Page 15 of Wicked Christmas Eve

8

The unexpected demand threw me for a loop. For a second, my common sense kicked in, urging me to run. Not that I listened. For one night, my inner voice could kiss my ass.

Besides, where had she been when I’d decided that letting my boss bend me over his desk was a great idea?

Instead of running or backing away, I slid from the stool and straightened. I tuned out the fact that the bartender likely stood behind me, watching, and that there were a few other people wandering the room. The one thing I had going for me was the fact that I didn’t know these people, as strange as that sounded. Whatever happened tonight, I wouldn’t likely see any of them again.

My stomach clenched as I thought how that included Cyrus.

It would do no good to dwell on the past or the future I reminded myself as I steeled myself for what came next.

I proceeded to unfasten the waistband and lowered the zipper. With little fanfare, I slid the skirt down my legs and stepped out. Cool air brushed across my naked backside and between the V of my thighs. Of all the nights I’d decided to take off the hated thong…

I looked up at Cyrus to see his eyes had widened slightly and darkened. That look alone made my belly swoop and gave me the confidence I needed to stand up straighter.

“Very pretty," he said. "And wet, I’ll bet.”

My stomach fluttered again. Whatever I remembered of Cyrus from childhood paled in comparison to the man now standing in front of me. He seemed to do and say what he wanted, with little regard for what might be politically correct, and that I realized was an incredible turn on.

I nodded briefly, a bit shocked by my easy reactions. To my surprise, the bartender leaned forward into my view and rested his head on his hands—obviously watching the show.

“Take off the rest.”

The command left no room for debate or discussion. I’d understood what I was getting into and I could either comply or go home. In fact, there was some faint rational side of me demanding I get the hell out of there.

I winced. What home would I flee to again? My parents’ house? Where I would face the inquisition about the failed interview? I barely held back the shudder that caused before I locked those thoughts down and fully returned my attention to the situation at hand.

I didn’t have to leave. Here, I was free to be whatever and whoever I wanted to be. I had the opportunity to live out one of my dirtiest fantasies with the only man I’d ever pictured it possible.

Free.

There it was again. Reminding me. This was my choice and I wasn’t going anywhere.

Both men watched as I unbuttoned the top half of my green ensemble and unfastened the bra underneath before dropping them onto the stool I’d vacated. I trembled in front of them, which had little to do with the temperature in the room and everything to do with what I’d just done.

I’d done a lot of crazy things in my time, but this might be the one to top them all. I bent to remove my high heeled shoes.

A hard hand curved around my neck and pulled me back upright. “Leave the shoes. You’re fucking mine now.”

The rough voice and pressure of his touch sent a shiver racing down my spine. Not to mention a wisp of fear mixed with a flash of arousal that nearly took my breath away. He stepped closer and smoothed his hand down my side. Little prickles of sensation followed the path and every muscle inside me shook as he made his way around my hip to the aching space between my legs.

“Pretty pale skin like this would look especially good with marks from a whip.” He pressed his lips to the skin just below my ear. “Maybe we’ll pink it up first with just my hand. Sound good?”

My legs wobbled as the idea of either one of those scenarios made my mind go momentarily numb. I didn’t get to answer his question before the sharp sting of his palm connecting with my ass cut me off.

Shock quickly gave way to the slow burn of pleasure across my skin, catching my breath.

“Still okay?” he asked.

“Yes.” How I managed to answer without my voice shaking I had no idea.

“Good.” Cyrus smiled and squeezed my tingling cheek. “Your ass was made for my hand.”

Several strikes later my back was arched, my ass burned and my body was begging for more. Unfortunately (although I can’t believe I was thinking that), he traced the curve of my bottom and slipped his finger between my legs, pushing his way to my entrance, making me gasp.

From the corner of my eye, I caught the enrapt expression on the bartender’s face moments before Cyrus pushed two fingers inside.

The idea of how inappropriate that moment might be dissipated as quickly as it began. All I could do was feel the delicious stretch already nudging me towards the edge.

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