He's not who she expected, but he's exactly the man she needs…When Chelsea Wayne drags Santa into a supply closet for a little office party nookie, she assumes the man in the suit is her on-again/off-again coworker boyfriend. Instead, it's Rafe St. Sebastian, a man known for his hard-driving ways in business as well as the bedroom--and, kill her now, the brand spanking new owner of Las Ventanas--who grants her naughtiest Christmas wishes.So much for her reputation, not to mention her career.Rafe needs to close three acquisitions to prove to his father he's ready to take the helm of St. Sebastian Enterprises. A hot interlude in a supply closet after deal number two seems like the perfect illicit Christmas bonus. Unfortunately, when that "bonus" becomes the key to the final deal, he finds himself back in bed--so to speak--with Chelsea, and after their steamy tryst, he's not interested in keeping things professional.
“There is nothing personal between us.”
“I beg to differ. In fact, I’m fairly certain I know your deepest, darkest secret.”
“I sincerely doubt that.”
He brought his mouth to her ear. “You knew I wasn’t Paul.”
“No.” The denial, though immediate, sounded slightly breathless, slightly desperate.
She had to have at least suspected, at some point. He refused to believe otherwise. “Not at first. But when I had you clinging to the tables, trembling so hard you could barely stand? You knew.”
“You-you’re delusional. If I’d realized you weren’t Paul, don’t you think I would have stopped you?”
“No. By the time you realized, you didn’t care.” The crowd around them erupted into a countdown.
Ten... He cupped her jaw in one hand... Nine... and slid the other down her back. Then lower. Eight... “You didn’t care about anything except my tongue tracing the path of your thong”—he let his fingers do the honor now—“all the way down until I could taste your sweet, throbbing little—”
“I thought you were Paul!” Her wide eyes darted to his, pupils huge.
Five... “Remember how you used your body to beg for more? There’s no f-ing way you’ve ever begged like that for Paul Barrington. No f-ing way. I could have you begging again.”
Her breathing came in quick, shallow pants. The hands she’d rested lightly on his shoulders tightened, bunching his jacket in a white-knuckled grip. She shook her head. “Not going to happen.”
Three... He was risking getting his face slapped in the middle of a dance floor on New Year’s Eve, but he didn’t care. For some inexcusable reason, he needed to know she wanted him, not Barrington.
Two... He spread his palm over the perfect curve of her ass and hauled her against him, so she’d feel just how well he remembered every damn detail of their last meeting.
“It’s not?” he challenged, and then crushed her lips under his.
Cheers of “Happy New Year” echoed around them over the strains of “Auld Lang Syne.” A flotilla of black and silver balloons sailed down from the ceiling. Guests laughed, and sang, and jostled them while he kissed her. Sparkly, star- shaped confetti rained over everyone and everything, and he kept right on kissing her. Her arms twined around his neck. Her lips parted. She flattened one hand against the back of his head and held on. When he bent her over his arm and swept his tongue into her soft, yielding mouth, she wrapped her leg around his hip. The heat of her body practically seared his thigh through his tuxedo pants.
He trapped her lower lip between his teeth and nibbled. There went his no biting promise, but her shuddery moan told him she didn’t mind.
The song ended. The house lights came up a few notches. He slowly drew her upright, and even more slowly relinquished her mouth. She stared up at him, dazed, her lips plumped from their kiss.
“You’re a terrible liar, Miss Wayne.”
Giving her a grin he hoped didn’t reveal how much the move cost him, he walked away.
Samanthe Beck lives in Malibu, California, with her long-suffering but extremely adorable husband and their turbo-son, Hud. Throw in a furry ninja named Kitty and Bebe the trash talking Chihuahua and you get the whole, chaotic picture.
When not clinging to sanity by her fingernails or dreaming up fun, fan-your-cheeks sexy ways to get her characters to happily-ever-afters, she searches for the perfect cabernet to pair with Ambien.
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