Their Christmas Miracle: A collection of spicy xxx-mas tales

by Fox, Logan

  Shit, had she forgotten about her legs? Had they fallen closed? Did this count as disobeying him—

  He thrust into her, shattering thought.

  Pearl cried out, almost losing her grip on the table. She tried to dampen the sound by clamping shut her mouth. Her hands scrabbled for purchase, her back arching in an almost instinctual response to Mr. Armani’s sudden, violent penetration. She shuddered, mind slipping into a brief, blissful oblivion.

  A slap to her ass brought her round with bleary-eyed confusion.

  “Don’t you dare close that mouth of yours, sweetheart. I want to hear how hard I’m fucking you.”

  What? She blinked across at him, wondering when the hell he’d taken off his shirt. Had she passed out? Fainted? Briefly visited another dimension in that soul-shattering instant he’d pounded into her?

  His jaw clenched; the only warning she had. He drew out of her, an inch, maybe more. Then he burrowed his way back in, his hips slamming into the barely-adequate padding of her ass. Wrenching another cry from her, one she didn’t suppress. One she might even have embellished a little. It was impossible to tell with all the blood thumping through her veins.

  “Good girl,” he murmured, his attention now fixed solely on his task.

  Another thrust, harder. Pearl gasped, her spine curving. Mr. Armani slid his arm around her raised knees, hugging her legs against his chest. His other hand found a breast. He trapped her nipple between his fingertips, tweaking the already-pursed bud and drawing another gasp from her.

  “Are you holding tight, sweetheart?”

  “Yes, Sir.” The words weren’t hers, obviously. She’d never just blindly—

  Another wordless yell filled the dining room.

  This was no fucking wave: this was a goddamn tsunami.

  It was only through the combined efforts of her grasp on the table and Mr. Armani’s grip on her legs that kept her in position as he hammered into her with hard, deliberate thrusts.

  Somewhere in the background, piano chords described a torturous journey into the earth’s molten core. The hero battled oceanic monsters with tentacles and eyes on stalks in a midnight chasm where unearthly, glowing fibers streaking the darkness.

  Well, in her head they did, anyway.

  She could hear herself; moaning, gasping, crying out. She could hear Mr. Armani: groaning, grunting, growling. Her body didn’t belong to her anymore. He owned it now, gripping the title deed between his teeth as he drove her toward a cliff’s edge where certain death waited. His hand abandoned her breast — she’d forgotten about it — and his thumb brushed over her clit.

  Her back arched. Her eyes slid closed.

  She tightened her muscles, trying to get her sex away from his fingers, that feeling too intense to accept.

  But he owned her. She would stay where she was until he was done with her.

  She began to pant, becoming lightheaded from the rush of oxygen spiking into her brain. Would she pass out? Hyperventilate and then faint, laying here like a dead thing while Mr. Armani used her body for his own selfish pleasure and then roused her with another slap to her ass?

  His thumb strummed her clit, driving thoughts of fainting from her mind.

  Piano keys pounded from the sound system: had he turned up the volume? When? Maybe around the time he’d taken his shirt off, baring that weird, skull and roses tattoo slathered over his chest.

  She shuddered, certain death racing closer at warp speed, faster than light, screaming as it shredded the sound barrier to reach her.

  Pearl came before Mr. Armani did. Her climax slammed through her, leaving her breathless and writhing beneath the man. He drove into her with renewed ferocity, grabbing a handful of her hair and jerking her head up.

  His mouth crushed hers. She could taste herself on his tongue and his lips as he devoured her, leaving her yearning for breath and the return of her mouth; something she’d erroneously assumed private property before he’d claimed it.

  When he came, seconds later, his kiss abated with a finality that made her head spin. He held his lips against hers, a slow exhale filling her mouth with warm, sweet air.

  He pounded into her a last time, jarring her, his fingers pressing deep pools into her thigh. Holding her still, his breath still mingling with hers, Mr. Armani’s luminous eyes fluttered closed. His muscles relaxed, and for just an instant he leaned into her, his weight sudden and overwhelming. But before her quaking body could collapse under him, the man straightened. Eyes flaring open, he gave her a last, fierce kiss, his teeth catching her bottom lip before he drew out of her.

