by Amanda Rose
"Like it? You guys … this is …" I gaped at them all like a damn goldfish before looking back at the thirty thousand dollar camera equipment in my lap. "This is too much; I can't accept this. You have to take it back."
"Mila." Slade turned on his authoritarian voice, the one he used on the guys when he was taking charge. "Say thank you and then kiss me."
"Thank you, Slade." I smiled, then did as I was told and kissed him. Thoroughly. And didn't stop until one of the guys cleared their throats behind me.
"Pretty certain I speak for all of us when I say we, too, will accept some of those thanks." Ryder smirked, waggling his eyebrows at me suggestively.
Snorting a laugh, I placed my new baby down on the carpet and scrambled out of Slade's lap to approach Blaze sitting on the corner of my desk.
"Blaze," I murmured, a small smile playing at my lips as his tongue licked a slow path across his own.
"Yes, babe?" he replied.
"Thank you." I grasped his waist and leaned in to meet his kiss. His hand slid up the length of my back and tangled in my hair possessively while his mouth dominated mine. When he eventually released me, I could feel the heat in my face, his hardness pressed against my crotch.
Pulling back from him, I gave him a cheeky wink before turning to the dynamic duo stretched out on my bed.
"Drex … Ryder …" I purred playfully, crawling up from the foot of the bed to squeeze in between the playful puppy and the nice guy of the bunch (nice being a relative word). "Thank you for my camera."
"You're welcome, Mila-elf." Ryder grinned, turning my face toward his and claiming a sweet, unhurried kiss.
"I feel like I want to get you another one now, Blitz," Drex muttered, whacking Ryder in the arm and turning me toward himself to claim a kiss of his own.
"We got you one other thing," Slade added, standing to lean on the desk beside Blaze.
"The deal with Inked Pages for their new music video went through and we wondered if you might be willing to photograph it? They wanted some behind-the-scenes shots for a book they're putting together and we needed more recent pictures for our portfolio so …" Blaze shrugged. "It's a paid gig, of course. And if you happened to get a good shot for your competition, well that's cool too."
For a moment, I was stunned into speechlessness once more. Then my eyes welled up and I held out my arms for the two dark and brooding boys leaning on my desk.
"You guys are unbelievable, you know that?" I whispered as they complied with my unspoken request for a group hug.
"Can we please pack you up and take you somewhere nice now?" Ryder asked, with his face buried in my hair. "This bed isn't nearly big enough for all of us …"
Early morning sunlight streamed in through the open curtains and woke me well before I had any right to be awake. Glancing at the clock on the bedside table, I saw it had only been less than an hour since we'd all finally succumbed to sleep and the guys were all out cold.
For a moment, I just lay there. The warmth from Ryder and Blaze was enough that I didn't even have any blankets on my naked body, and they must have felt the same. Slade and Drex were in there with us too, all curled together like a teaspoon set, and I basked for a moment in the feeling of happiness.
Driven by my urge to document this serene moment, I carefully peeled myself out of bed and tiptoed over to my new camera sitting on the dresser. I'd spent far too long setting it up, changing settings and taking test shots when we'd arrived at the hotel, before giving in to my four new lovers' advances.
Luckily though, it meant it was all perfectly set up now and only required a few minor adjustments to cater to the light.
I tiptoed back to the bed, and reclaimed my spot in the dead center before holding the heavy camera as high as I could and taking a selfie. Checking the result on the small screen at the back of the camera I bit my lip in nervous excitement. This was it. This was the one.
If, if, our new relationship had been outed by Gary's dirty pictures, then this would be the image I'd submit to Candid Moments.
It was raw, open, vulnerable, and everything a new relationship should be.
Four sleeping gods, and me—Mila the Elf.
Tate James
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Description
"Five hot billionaires, one fake fiancée, a very merry Christmas."
They were callous and kind, romantic and cruel.
Five billionaires with darkness in their pasts, they asked for the unexpected.
They demanded and commanded me, possessed my frozen heart in a way I hadn't thought possible.
