The Last Christmas Present: Billionaire Holiday Romance

by Ella Goode

  As soon as I lower myself I know I’ve made a big mistake—the seat cushion is soft and I sink way lower than anticipated and now it feels like my knees are up by my chin. Crap. This is what I get for overthinking everything this morning.

  Before I can move over to the chair the inner doors swing open and a man strides through. My heart leaps to my throat. This is it!

  But no, this isn’t Uncle C walking towards me, but a stranger with mint-green hair and a lighted bow tie—definitely someone who loves the holiday season. He should look ridiculous, but somehow it works. He stops in front of the sofa and holds out a hand and smiles. His eyes seem kind behind the wire-rimmed glasses. “Hi, you must be Willow. I’m Tim, Mr. Romano's assistant.”

  I should’ve expected he’d send out Tim—I know from my dad Con has had the same second-in-command for years. I grasp Tim’s hand to shake it and then realize that between my really low position, tight skirt and insanely high heels I’m going to need help getting off this sofa. “Hi Tim, it’s great meeting you. Um, would you mind helping me up?” My face is red with mortification now rather than anticipation.

  Tim blinks as he quickly grasps my predicament. With a kind expression on his face, he gently tugs me to my feet. I only spend a moment tottering before I quickly regain my balance. Thank goodness for all the ballet and gymnastics lessons I took when I was younger!

  “If you’ll follow me?” Tim gestures me to the inner door and I quickly walk through, following him down a long, wide hallway.

  He finally stops at a door near the end and I step inside, taking another deep breath to steady my nerves before curving my lips seductively. My smile falls off quickly. The office is empty. I stop, frowning, and quickly scan my surroundings again, taking in the small grouping of white leather upholstered chairs around a low table in the corner, the desk by the large window and a few doors, all currently closed. Nope, still no Uncle C. Where is he?

  Tim moves around me to the desk. “You can take off your coat and hang it on the coat rack in the corner. Why don’t you take a seat and we can get started?” He slides behind the desk and sits down in the mesh office chair. Another, similar-looking one rests next to it.

  Wait, this is Tim’s office? “I don’t understand, where is Unc—Mr. Romano? I’m supposed to be working for him.”

  Tim frowns slightly. “I’m sorry, but that isn’t true. You’re to be my assistant, Willow, not Mr. Romano’s.”

  My heart sinks and panic sets in. How am I supposed to prove how grown up I am now if I won’t even have a chance of seeing my man, much less working with him? I see all my carefully worked plans going up in flames. “There’s been a mistake. My father told me I was working directly with Mr. Romano.”

  “I’m sorry. Mr. Romano told me himself that you would be working directly with me, there’s been no mistake.” Tim gestures to the chair next to him and says, “I’m sorry for the misunderstanding. Why don’t you sit down and we can go over your job responsibilities?”

  I stand there frozen, thoughts whirling through my head. This won’t work. If I’m going to convince Con that I’m the woman for him, we need to be working side by side. How else will he be able to slide his hand underneath my skirt to check out my thigh-high stockings? How else will my perfume drive him so wild that he bends me over his desk and fucks my brains out? How else will I make that damn stubborn man fall in love with me?

  “Is something wrong?”

  I glance up at Tim, whose nice face has taken on a pinched expression. I give myself a hard, internal shake. Get your act together, woman, or you’ll be fired before you get to visit the company cafeteria. I slap on a bright smile. “No. Sorry. I was just taking in the layout of the office so I could figure out the most efficient way to get around.”

  Tim arches a nicely shaped eyebrow as if he can’t believe I just spewed that bullshit, but I’ll prove to him that I can be an ace assistant.

  I take off my coat and hang it on the coatrack and hustle over as fast as my stilettos allow and plop my ass down. “I’m ready,” I say, putting a high-beam smile on my face.

  Tim gives me a once-over before slowly dropping into the chair next to mine. “Okay, as you should already know, your position is mainly to cover me while I’m on vacation for two weeks.” He pauses and waits for me to nod my understanding. Yes, my dad had explained that this position wasn’t permanent, but that’s fine—what I’m ultimately angling for is to be part of Con’s personal life, not his professional one. “Let me show you how to registe—”

  “Tim, I need the Hawkins file,” a rough voice growls through an unseen speaker. I shiver in my seat.