  Their friction had left her hot and aching inside. Pearl’s legs slid down, her muscles too unsteady to keep them up without the man’s arms slung around them. His hand closed over her sex, cool compared with her scorched flesh, and then that, too, was gone.

  He tugged up the shoulders of her dress, his breathing ragged and forceful.

  Pearl hugged herself, her own breath too fast, too unsteady. She closed her eyes, hearing the snap of rubber, the rasp of his zipper. Flutters of pleasure, stranded after her explosive orgasm, made her shiver. A hand ran over her hair. Her eyes flickered open.

  Mr. Armani’s lips twitched into a fleeting smile as he stepped away and beckoned her to follow him with his free hand.

  “On your feet, Pearl. Time to talk shop.”

  * * *

  Mr. Armani led her around the staircase and into a cozy entertainment room with a large flat-screen television fixed to the wall. Glass-fronted display shelves lined the walls, the room’s only couch facing another slanted window that looked out over Fifth Avenue.

  Pearl sank down with a sigh of relief. Her legs were unsteady, her insides still throbbing.

  God, she wanted to rip the man’s clothes off again. Yes, she felt as satiated as a cat with a tummy full of cream, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t still devour several mice, a squirrel, and make a valiant attempt at a raccoon.

  But that wasn’t going to happen.

  Whatever had possessed Mr. Armani in the dining room had evaporated; that sex god had been replaced with the officious businessman of before.

  There was a manila folder on the coffee table — a loose sheet filled with text and a fountain pen on top of it.

  Pearl stared at the papers as that arthropod of earlier began its long journey up her spine again.

  “And that?” she asked, her voice husky.

  “A non-disclosure agreement.”

  “And under it?”

  “A contract.”

  She switched her gaze from the paper to Mr. Armani. He stared out the window for a second and then slumped down beside her. His arm snaked over the back of the couch, almost touching her shoulder, and he gestured with a loose-wristed hand toward the folder.

  “Sign the NDA. Then you can read the contract.”

  She stared at him for a moment. Those green eyes were bright with lingering residues of lust, his face still flushed. And yet, what had happened mere minutes ago could have happened to someone else; someone on a different continent, a different planet.

  Pearl slid the loose paper out from under the fountain pen and scanned it. It seemed legit. Nothing nefarious here, right? Her eyes stalled on her name; Pearl Buchanan.

  “How did you—”

  “Sign it or leave.”

  Her cheeks heated, and she flashed him a glare he didn’t seem to notice.

  “What, I can’t tell anyone I came here and had sex with you? Lucky for you, I still don’t know your fucking name, so I doubt anyone—”

  “Owen Morrison.”

  Pearl took a deep breath, her voice faltering. “—would believe me.”

  Her hand paused over the single sheet of paper. She scrawled her signature on it, dated it, and flapped it at him until he took it from her.

  “There. Happy?”

  He twisted his head in concession and flicked a finger at the contract.

  “Read it.”

  Pearl took up the folde
r. Her fingers traced the letters embossed on the bottom right corner.

  F. P.

  Not his initials. Maybe the company he worked for? Or his employer. It was almost impossible to believe that someone who lived in an apartment like this had a boss, but hell, her world view was currently busy having its head dunked in a toilet bowl, so what did she know?

  “What does this stand for?”

  “Read it.” She shot him a withering stare to which his only reaction was a small huff of amusement.

  Pearl read the contract. Tried to read the contract. The entire thing consisted of legal gobbledygook. She made a show of scanning her eyes down each page, frowning at more dense sections of text, and pausing for a few seconds on the last page; the only piece of legible English phrase in the document was her name. There were several ‘addendum's’ attached to the end, but she didn’t even bother trying to read those.

  She snapped it closed and lifted her eyebrows at him. “I have no idea what this means.”

