Taboo Kinks Still Exist--Hannah Murray (Santa Daddy)

Nicholas Saint stared at his executive assistant, hoping he’d heard her wrong. Or, if he hadn’t, that she was joking. She’d never joked before, but there was a first time for everything.

He couldn’t tell by her face, which was set in its usual calm, serene expression. The building could be on fire and she’d be wearing that expression—big gray eyes calm, red lips unsmiling, black hair pulled back in a low, sleek tail that lay, ends gently curled, over one shoulder. Her face remained, in all circumstances, sedate, composed and subtly beautiful.

Unfortunately for his concentration, the rest of her wasn’t sedate or subtle in the slightest, as per fucking usual. She had curves for days, thighs and hips and breasts that had starred in more than one midnight fantasy in the three years she’d worked for him. Not to mention her ass, which he couldn’t see at the moment but could picture with perfect clarity.

It was a goddamned work of art, that ass, and if he hadn’t been a butt man before she’d come to work for him, he’d turned into one about five minutes after.

It didn’t help that she always dressed like she was going to a photoshoot for some kind of retro-themed secretarial porn. He would no doubt add the black pencil skirt, fuzzy white sweater and seamed stockings to the list of outfits he’d like to peel her out of, but that was for later. Right now, he was more concerned with what she’d just said, because if he’d heard her correctly, he had bigger problems than being able to see the lace edge of her bra above the deep neckline of the sweater. “What did you just say?”

Rebecca sucked in a breath, making her tits move. He gritted his teeth. Focus on words, not tits, he ordered himself, and shifted his gaze back to her face just in time to hear her say, “I said, I’m tendering my resignation.”

“That’s what I thought you said.” He laid his pen down on his desk and made an effort to unclench.

“I’ve already emailed human resources,” she went on, clearly oblivious to the fact that he was trying not to leap over the desk and strangle her. “I’m sure they’ll be able to find someone to replace me in no time.”

He couldn’t say what he thought of that, not without using a lot of office-inappropriate words, so he ignored it. “Why?”

She looked at him, her soft gray eyes steady. “Why what?”

“Why are you quitting?”

“Because I want a life,” she said baldly.

He was concentrating so hard on not revealing how aroused he was—also as per fucking usual—that he forgot his manners. “What the hell does that mean?” he blurted out, his voice sharp and aggressive, and her quiet gray gaze went flinty.

Which only turned him on more.

“It’s two o’clock in the afternoon on a Saturday, Mr. Saint,” she pointed out. “The day before Christmas Eve.”

He glanced at the clock on the wall. Shit, he’d lost track of time. “Work doesn’t stop for Christmas,” he said lamely, mainly because he couldn’t think of anything better, not with those tits heaving in his face.

Well, eight feet away from his face and on the other side of a desk, but still. They could’ve been fifty feet away and he still would’ve noticed.

They were just that good.

“It does if you have a life,” she shot back, thankfully unaware of the hypnotic power of her breasts. “Which I would like to have. Ergo, I quit.”

None of that was at all unreasonable, a realization that just made him scowl harder. “If it’s that big of a deal, go ahead and go home. I’ll see you on the twenty-sixth.”

Now her cheeks flushed, and her soft eyes took on a distinct glint of…was that anger? He’d never seen Rebecca angry, and it turned the quiet radiance he was used to into something much more dangerous.

It was fucking hot.

“I’m going home for the rest of my life,” she informed him, her voice sharp and so unlike the calm she usually displayed that he was caught off guard. She tossed the thick folder in her hand onto his desk. “That’s all my notes on the Overfield negotiations, and the last version of the contract, which I’ve already sent on to our lawyers and theirs. I’ll make sure HR knows to get someone in who can handle any more changes they need.”

He didn’t even look at the folder. “You can’t just quit, Rebecca.”

“Actually, I can.” She nodded to the computer on his desk. “I have three weeks of unused vacation time I’ll be taking in lieu of notice. There’s a formal letter of resignation in your email. I cc’d HR, and Nate.”

Nick’s temper started to spike, and he made an effort to tamp it down. She always called his brother by his first name, while he was ‘Mr. Saint’. It drove him crazy, but he couldn’t afford to let that get to him right now. If he lost his temper, he’d never get her to stay. And he needed her to stay. She was the best assistant he’d ever had, tits and ass notwithstanding.

“You’ve never complained about the long hours,” he began.

“Which is my fault,” she said agreeably, her face once again composed, though she couldn’t quite mask the irritation. Her voice stayed low and smooth with that hint of rasp that drove him crazy, her only outward reaction to his anger the glint in her eyes and the fading flush on her cheeks. “I should’ve said something a long time ago.”

“Well, then,” he said, as if the matter were settled.

“But the fact remains I’m unhappy with my position here, and I don’t see that changing.” Her lips twitched, whether in a grimace or a smile, he couldn’t tell. “I’ll always be grateful for the opportunity you gave me, and everything I’ve learned here.”

“Stop blowing sunshine up my ass, and tell me how much you want.”

“I beg your pardon,” she said icily, not begging at all.

God, what he’d give to hear her beg.

“Do you practice sounding like a tight-ass, or does it just come naturally?” he asked, knowing he was crossing a line and not really caring. In fact, he felt a spurt of satisfaction when her cheeks flamed red with anger once again. “How much?”

“It’s not about money, Mr. Saint,” she said, and he snorted in disbelief.

“Everything is about money, Ms. McBride,” he countered, the sneer in his voice fueled by the tightness in his pants. “Just tell me how much, so we can get back to work.”

She stood there, cheeks flushed, bosom heaving, and for a moment he thought he had her. She’d name a number, and he’d agree so they could go back to work and he’d save the rare image of Rebecca McBride flushed and heaving for his spank bank.

He’d add a few details, of course. Stockings torn, skirt rucked up to her waist, that waterfall of ink black hair in tangles. Her butt would be glowing red from his hand, her cheeks stained with tears and streaks of eye makeup. And she’d be begging. ‘Please Daddy,’ she’d say, that smooth voice ruined by tears and lust. ‘I’ll be good, please.’

His cock hardened at the thought, so he ruthlessly shoved the image away for later and concentrated on the problem at hand.

“So?” he prompted when she stayed silent. “An extra five thousand a year? Ten?”

“Mr. Saint,” she said after a moment, calm as ever, “go to hell.”

And when his jaw dropped in shock, she turned on her heel and walked out the door, not even bothering to slam it behind her.

“Dammit!” He surged to his feet, rounding the desk as quickly as he could with the world’s boniest boner in his pants—she was beautiful all the time, but she was a goddamned vision when she was pissed off—but by the time he reached the outer office, there was no sign of her. Her desk was clear, all her personal items gone. The Christmas cactus with its cheerful red blooms, the small glass dish she’d kept full of chocolates, the coffee mug that had read, Yeah, I run like a girl—try to keep up.

The day she’d brought the mug in, the image of her running—from him, panting and sweaty and happy to finally be caught—had kept him in the shower for forty-five minutes.

But it was gone now, along with any other sign the desk had ever belonged to her. The computer, the phone, and a page-a-day calendar still set to yesterday’s date were all that was left.

“Goddammit,” he growled again and slammed his fist on the empty desk.