I'd believed I was dead inside; they brought me back to life with the heat of their torrid kisses.
I woke them up with the fervency of my need.
My body wanted to give in, but my mind… and my heart wouldn't allow it.
Acting as their fake fiancée for a few days shouldn't have been enough to tear my fragile soul to pieces.
But this was Christmas…and anything was possible.
To Caitlin Morgan. There isn't a single other person I would ever dedicate my first completed story to.
CHAPTER ONE
“Let's go out to celebrate, have a few drinks. Maybe get a little action?” My sister's vivacious and carefree voice comes through the speaker of the phone. I don't tell her, but the last thing I want to do only a couple of weeks before Christmas is go out and party—whether we land the gig or not.
“It's just a consult, Lucia. You don't even know if we're going to get this account,” I reply as I pull into the parking lot of the sleek, modern NHI corporate headquarters. Wow. Most of the cars parked here cost more than the condo. Suddenly, I'm feeling self-conscious of my twenty year old Ford Focus. Let's just hope no one notices my car until after I land the event—otherwise they'll know we're just starting out, and that they're our first prospective clients.
“Don't worry, you'll get it. There isn't a single event planner in the state that has even half your skill,” she says. I'm glad Lucia's so confident because I'm not. The building is so grand and impressive I feel suddenly out of my league. “You love Christmas, Natalie. There'll never be another gig more suited to your talents than a Christmas party for a company that basically supplies the world with Christmas everything.”
“I better go, but maybe after I'll grab some baking supplies and some eggnog, and we can make cookies?”
“Fine, but don't forget the champagne. You are such a boring workaholic—and you aren't even thirty yet,” Lucia adds with a sigh. “See you soon.”
“Love you, hun. See you later,” I say, right before I hang up.
I frantically rifle around in search of my portfolio. Locating it in the mess of my car takes way longer than it should. Oh, god, I can't be late. I take one last look at myself in the rearview mirror, making sure my red lipstick is still in place and that I haven't messed up my hair. I had, after all, spent an hour taming my long locks into classic blond waves so I could look perfect for this meeting.
I stand up, running my hands over the simple white shift dress that I'd splurged on for this meeting. I adjust the small gold holly pin that goes perfectly with my eye shadow and classic pumps. Satisfied that I look festive—but still classic and elegant—I hurry towards the imposing front entrance of Northington Holiday Industries.
I feel something cold land on my cheek as I walk. Holy crap. It's snowing. Big flakes drift down, falling on my hair and on the shoulders of my navy blue jacket. I'm so engrossed in looking up at the majesty of white falling slowly from the heavens that I don't see the small patch of black ice on the sidewalk in front of me.
I slip, falling unceremoniously to the frozen earth. My portfolio flies through the air and lands next to a pair of sleek black Oxford Brogues. From my vantage point, sprawled out on the icy ground, my gaze has to travel up, up, up to fully take in
the sumptuous lines of a muscular body draped in an opulent three-piece charcoal suit. Short ebony hair and stylish glasses rest on the elegantly chiseled features of the most handsome man I have ever laid eyes on. The masculine beauty of his perfect face may be breathtaking, but there's something hidden in the cold gray depths of his steely eyes that truly rips the breath from my lungs.
My body gives a violent shudder. This guy is way beyond the title of hot; he's a living Adonis.
The man bends down to pick up my portfolio, giving me a better view of the lean lines of muscle as they move under the luxurious fabric of his exquisitely tailored suit. He stares at it for several moments, lost in thought. His eyes flick over me in surprise, looking me up and down. He gracefully stands up, walks over to me, and offers me his hand.
“I … uh.” I try to speak, but I feel so flustered by the intensity of his narrowed eyes as they stare down at me. They're sharp as cold steel. If I get too close, they'll cut my heart into a thousand tiny pieces.
“Let me help you up. I don't bite—in public,” he purrs, his voice pure corruption, a promise of wicked deeds in the flickering light of a warm fire. Enraptured, I can do nothing but look up at him, speechless. My blue eyes are open wide and my red painted lips hang open in shock.