  "He's a great guy," Tim reassures me as he gets to his feet, mistakenly reading my reaction as fear instead of arousal. "Sure, he sounds terse, but as long as you do your job, there won’t be any problems. Come on. I'll show you where the files are." Tim opens up a tall, heavy mahogany door to reveal rows of floor-to-ceiling cabinets. "He'll read emails on his phone, but all attachments will need to be printed out."

  This is because he doesn't wear his glasses often enough. And he won't get contacts because he thinks it’s unnatural to get that close to one's eyeball. I don’t think he realizes how seriously hot he looks in glasses—the first time I saw him in them I creamed my panties.

  "It's alphabetical in here, so you shouldn't have too much trouble finding the right file," Tim continues, stopping at a cabinet labelled H. It takes Tim only a couple of seconds to locate the folder containing the Hawkins folder.

  He flicks the cabinet drawer shut and then hurries out. Initially, I assume he’s returning to his desk, but instead heads toward one of the other doors. Bingo! That must be Uncle C's office. Tim is about to open the office door when his phone rings.

  "Would you like me to deliver it?" I offer, trying not to sound too eager even though every hair on my body is standing up in anticipation of finally being in contact with Con, my darling Uncle C.

  Tim looks uncertainly at the phone that keeps ringing and the office door. I make the decision for him by plucking the folder from his hand and knocking on Con's door.

  "Come in," is the brusque response.

  I brush a hand down my tight skirt and open the door. Uncle C is sitting at his desk. My heart pounds heavily in my chest. My thighs grow damp with excitement.

  "Here you are, Mr. Romano." Oh my God. That sounds erotic.

  Con's head shoots up at the sound of my voice. I catch a glimpse of surprise in his eyes before the door to his emotions slides shut. "Ms. Kaplan. Nice to see you. I hadn't realized you started today."

  Liar. What a big fat liar. Con is a man who knows every little thing about anything that affects his business, so he knew very well what my first day of work would be. That he's trying to pretend like he doesn't care fills me with delight. If he didn't care, he wouldn't be acting.

  "It's my very first day on the start of a new, and hopefully, lasting adventure." I place the folder in front of him and take a deep breath, pushing my breasts against the white lace bra so he can get a good view of my cleavage.

  He doesn't even look up from the file. Sighing lightly, I straighten. He bends over the paperwork. If I remember correctly, the Hawkins deal is for a parcel of real estate in southern Kansas. Dad says that no one is ever going to want to build there. The land is flatter than a pancake and drier than a desert, but Con's no fool. He's made his money by sniffing out deals that everyone else had either written off or never even heard of.

  One of the sexiest things about Con is his big brain. Other sexy things include his voice, his confidence, and his body. Right now, his white cuffs are folded back, revealing lightly furred arms, big hands, and prominent veins. His suit jacket is nowhere to be seen. The expensive Tom Ford shirt strains across Uncle C's perfect, muscular chest.

  I've only seen it bare once. The image is imprinted on my brain. I was fifteen and Dad took me to the Yuletide Black and White Ball at the Met. The Ball is one of those silent auction-type charity e
vents where each person pays fifty grand just to get in. The men wear custom suits sewn by hand in Italy and the women wear designer gowns from France. This was Dad’s first invitation. I’m not sure how he got it. He doesn’t run in that crowd. I know he wants to and that’s why he went despite the price tag.

  He was going to bring his girlfriend of the moment—I can’t remember her name now. But they fought over something and he told me I had to be his date. At first, I refused but when I heard Con was going, I couldn’t say yes to my father fast enough. Even his instructions to be “nice” to his business associates at the ball couldn’t ruin my mood. Since Dad said that he’d spent all our money on the tickets, I went around to all the consignment shops. I found the perfect dress at the fourth one. The gown was something out of a story book. I’d never felt silk so soft or tulle that whispered like feathers around my legs. The saleslady helped me pick out a pair of shoes and she threw in a gorgeous clutch for free.

