop. So I let go of the tie, reach for his wandering hand, then guide him up higher and higher still. A clear all systems go.

“Fuck,” he mutters in a strangled gasp.

I meet his gaze. “Fuck yes,” I say, desperately.

He smiles, like he can’t believe his luck.

Then, his smile burns off as I let go of his hand, and he takes over. He slides his fingers up the inside of my thigh, closer, closer, so close.

I arch my back, curling my hand around his neck, my breath coming fast. He hasn’t even touched my wet panties yet, and I’m aching for him. He inches higher, teasing with those talented fingers that skim across my flesh. Then, with his whole hand, he cups me where I absolutely ache for him. My mouth falls open. “Ohhh,” I moan.

I feel him smile wickedly against my face. “So fucking perfect,” he praises. “I want to make you feel so fucking good.”

“News flash: you kind of already are,” I gasp, lifting my hips, seeking more.

“I know,” he says, and that’s borderline cocky, yet it makes me wetter. “What I mean is…I desperately need to make you come. Right here. On my desk. Right now. Can I?”

My mouth falls open. My breath staggers out. I blink. “Is that even a question?”

Another wicked smile. Then a taunt. “I don’t know, Fable. Is it a question?”

“Yes. The answer is yes. Whatever you’re asking. Yes.”

He drops his mouth to my throat again, then skims his fingers under the damp panel of my panties. He pushes it aside then glides his fingers along my wet pussy.

I shudder in pleasure.

He groans like an animal.

This is a line. And we’re not just crossing it. We’re obliterating it on a Monday morning on his desk as his fingers trace a dizzying circle against my clit, then move down my center, where I’m soaked for him.

While bent over me, he strokes my slick heat, then drops his mouth to mine. He kisses me ferociously as he plays with me, rubbing faster, following my cues, swallowing my needy sighs as the music covers up for us too. Pleasure winds tighter in me, curling in my belly as he plays with my clit, then pinches it. I gasp into his mouth. Loud, maybe too loud. He breaks the kiss. “Quiet, little elf, while I make you come.”

I nod, eager to try, eager to please.

I watch his face. I don’t know who’s enjoying this more—him or me. His eyes are dark, etched with wicked determination as he brushes dizzying circles along my clit expertly, confidently. This is a man who isn’t worried whether I’ll come. This is a man who intends to give me a screaming orgasm.

The realization tips me over. I shudder everywhere. My thighs clench.

“Wilder,” I whisper a warning.

“Shh,” he says, then covers my mouth once more, kissing me as he hits me just so, just right, just perfectly till I tremble and shake as an orgasm slams mercilessly into me. I’m moaning, murmuring, panting his name, but he’s shutting up every noise with passionate, hot, deep kisses as he coaxes the orgasm out of me. But he doesn’t stop. Instead, as I’m still coming down from that high, he slides two fingers inside me.

My breath halts. “Are you…?”

“Do you want me to stop?” He eases out his fingers.

I grab his wrist, halting him, shaking my head. “Don’t say such a terrible thing.”

A grin takes over his handsome face, and he thrusts back into me, then fucks me harder with his fingers, deeper, urging me with his body to keep going.

I’ve never had multiple orgasms before.

My head falls back. I hold on to him for dear life as he crooks his fingers inside me.

My head is hazy. My body hot. My heartbeat chaotic. And soon, as he fucks me harder, my brain goes offline till I’m frantic with the need to come. “Yes,” I moan, and then an orgasm crashes into me, and he sends me over the edge again.

I collapse onto his desk, but he catches me, looping an arm around my back as he gently eases out his fingers. With me spread out on his desk, he presses the gentlest kiss to my lips, then straightens his spine, adjusts his tie, and brings his fingers to his lips.

My eyes pop wide, and I push up on my elbows and watch him lick the taste of me off his fingers. His eyes are fiery. His hair is sticking up in all directions. His lips look bruised. He’s a man who’s just fucked a woman well. And he licks every last drop of me, sighing contentedly as he finishes. “So fucking delicious.”

And the world remakes itself yet again with a fresh new realization—my boss wants to eat me.

“Excuse me,” he says, then strides across the room to a door. Must be the executive washroom. He heads in, closes the door, then turns on the faucet.

I push up, looking down at the mess of my clothes. My skirt is twisted. My panties are useless. My hair is probably a nest.

I hop off the desk, adjust my underwear, then smooth down my skirt. When he emerges, he holds the door open for me. I keep my head down as I walk toward him.

I don’t know how to look my boss-fake-boyfriend in the eye after he’s made me come twice in his office. But when I reach the door, he grabs my wrist and jerks me against him, my breasts to his chest. His eyes locked on mine.

“Don’t hide your face. You were gorgeous when you walked into my office, and you were stunning when you came,” he says, and he’s without guile, without agenda.

The compliment sounds beautiful on his lips but it’s terrifying too. I don’t know where we go from here. To bed? To my knees? To the couch? “What happens next?”

He swallows roughly. Winces, then says, “We go to the party and we should be even more…” He pauses, like the words strangle him. “Believable now.”

The subtext is clear—we can’t do that again.

“Right. That was just…” My gaze drifts to the desk.

He studies me for a beat, reading me perhaps. “A one-time thing?” he asks, like he’s testing that concept.

For my sake? Probably. Yes, he’s probably making sure of the rules of the road. Like he did last week. He’s wanting to make sure this tryst changes nothing between us.

