Compromising Her Position

To Heather, for gently suggesting we not call this Fifty Shades of Santa.

Chapter One

Dec. 5

12:27 p.m.

Paul,

I left the Santa costume in your office, in case you change your mind. See you at the party.

Chelsea Wayne

Assistant Manager

Las Ventanas Resort

A flash of red at the other end of the hall caught Chelsea’s eye. Holy cr…Christmas, looks like she’d earned a surprise this holiday season.

The sight of Paul in the costume she’d ordered melted her heart—and did funny things to her stomach. Champagne might account for some of the giddy reaction, but mostly it came down to the knowledge that he’d worn the over-the-top outfit for her. Lord knew he didn’t want to play Santa at the employee holiday party. When she’d first sprung the notion on him, he’d flat-out refused, calling the idea inappropriate for a general manager.

Yet there he stood, wearing the red suit, fuzzy hat, beard, and boots, in a display of affection her starved heart desperately needed right now. The level of work stress they’d endured at the resort recently had sucked the intimacy right out of their fledgling relationship.

No woman in her right mind would let such a sweet gesture go unrewarded. She pushed off the wall and closed in on him. As if he sensed her approach, he turned, but before he could so much as Ho, ho, ho, her, she planted a palm in the middle of his padded belly and shoved him into the closet. The door slammed closed behind them.

I’ve got a present for Santa and it’s not safe for work. She didn’t give him time to reply. Everything that came out of his mouth lately tended to spoil the moment, and she didn’t want this moment spoiled. She went up onto the toes of her red sling-backs and kissed him like there was no tomorrow.

He stood stock still for a moment, no doubt shocked right down to his Santa socks by her uncharacteristically forward behavior, but she dropped her purse on a stack of folding tables, grabbed two handfuls of velvet and kept right on kissing him. The suit, padding, and beard made him feel bigger, less familiar, like kissing a stranger. Then again, it had been a while since they’d last kissed. Really kissed.

Maybe the drought had left him as pent-up as she, because he released a low groan, clamped a white-gloved hand at the back of her head, and took control. And what she’d started as a funny, slightly naughty thank-you ignited into a long, urgent demand the likes of which he’d never delivered before. One her entire body begged to satisfy.

He shoved her up against the tables in a domineering move that sent a whiplash of pure, feminine lust reverberating through her. Something spilled to the floor. Her purse, she realized, but then the thought spun away as hands worked their way under her blouse and cupped her breasts, lifting them until her nipples scraped the lacy edge of her bra. The small torment coaxed a moan out of her, and then another when his thumbs brushed the tight, tingling peaks and set off answering tingles strong enough to make her thighs clench.

A proper, responsible part of her couldn’t believe they were doing something so crazy in a supply closet, with co-workers gathering in a banquet room on the other side of one thin wall. She drew back to catch her breath and level her head, but a wild, reckless part of her she’d ignored for too long took charge of her voice. Hurry, she whispered. There’s not much time.

Spurred on by her own warning, she twisted away and bent over the stack of tables to scramble for the little packet of condoms in her purse. Dammit, she couldn’t reach it. She leaned over as far as she dared, and stretched. Her fingertips grazed the bag, and… Ohmigod!

Swift fists yanked her skirt up around her waist. Bare hands clamped on her hips, and a hot mouth trailed over her backside. Her leg muscles dissolved. What was he doing to her?

Not bestowing gentle little kisses. Uh-uh. Whatever he was up to involved lips, tongue, and—sweet mercy—teeth. The faux beard tickled her thighs, but she couldn’t blame her restlessness on the props. He was the one making her squirm. Him.

His mouth roamed lower, and any remaining questions flew out of her mind, along with her sense of propriety and every ounce of her dignity. She arched her back and lifted up onto her tiptoes, praying he could reach the spot that craved his attention from this position. And then he angled his head, and Oooooh, thank you Santa for your fast, merciless tongue… Air rushed out of her lungs. She must have made a noise, because a stern Shhh reached her ears.

Sorry. She closed her eyes, bit her lip, and fought the urge to cry out.

Despite her effort, some sounds simply couldn’t be silenced. Her choppy breaths filled the room, punctuated by the squeak of the tables every time she moved, and the wet sound of his tongue delving in, out and around her panties.