  My feet didn’t touch the ground in the days leading up to the party. I hadn’t realized the silk was polyester or that little glittery handbag I carried was a knockoff until I overheard a couple of women in the ladies’ room debating whether men who brought call-girls as dates should be required to outfit them appropriately. Humiliated, I rushed out and ducked inside the first room I could find.

  I hadn't realized the room was occupied until the door slammed shut behind me. A man sat on a banquet chair, his profile in relief. Between his legs, a woman’s head popped up. The man’s head rolled slowly toward me, pinning my feet to the floor.

  Even in the dark, I could feel his dark gaze like a caress. My mouth watered. My fifteen-year-old body roared to life. The embarrassment over my cheap dress and fake designer bag was washed away by a flood of desire that coursed through me.

  Without breaking eye contact with me, Con barked to the woman, “Did I tell you to stop?”

  The woman didn’t even hesitate. She went back to work. Still, Con didn’t look away. His stare told me he wanted my mouth to be on him. It was as if the other woman wasn’t even there. It was just Con and me. His lust licked over me like a flame. I felt like I was on fire. My thighs burned. My sex throbbed. I reached down to touch myself through the dress when suddenly Con arched into the woman’s mouth, still staring at me. I knew he had come. I made a sound. A gasp, a groan, a plea of need.

  The sound jerked Con out of his trance.

  He got to his feet and swept me out of the room, holding his pants closed with one fist. "What the fuck are you doing, girl?" he whispered.

  "Looking," I gasped, because I couldn't think of a plausible lie. Wanting, actually, was the better word. I trembled underneath his touch.

  "Go back to the ballroom or to your hotel room, for Christ's sake. You shouldn’t be in here wandering around—you're not even eighteen."

  "Is that what it will take?"

  "For what?" he asked brusquely.

  I tore my eyes from his big, veined hand gripped around the front of his pants, traveled up the snowy white shirt that parted at the waist to reveal taut, ripped abs, paused at his beautiful mouth that was turned down at the corners, and then finally met his stern gaze. What I saw in there has kept me captive all these years.

  It was desire. The same thing that I felt spiraling through my body filled his eyes.

  "For you to take me."

  For an endless moment, all he could do was stare at me, his eyes dark with lust. Then a muscle twitched by his mouth and he shuttered his gaze. His voice was an angry rasp as he said, “For fuck’s sake. You’re fifteen. I can’t do this. I won’t.”

  He disappeared back into the room. I stood there until I heard his groan and then I ran. I ran and didn’t stop until I got to my room and flung myself on the bed. I wanted to hate Con for rejecting me and going back to that woman, but as I remembered his gorgeous body, that mouthwatering cock, and the expression in those incredible blue eyes, I knew I wasn’t wrong: despite everything, Con wanted me. Badly.

  And I would make sure he got what he wanted—what we both wanted. No matter what it took.

  3

  Con

  It’s only been three days since Willow started and I’m already in hell.

  I stare at the papers and refuse to look up, but the words are a blur. I can’t sleep because every time I close my eyes, I see her. Usually, she’s undressed. Sometimes, she’s sucking on a lollipop. Other times, it’s my dick in her mouth. I’m often spanking her. Every single time, I wake up with a dick as hard as steel. I’ve spent more time jerking off that my cock is sore as shit, but the stupid fuck still wants more.

  This morning I wondered if I should even go into the office, but the thought of not seeing her was worse than walking around with a hard-on.

  All my senses are fixed on the gorgeous girl leaning so close to me. Her nipples are hard and poke through her cheap white shirt, which is unbuttoned to display more than a hint of white lace hugging that delicious cleavage.

  With every breath I take, I inhale her alluring scent, but it isn’t her perfume that’s making me stiffer than a pole. The musk of her arousal is detectable beneath her light floral perfume. She is fucking turned on all day, every day, and all I can think about is pushing her onto my desk and spreading her thighs wide as I bury my face in her creamy pussy.

  Actually, that’s not quite true—I’m equally obsessed with pulling her on my lap and baring her perfect ass to both my eyes and my hand as I give her the hard spanking she so clearly deserves.