I don’t want him to think I expect sex and a fake boyfriend. I mean, that would be an amazing gift waiting for me under the tree, but I’m not sure Santa thinks I’ve been good enough to deserve that.

“A momentary lapse of reason?” I continue, giving him an out.

It’s like a dance of denial, one we both seem to need to play for some reason.

“Yes. Just a practice…a very thorough practice,” he adds.

“And now we’re done with practicing. We got that practice out of our systems.”

He says nothing for a few seconds. His handsome face is unreadable. Then he nods. “We did.” A pause. “It doesn’t have to happen again.”

The words are almost open-ended, like maybe he’d be okay if it did. But I don’t want to read anything into this situation. It’s already veered in directions I never saw coming.

“You’re right. It doesn’t.” I head into the bathroom and straighten up, and when I exit, Wilder’s at his desk, organizing the papers. His hair is smoothed down, his tie is neat. The evidence has been erased.

When he sees me, he comes around to the desk and picks up the snowman. “Thank you again,” he says, like I’m an employee who gave him a Christmas gift.

Well, I did.

“You’re welcome,” I say, then head to the door.

“Fable,” he calls out.

I turn back, and he’s closing the distance between us. “The party. Are you able to go?”

Oh, right. The reason I’m here in his office in the first place. Except, I frown, remembering the class I was going to take with Josie, Everly, and Maeve. “Yes, but I have to cancel a class with my friends.”

“That’s the only way you can attend?” he asks with concern.

“It is,” I say, telling him about the paint-and-sip class and the coveted spot with the instructor. But I wave it off. “It’s fine. My friends will understand. The party’s important, and I roped you into this whole fake-dating thing anyway.”

His brow furrows. “One, you didn’t rope me into anything. I went willingly. Two, I don’t want you to miss the class. Especially since one of your friends worked hard to get you all in.”

But it’s not like he can move the lesson, so I simply smile and exonerate him. “We’ll take it another time.”

Later that day, a courier brings a box to my office. It’s silver and wrapped in a bright red bow. My heart skitters as I open it and peek inside. Gasping, I gingerly touch the soft material of the satin-y red dress with the swingy skirt that I suspect hits right at the knees.

It’s so Christmas cocktail-y, it’s perfect. I’m not even sure what I like better—the double orgasms or the dress. I decide I like both.

That evening, as I’m drinking champagne and trying on the dress at the stylist’s, I peer in the scalloped full-length mirror, amazed it fits perfectly.

“Someone knows your size,” Arbor coos, standing behind me.

I never told Wilder my size, and yet he knew exactly what to get me. Just like he knew how to play my body.

“He’s good at shopping,” I say, since I can’t get caught up in this gift-giving. It’s part of the fake romance. It’s the magic of make-believe—that’s all. It’s Wilder fake boyfriending like no man has fake boyfriended before.

Arbor chuckles, rolling his playful brown eyes. “Hun, if a man sent me something in my size, it wouldn’t mean he had a knack for shopping. It’d mean he had a knack for me. And your boyfriend has a very big knack for you.”

I fight off the flutters. There’s no point in denying Arbor’s assessment. A boyfriend is supposed to have a thing for his girlfriend. It’s fake though. That’s all. Today’s tryst in his office was simply a momentary lapse of reason into lust.

And we got that lust out of our systems. That’s all. “We’ll see,” I say evasively, fighting off a smile.

“Oh, yes, hun. We absolutely shall see.” After Arbor selects a pair of sparkly, silver shoes, he blows me an air kiss. “Can’t wait to be right.”

I try once again to stop grinning as he sends me on my way.

I take out my phone to text Josie, Everly, and Maeve to tell them the bad news about the class. But there’s a new text from Wilder on my phone that stops me in my tracks.

I’m fizzy all over, and I don’t think it’s from the champagne or the orgasms.

No, when he sends the next note, it’s clear that it’s definitely not from either of those.

I squeal. I fucking squeal. The man has been offering to comp me a room at his five-star hotel for more than a year. He didn’t wait for me to take him up on his offer. He just did it. And I just love the way he takes control sometimes.

Like a boss.

A hot wave of desire crashes over me.

But still, I have an idea for how to thank him. That night when I’m home I get to work on it, breaking out all my tools.

The next night as Josie, Everly, Maeve, and I arrive at a studio near Japantown, where the paint-and-sip classes are held, my friends can’t stop giving me the look.

“Stop,” I mutter to them as we reach the door.

“Stop what?” Josie asks, faux innocent.

“Stop grinning like that.”

“Like what?” Maeve chimes in.

“Like you all think you know something,” I whisper.

Maeve’s smile ripens. “Oh, I know nothing. Just that your fake date arranged not only a last-minute private paint-and-sip class with a very coveted teacher so you wouldn’t miss it, but also dinner for the four of us at a fabulous new restaurant that’s practically impossible to get into.”

“And he’s comping us a penthouse suite in his hotel,” Everly adds, making the point too.

“It’s nice. That’s all. He’s nice,” I insist.

Josie snorts. “That’s not nice, Fable. That’s above and beyond.”

So is giving me two orgasms on his desk. I roll my eyes, mostly so it masks the way my stomach flips once again. “Hush. Let’s go paint and sip.”

We do and it’s the best class I’ve ever taken.

Dinner at Gabriel’s is the most mouthwatering meal I’ve ever eaten.

And the penthouse suite is the most decadent place I’ve ever stayed. I let myself enjoy every second of this night, especially since I know they’re ending when the year ends.

Like we planned.