He deliberately teased her, making her shiver uncontrollably while he whipped her to a frenzy and retreated, again and again, until she rocked backward so hard she nearly toppled the stack of tables and sent them both sprawling. Thankfully, he didn’t let that happen. He caught and steadied her, but the low rumble of his laughter washed over her skin.

Okay, it was funny. The sheer awkwardness of their cramped love nest, the Santa suit, the looks she imagined on their poor co-workers faces if someone opened the door right now. A giggle snuck past her lips.

Shhh. The admonishment came from behind her, and then he sank his teeth into the curve of her butt and sent two fingers between her legs, sliding into her. Slow. Deep.

She locked her jaw to stifle a grateful sound, and choked back a whimper when he withdrew and used one damp fingertip to paint her flesh with a slow, circling design.

Where had this Paul been hiding for the last few months? Wicked, playful, and devastating. This Paul intended to exploit every inch of her, and nothing—good heavens, absolutely nothing—appeared to be off-limits. She loved it, and for once in her life she didn’t care about the reasons. All she cared about were the sensations building to a crisis inside her.

She swept her arm out, snagged her purse, and used her free hand to dig around until she found the inside pocket. Condom. Clenching her inner muscles around his fingers in a silent plea, she thrust the small packet at him. A tear of a wrapper, the rustle of clothing, and then those hands were back on her hips.

He dragged her panties down. She braced herself. Time ticked by. One eternal second. Two. Her pulse pounded, and her nerve endings twitched. What was he waiting for?

Palms smoothed down her blouse, along either side of her spine, and then he moved lower, pausing to give each vulnerable cheek a squeeze. He took her hips and lifted them slightly, and she adjusted her stance to accommodate the deeper angle he wanted. His hands wandered along the insides of her thighs, long fingers sliding between for an all-too-fleeting caress, followed by another, and another. She swayed into his touch, not caring how frantic she looked. Those hands were all she could focus on. Why hadn’t she noticed how big, and warm, and talented they were before? How they could practically finesse an orgasm right out of her with a maddeningly patient stroke…

Ooohhh! There was no practically about it. Her body stiffened as the first ripple reverberated through her. Apparently, that’s what he’d been waiting for, because he drove into her with a single thrust that shot her orgasm into uncharted territory. Then the thrusts came fast and hard. Beyond the rush of blood in her ears, she heard him say her name in a low, nearly unintelligible groan. She clung to the edge of the topmost table and cried out as pleasure slammed into her, crashed over her, and took her under.

For long minutes after the last wave passed, she lay there like a cat in a sunbeam, too content to move. The slow, cautious friction of his body easing out of hers provoked a tiny shiver, but that was involuntary. She might have sighed when he slid her underwear into place. She definitely gasped when he followed up the gentlemanly gesture with a quick, loud slap on her butt. What the…? Hello, Santa just spanked you. Her surprised laugh echoed in the small room.

Another Shhh greeted her outburst.

So strict. But those magic hands tugged her skirt down, and she fought back another sigh. Interlude over. She pushed herself upright, re-tucked her blouse and smoothed her skirt. He held her purse out. She took it, and then leaned in and planted one last kiss on his beard-covered lips. Give me a few minutes before you join the party. She cracked the door and peeked into the hallway. All clear. Merry Christmas, Paul, she whispered, and slipped out of the closet.

You’re going to be sorry one of these days if you don’t stop leading your love life like a letter to Penthouse.

Rafe St. Sebastian stood outside the Las Ventanas banquet room, dressed as Santa Claus, while his little sister Arden’s warning echoed in his mind. At the time she’d said it, he’d strongly objected to the comment. Not the part about his love life reading like a letter to Penthouse. He wouldn’t waste his breath denying that.

Rather, he’d objected to Arden’s contention he’d be sorry. He worked hard. He played hard. He had absolutely no regrets. And while he liked to think he had as much personal appeal as the next guy, he didn’t delude himself into believing looks or charm alone accounted for his popularity. His social status, his family fortune, even the longstanding St. Sebastian playboy reputation, attracted attention. And yes, a secondary agenda related to his status, fortune, or reputation often accompanied the attention. It came with the territory, and didn’t particularly bother him. Both parties went in with their eyes wide open and nobody walked away sorry.