I reach out slowly towards his hand, but I can't seem to pull my gaze from his.
When our flesh meets … electricity. What would it feel like to give into the whims of someone who exudes such authority? Unbidden thoughts of his strong body moving above me … inside of me, crowd my mind and make my hands shake. I imagine those gray eyes, so cold they burn, staring down as I scream my pleasure into the frigid winter air.
Cruel lust.
To be touched by him would be exquisite torture, the kind of act that changes a person, makes them crave darker desires.
The beautiful stranger’s face shifts almost imperceptibly. He feels it too, this craving. A multitude of emotions flash behind his eyes; he pushes them back.
He pulls me to my feet but otherwise neither of us moves, slave to the power of this undeniable attraction. My heart is pounding in my chest and I feel short of breath.
Then I remember I have a meeting I can't be late for.
“I've … uh … gotta go,” I somehow manage to stutter, holding out my hand for my portfolio. He passes it to me, but even this simple action is rife with sexual tension. I can't be late, I repeat to myself. “Thanks for helping me up.”
I don't give him a chance to reply.
I head toward the building as fast as I can without looking back. If I look back, I might not be able to leave. I ignore the tingle on my skin from his cold gray eyes following my every step. This is for the best, I try to tell myself. He's too perfect, and perfection is just an illusion, a carefully calculated mask meant to hide the true darkness that simmers below the surface. As soon as the thought pops into my head, I know it to be true: that man is is dangerous.
As I enter the building, I hear his confident voice ring in the cool winter air.
“The event planner—she's the one.”
I sit in the fancy waiting room for god only knows how long when a stylish—and very gay—young man guides me down the hall to grand double doors. When he knocks, a voice I recognize invites us to come in.
It's an elegant, classic office; a wall of windows makes the space light and bright. There's a small seating area with a couple of white chesterfield style couches and a coffee table sitting near a lit fireplace. The receptionist quickly excuses himself without a word, leaving me in a room with two sensational examples of male perfection.
Alone.
The silky voice … it belongs to the cruel, beautiful man from outside. And right next to him is every woman's wet dream: tall and muscular with broad shoulders and a tapered waist, all of him draped in a classic blue tailored two-piece suit. He reaches out, taking my hand in his and raises it to his lips. He doesn't say a word. To be honest, he doesn't need too. His eyes, they say everything that needs to be said. They call me to the decadent warmth of his bed, beg me to climax in the heat of his passionate embrace.
“Hello.” My voice comes out a breathy whisper.
“Have a seat Ms. Winters,” the gray-eyed guy from outside says, gesturing vaguely in my direction. I sit on the far end of the couch, trying to give myself as much space as I can from these two irresistibly sexy men.
Silver Eyes is standing in front of the fireplace, facing the seating area as though he's about to give a speech. Heck, maybe he is. What do I know? The other man slides onto the couch less than a foot from me. He smells like cinnamon and scotch.
I toss a quick glance at the quiet stranger. He exudes just as much authority and confidence—maybe more—than the guy I met outside, but the cruelty just isn't there. A dark fall of hair and a dusting of stubble frame the strong features of a very masculine face. His eyes are ebon, like evening shadows tucked into the chiseled features of a man seemingly carved by angels. The look he gives me is sex and seduction incarnate, a rush of heat that flows through my body and causes my nipples to pebble beneath the fabric of my dress.
Unconsciously, I clench my thighs together.
The small motion doesn’t go unnoticed. The slightest smirk curves his lips, a look of hunger burning in his gaze, like he could just eat me up. I swallow and his eyes watch my throat like a hungry lion. I try to ignore the feeling of being looked at like a tasty treat, shifting myself away from him slightly and turning my attention back to the silver-eyed hottie standing in front of me. I hope the beautifully quiet man can read my subtle body language.
“Lets get the formalities over with so that we can move onto the main conversation.” When the cruel man speaks, it's pretty apparent that he isn't amused by my silent exchange with the slow-eyed sex god sitting next to me me.