  “I didn’t expect you to.” Mr. Armani exhaled slowly. “Do you have a lawyer?”

  She cocked her head at him. “I pole dance for a living. No, I don’t have a lawyer.”

  “Then you should find one.”

  “Mmm… I’m good.” Pearl looked away from him, pursing her lips. “I’ve already made plans for tomorrow.”

  “Would you like the gist of it?”

  She rolled her eyes and turned back to him. “Obviously.”

  Owen’s smile lifted. “A hundred-thousand dollars.”

  “Is… how much this pillow costs?” Pearl asked, tugging at the corner of a black suede throw pillow nestled between them.

  Owen huffed through his nose. “Is how much you will be paid.”

  “For tonight?” Blood drained from Pearl’s face and collected in a congealed mass in the pit of her belly.

  He laughed. “For a month of your time. Your… services.”

  Pearl’s stomach twisted. So here it was, out in the open. And dear God, what an ugly, deformed thing it was. She sat back, whatever fire had been brimming inside her instantly extinguished by his words.

  For a moment, just a moment, she’d thought Mr. Arm—Owen had had a thing for her. That he liked her. That he wanted her to be his girlfriend. Something soft and fluffy like that. It had felt soft and fluffy when he’d been sucking her clit.

  No… it hadn’t.

  It had been hot and dirty, not soft and fluffy.

  Pearl shrugged into the sofa, running her gaze over the array of ornaments displayed on the walls: vases and books and figurines.

  “Sex, right? Every day? Or… every night?” She pointed at the folder. “Does it say stuff like how often and what kinds and all that shit?”

  “You’ve read it.”

  “I’ve scanned it. It’s in lawyer speak.”

  “Which is why I suggest you find one.”

  Pearl took a deep breath, turning to him.

  “I thought you didn’t pay for sex, now you want to give me a hundred thousand dollars to sleep with you for a month?”

  “Not with me, sweetheart.”

  Her eyes widened. “Excuse me?”

  Owen’s eyes sparkled. He’d brought his iced coffee with him, and he tugged at his straw as he studied her over the rim of the frosted glass. She opened her mouth to repeat her question, louder perhaps, but his flash of a smile cut her off before she began.

  “Have you heard of the Fox Pit?”

  Pearl’s mouth slowly closed. Her eyes flashed to the document, to the initials embossed on its corner.

  Mystery solved.

  “Should I have?” she asked in a strangled voice.

  “We try and maintain a low profile, so hopefully not.”

  “We, who?”

  “It’s a gentlemen’s club.”

  “That’s… disgusting.”

  “Sex?”

  “A sex club. They’re disgusting.”

  Owen shrugged. “We provide exclusive membership for gentlemen with an exceptionally high net-worth. Membership includes the use of our facilities in Vermont and the services of our foxes.”

  “You want to hire me out to a bunch of billionaires?”

  Another sip of iced coffee momentarily halted the interrogation. Those green eyes fixed on her, unreadable in their intensity.

  “Our members visit the Fox Pit where you and the other girls stay. They can—”

  “Wait.” Pearl sat forward with her hand raised. “There are girls that have agreed to this?” She stabbed the folder, sending the pen rolling onto the coffee table.

  Owen caught it before it fell to the floor.

  “Yes. Nine, in fact.” He set the pen back on the folder. “We are looking for an even ten.”

  Pearl gaped at him.

  She eventually closed her mouth, but this didn’t help with the production of words. None that made sense, anyway.

  “You… how… why would…”

  Owen sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Take the contract, Pearl. Have someone read over it. I’ll need your response by midday tomorrow.”

  He rose, paused, and stared down at her.

  Pearl found her feet with effort but did manage to glare back at him. “I wouldn’t count on it,” she said.

  Owen’s only response was a small, knowing smile.

  Pearl didn’t know any lawyers, but she did know a guy who’d tried — and failed — his bar exam a few times. Next best thing, right? Plus, she was pretty sure he was into her… which meant she might not even have to pay him to look over the papers Owen had given her.