Unfortunately, this time Arden proved right. He was sorry, because the evidence suggested this latest sexcapade had been a mistake on one party’s part, specifically one Miss Chelsea Wayne.

He’d recognized her from the pre-acquisition due diligence. Her photo on the Las Ventanas website attracted almost as many views as the virtual tour of the resort. Intriguingly dark, wide-set eyes, full, smiling lips, and the sexy little dimple in her left cheek merited an extra click.

As of nine o’clock that morning, St. Sebastian had completed its purchase of Las Ventanas, and they’d cleared Paul Barrington to tell his direct reports about the sale in advance of the broader employee announcement scheduled to occur at the holiday party.

When Chelsea had shoved him into the closet, he’d intended to stop things after the kiss. In part because he’d tasted champagne on her lips, but more importantly, because a heat-of-the-moment hookup with the assistant manager of their newest acquisition was no way to convince his father he was ready to step up as chairman of the board of St. Sebastian Enterprises.

Strategic advantage guided Luc St. Sebastian’s every decision. Rafe, on the other hand, preferred to balance analysis with gut instinct, and an occasional risk. Traits his father deigned impulsive and reckless.

The impulses Chelsea inspired had felt a little too reckless, even for him, but once she’d pressed her soft, eager mouth to his, he couldn’t for the life of him bring things to a halt. He remembered thinking, two consenting adults, and then simply not thinking.

Maybe it had been an attempt to combat the tedium of what promised to be another boring corporate party, or maybe a deeper act of rebellion. He wanted the helm of St. Sebastian Enterprises, and fully expected to earn the chairmanship, but he chafed at the expectation he turn himself into a carbon copy of his father to do so. Their philosophical differences ran deep. He liked taking chances, both personally and professionally. His father never made a move that wasn’t premeditated, considered to the fullest, and designed to further the interests of the company.

Rafe found operating under such a constant state of caution and duty stifling. He’d walked the line this year—mostly to prove to his father he could—right up until the moment Chelsea had pulled him into a closet and wished him a Merry Christmas.

And, God, she’d wanted him, with an honesty he’d found refreshing. No games. No secondary agenda. Just pure, simple lust. At his barest touch, she’d burned for him, sparking an answering fire he hadn’t expected. Within minutes, they’d both been out of control. Luckily, she’d come prepared. He’d gratefully accepted the condom she’d offered as she’d bent over the stack of tables, invitation in every line of her body. An invitation he couldn’t possibly refuse even though an annoying voice in the back of his mind had tried to tell him those big, brown eyes didn’t belong to the type of girl who fucked a stranger in a closet. He’d hauled her red skirt up and given her an RSVP she’d never forget. She’d gasped and squirmed, either startled by the contact or tickled by the beard.

Loving her uninhibited response, wanting more, he’d kept going, slowly tortured them both. Her restless moans had filled the small room, followed by a startled cry after a particularly energetic move from her had damn near toppled them. He’d managed to stabilize them just in time, and then gotten swept up in her throaty laughter.

The playful moment should have released some of the tension, and instilled some caution, but no. By that point, only one release would do, and by God, he’d given it to them. Call him jaded, but no woman had gotten him that hot, inspired that kind of all-consuming urgency, in a long time.

The stolen moment had seemed like the perfect pre-party until the very end, when she’d kissed him, called him Paul, and walked out. At first he’d just stood there thinking, What the fuck? The next instant, all the implications had hit him like a category five shit storm. He’d yanked the door open and scanned the hall, hoping to catch her and clear up her misimpression. Unfortunately, there’d been no trace of her and he’d known with a sinking certainty he was too late. She’d already joined the party.

Now he was about to step on stage in front of a room overflowing with new St. Sebastian employees, where he’d make eye contact with Chelsea, and convey…what? No harm no foul?

Shit. He was screwed. But he sure as hell wasn’t bored.

Chapter Two

Relax. Nobody will ever guess you just had sex in a supply closet.

Your clothes are wrinkled, you’re fifteen minutes late, and you’re glowing like a Christmas tree. Laurie Peterson’s voice carried over the coy innuendos of Santa Baby. "This forces me to ask, who the hell are you, and what have you done with my best