  I know in my gut both scenarios would end the same way—with her screaming in rapture and me coming hard in her. Too bad both are also completely out of the question.

  Fuck fuck fuck FUCK. Willow has had me tied up in knots for years, but there’s no way I can give her what she wants, what’s she been wanting since she was fifteen. I’m her “Uncle C,” for chrissake. She’s the very definition of “forbidden fruit”—I bet her picture is next to it in the dictionary. I’m already damned to hell for lusting after a girl half my age—the fact that my feelings started when she was way too young to know better just makes me hate myself even more.

  I still remember the hungry expression on her face as she stared at me that night three years ago at the Yuletide Ball. I felt her gaze like a physical caress then, and my cock twitches insistently at the memory. Before she stumbled into the cloakroom, I’d been fantasizing about her. Even my guilty shame at feeling like a damn perv couldn’t stop me from noticing how her body had matured seemingly overnight, gaining mouthwatering curves in all the right places. I’d always had a soft spot for the sweet little daughter of my financial advisor, but suddenly my spot wasn’t so soft anymore.

  Despite my filthy fantasies there was no way I could take what she offered and I hated myself for how I treated her then, but I couldn’t see any other way of forcing her away. What I didn’t realize was, that was just the beginning.

  For the last three years I’ve avoided Willow like the plague while Willow has done everything she could to get us together. Finally, it seems like she’s won the battle, the minx, but I’m determined to win the war and resist her even as my cock screams at me to give in.

  “Where’s Tim?” I abruptly ask, still not looking up at her. If she comes any closer to me her tit will brush against my cheek. I fight the urge to turn my face and suck that hard, pouting nipple right into my mouth.

  “Tim’s taking a phone call,” she murmurs into my ear, her breath ruffling my hair. My fingers tighten on the papers I’m holding until they’re in danger of crumpling.

  “Tell him to come here please when he’s off the phone—I need to go over the details of the Devonshire offer with him.”

  She pauses for a moment before she whispers, “Yes, sir,” against my ear and my cock throbs hard at a vision of her saying it as I order her to suck my cock. Yes, sir, Uncle C. I’ve been a very bad girl, Uncle C. Please stuff me with your cock, Uncle C…

  If that wasn’t bad enough, I imagine her calling me someth
ing more profane than Uncle C, screaming it until her voice is gone.

  Against my will my eyes follow her as she walks to the door, her pert ass swaying seductively in a tight pencil skirt, her legs looking a mile long in those ridiculously high heels.

  I am so fucked.

  Tim comes in with a concerned expression on his face. He’s worked for me so long that he knows instantly when I’m in a bad mood.

  “Should I cancel your afternoon meetings?” he asks quietly while I rifle through the purchase papers, not registering the text. The image of the tight white skirt and the unbuttoned shirt and the sun-kissed skin is all my brain seems to be able to focus on.

  Yes. Cancel all the meetings. Send Willow in here. Go home so you don’t hear her screams while I fuck her until my dick breaks off.

  “No,” I reply. I slap the file shut. “Frank is trying to keep the mineral rights. Make up an offer sheet that sets out that if I’m buying the land, I’m buying all the rights—mineral, water, everything.” I jot a note and hand him the file. “Hold my calls for ”—I flip my wrist around to see the time—“fifteen minutes.” It’s probably only going to take ten.

  “Do you have any specific instructions for Ms. Kaplan?”

  I close my eyes. Why, yes, Tim, I do. Specifically, I’d like Ms. Kaplan to come into my office, take off her skirt and shirt and sit in one of the white leather chairs in front of my desk. I’d like her insert a butterfly vibrator into her white lace panties and hold on to her orgasm until I tell her to come. And I won’t let her come for at least an hour, which is only a fraction of the punishment the girl deserves for finagling her way into my office and then flaunting her juicy tits in my face.

  I wipe a hand across my mouth, surprised that there’s no drool, and meet Tim’s disapproving gaze.

  “No. No instructions for Ms. Kaplan,” I manage to croak out. I shouldn’t feel this way about an eighteen-year-old girl. I know this. Everyone knows this. Everyone but Willow.