  She lay like a corpse on her bed, arms folded over her chest, eyes staring up at the flaking, damp-stained ceiling above her. Her fingers idly traced the welt on her leg where Owen had left his mark on her.

  The Fox Pit

  What a joke.

  She snorted, but couldn’t close her eyes. Her mind kept replaying snapshots of last night back to her. Some were pretty. Some weren’t.

  Sex. But not with him. A whole bunch of rich men, but not him. So why was he the one sent to recruit?

  Because he was in charge of acquisitions. Acquiring things. Acquiring women for his Fox Pit. Pearl snorted again. She had to go to the club tonight and dance her ass off. She should be sleeping, not lying here wondering what went on in a place called the Fox Pit where women were paid three-thousand dollars a day. Well, roughly three-thousand dollars.

  Holy fuck. Three-thousand dollars.

  Her gaze roved across the ceiling, following the lines of her apartment. It was a short, depressing journey. She fumbled for her phone, scrolled through her address book, and stared at the name. What if Greg had changed his number? When had she last spoken to him? She checked the time: it was half-past six in the morning. Way too early.

  She set her phone back on the nightstand and continued her investigation of the ceiling.

  One hundred thousand dollars.

  Thirty days.

  Shit.

  Click to continue reading Dark Rapture...

  Also by Logan Fox

  Mister Sugar

  Standalone Dark Romantic Suspense

  He’s a wealthy widower. She’s an attractive opportunist. Is their taboo relationship destined for tragedy?

  Unlock Mister Sugar’s secrets

  TEASER

  Drew’s eyes weren’t under his control anymore. They slid down the girl’s neck, over the hollow in her throat, and tried to stare at both her breasts at once.

  “Don’t do that,” he said in a hoarse voice.

  “I remember you, Mr. Sugar. You’ve hardly changed at all.”

  He forced his eyes up. Shook his head.

  “When I saw you again, after so long?” Her eyelashes fluttered almost imperceptibly. “I got this ache.” She ran her fingertips over the two halves of her jumper, let them meet over her bare belly. “Right… here.” Both hands slid between her legs.

  “You don’t get it. This—” he dashed his fingers b
etween them “—isn’t happening. Not in a million years. You can…” He gestured vaguely toward her bared breasts — holy shit, her nipples were the most glorious shade of pink he’d ever seen — and took a deep breath. “This isn’t happening.”

  “We’re both adults, Mr. Sugar.” She was doing something to her voice; husky, it lingered on his name in a way that made his dick stir behind his jeans. “There’s nothing wrong with me wanting you. Or you wanting me.”

  “There is.” He cleared his throat, tried for more emphasis. “There sure as hell is.”

  Angel slid her feet under her and pushed forward, coming up on all fours. Putting her face less than a foot away from his, her breasts within easy groping reach. “You don’t make a very compelling argument.”

  He pressed back, but the armrest was against his spine, holding him in place.

  “I’m serious, Angel,” he said. “I can’t—”

  “Nothing serious about this.”

  “I can’t—”

  “Fuck me?” She ran a slow, red tongue over her lips until they glistened. “Give yourself a little credit.” Her eyes dashed down to where his dick strained against his jeans. “You’re perfectly capable.”

  He put his hand out, trying to ward off her tantalizingly slow approach. But instead of pushing her away, his fingers slid around her throat. Those sapphire eyes flashed wide. Drew forced a hard swallow, trying to urge his fingers open so he could release her.

  Except…

  He didn’t want to. As fucked-up crazy as it was, he didn’t want her to leave. Didn’t want her to zip up that ridiculously pink hoodie of hers and cover those immaculately shaped breasts.

  He used that grip on her throat to draw her close. Until their lips almost touched. She didn’t struggle, didn’t squirm; in fact, she hardly moved at all. As if she held her breath in anticipation.

  He lifted his other hand, touching the tip of his thumb against her bottom lip. She made the smallest sound at that touch, dipped her chin, and caught his thumb between her lips. Held him for a second. Then slowly sucked him inside her warm, wet mouth.