Page 4 of His for Christmas
Without realizing it, I leaned across the desk and picked up the pen. It was cool to the touch, but I imagined it warm—warm from the hand that held it, stroked it. I ran my finger pad over the smooth casing. What was this made of anyway? Not plastic. Not wood. Some kind of metal?
Rich people even had different pens, and this struck me as wildly important, a sign of just how little I belonged with them, in a building like this.
My stomach clenched, and I tense, pen in hand, when I felt something brush across the back of my legs. Air. Then came the subtle scent of cologne.
I wasn’t alone.
A chill raced over my skin. I would have turned, but a hand on my hip stopped me. A hand. On my hip. The shock of it was enough to render me frozen, and I stared down at the pen in my hand, almost accusatory, as if the beauty of it had led to this. As if this was my punishment for being where I didn’t belong, for touching what wasn’t mine. For lying so I could get this job.
“Thank fuck,” a low male voice murmured behind me.
My mouth opened, but only a faint squeak came out. I tried again. “Excuse me?”
“They told me they weren’t sending anyone.” He began to stroke me, from the dip of my waist, over my hip, and trailing down my thigh. “I’m glad they lied.”
The HR department? My cheeks were flaming hot…because his hand was still on my hip. His hand. My hip. My mind couldn’t quite wrap itself around that. He was touching me, caressing me, and I hadn’t even seen his face.
“I was getting desperate,” he said, “with the holidays coming up.”
I tried to imagine what desperate looked like, tried to fill in the space of his body, his face, using only his dark-whiskey voice as a guide. The picture in my mind looked nothing like the cold face that graced business magazines. That glossy image was calculated and posed. This was a warm hand on my body and breath against my hair. This was goose bumps all over my skin.
I cleared my throat. “Mr. Thompson, I—”
“No, there’s no time for that. It’s been too long, and Jesus, look at you. Where did they find you?”
I definitely didn’t want to talk about that, about the ad I’d answered or the lies I’d told. “I needed the work,” I whispered.
There was a pause where his hand froze midstroke. I held my breath, unsure whether I wanted him to stop or continue. If he stopped, he might make me leave. And the hot touch of this stranger had to be better than working the icy streets.
“I’m sure they told you about me,” he said conversationally. “They were supposed to.”
Who was supposed to tell me about him—his secretary? The security guard? The man outside dressed like Santa? And what were they supposed to tell me? That he liked to touch his secretary? Had he touched the other woman too? Or was he only touching me because I was a temp? Or maybe he’d found out about my past, found out that I’d lied, and he knew I’d have to do anything he wanted just to stay out of jail. Oh Jesus, this was too crazy. I felt crazy. With a little shimmy, I managed to step aside. I turned halfway, only to be arrested by the sight of him.
I’d have wanted him to be handsome. No, he was handsome, when he showed up on glossy magazines and TV news reports. He was facing the camera with a fierce expression or carefully turned away, thoughtful. Proud. Strong. Composed.
He was none of those things now.
Now he looked…hungry. Like a wolf who’d been denied too long. A wild beast staring at a doe. I shivered. “I’m sorry that I…” I glanced down at my hand, still holding his pen. I’d encroached on his territory, and now I was paying the price. “I’m sorry I touched your pen.”
“Keep it,” he murmured.
“Oh, I—” My gaze flickered from the pen to him and back again, and they were almost the same—both cool and dark and belonging here. “I couldn’t.”
But I couldn’t let go of it either. I couldn’t even move. I just stood there, holding the smooth-metal pen, feeling guilt and shame and fear. Had he thought I was going to steal it? He could report me for that, even if he didn’t know about my record. But he didn’t look angry, exactly. He looked menacing, and sure, as if he would have put his hand on my hip whether I took his pen or not. As if he knew my hip belonged to him as much as the pen did.
His eyes darkened as I met his gaze. “What’s your name?”
“Angel,” I said quickly.