“My name is Gabriel Northington.” He reaches up and adjusts his glasses as he speaks. Northington? As in Northington Holiday Industries? OMG. Why are the company executives giving an interview for a party planning position?! “And this is my brother, Whittaker.” Brother? I don't get much time to contemplate these revelations because he continues with, “Whit doesn't speak so occasionally we may sign to one another. Please conduct yourself with the same etiquette you would a spoken conversation.” He holds my gaze with his for a moment before continuing. “As you might expect, our three other brothers have a vested interest in this meeting as well, so they may be using the loudspeaker to listen in.”
Gabriel looks at his brother for a moment, silently asking something. Whit nods his head. That small motion is all the conformation he needs. Gabriel closes the distance between us with only a couple of graceful steps, sleek and predatory, like he's moving in for the kill. The tempest-tossed depths of his gaze stare me down.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a small black box and opens it for me to see.
Inside is a diamond ring.
What the heck is happening right now? Am I dreaming? Cause this doesn't make any sense.
“Natalie Winters, we would like you to become our fake fiancée.” There's not an iota of hesitation apparent in the silky smooth tones of his seductively decadent voice. This has got to be some sort of a joke.
“Wait what?!” Frantically, I look between Gabriel and Whittaker and the beautiful white gold band innocently resting on a bed of blue velvet. Whit reaches out, taking the precious little box from Gabriel's hand. He slides off the couch, dropping to one knee with feline grace. The faint smoke and earth scent of Scotch lingers on his skin. Pulling the precious band from the navy blue lining, he takes my hand in his. Confidence practically oozes from every pore on his muscular frame. Before I can say another word, he slips the ring on my finger.
The way Whit smiles at me, I can practically hear him whispering dirty somethings in my ear. And his dark eyes shadowed with lust dare me to resist. But it's obvious he doesn't actually believe I could or would deny him his every whim. The deep rich umber tones of his eyes are rife with the se
lf-assured victory. It's this presumptive, almost bossy, attitude that I don't really care for.
“No,” I say, proud my voice comes out sharp and clear and confident. His eyebrows raise in surprise. I doubt anyone has ever told this man … either of these men … no. Ever.
Whittaker looks back toward his brother, a silent command to speak for the both of them.
“I do not believe we have even discussed the terms of the arrangement. Don't you think it only polite to at least hear us out,” Gabriel asks.
But it isn't a question—it's a command and I don't like that at all.
“Fine. I'll hear you out, but don't hold your breath,” I snap. He has me so irritated by his pompous condescension I'm not really thinking about the real reason I came here. Gabriel narrows his eyes at me, so I narrow mine right back. Attractive or not, this guy is a huge freaking jerk.
Whit stands up, walking over to the liquor cabinet next to the fireplace and pours himself a glass of Scotch out of a simple crystal decanter. He looks at both Gabriel and me, lifting the amber liquid in a silent offering. Before I can answer, Gabriel answers for the both of us.
“None for us, thank you,” he says without even asking me.
“Actually, Mr. Northington I would love a glass.” It's my turn to smile. I know it's a really bad idea to antagonize billionaires, and any hope I had of landing the Christmas party is shot, but I can't seem to help myself. Gabriel purses his lips in irritation, but otherwise doesn't react. Whittaker slides in next to me, placing both glasses of Scotch on the coffee table in front of us.
“We would like you to plan and attend an elegant, tasteful event at our winter home in Vail. At the party, in front of our father and a small guest list, my brothers and I would like to announce our joint engagement to you.”
“I—” I start, but Gabriel cuts me off.
“I'm not finished.” I'm livid by now, but I grit my teeth and let him continue. I figure I'm about to leave and I'll never have to see him again anyway, so why argue? “The notoriety of planning such an exclusive party alone should help a business still in its infancy grow to something of actual importance.” Wow. I can't believe the nerve of this guy, simultaneously asking for my services and insulting me and my small business. I hate that he's right though.