All Chapters of Dirty Christmas(A short erotica Christmas story collection): Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

I never imagined saying yes to Ajax Reddington would lead to this. For five years, I'd been his executive assistant, watching him command boardrooms with that sharp jaw and piercing blue eyes, my heart pounding every time he brushed past me. Secretly, I'd fantasized about him, his strong hands on my body, his voice growling commands in the dark. But it was all one-sided, or so I thought.The merger with Vanguard Corp hung by a thread. Their conservative board demanded stability, a family man at the helm. Ajax paced his office, tie loosened, frustration etched on his face. “I need a wife, Mia. On paper. Just for the deal.” His gaze met mine, intense. “You know me better than anyone. Say yes, and I'll make it worth your while…bonus, promotion, whatever.”My pulse raced. This was my chance, fake or not. “Yes,” I whispered, throat dry. “I'll marry you.”The ceremony was a blur, Vegas chapel, quick vows, rings exchanged under fluorescent lights. The merger signed the next day, champagne

Becky Brooks lay naked on Sean Hegin’s bed, her skin flushed and her breath shallow. The cold metal of his chains bit into her wrists and ankles, a stark contrast to the softness of the silk sheets beneath her. The room was dim, lit only by the flickering glow of a single candle on the nightstand. Its golden light cast long, dancing shadows across the walls, like specters of her shame. The air was thick with the scent of expensive cologne and the faint tang of her own arousal, a heady mix that only heightened her awareness of his presence.Sean stood at the foot of the bed, his tall, muscular frame commanding the space. His dark suit was impeccably tailored, but his tie hung loose, the top button of his shirt undone, revealing a hint of his chest, a man who knew exactly what he wanted and how to take it. His dark eyes glinted with a mixture of lust and dominance as he gazed down at her, his expression unreadable yet undeniably powerful.“You’re mine now, Becky,” he growled, his deep

The chill of the boardroom air conditioning seeped through Lena’s silk blouse as the notification chimed on her phone. One new email. From Julian Croft.Her blood ran cold.Subject: My office. Now.For three years, she had been a ghost in his empire, a competent but invisible cog in the vast machine of his tech conglomerate. He was a monument of carved ice and sharp suits, a man who communicated in grunts and dismissive nods. To be summoned by name was unheard of. To be summoned with such grim finality was terrifying.Her mind raced, scanning through every report, every campaign, every decimal point she’d handled in the last week. Nothing. Nothing justified this. She smoothed her skirt, her palms damp, and took the private elevator to the penthouse suite.His office was a glass-walled cage overlooking the city, all sharp angles, minimalist art, and the pervasive scent of sandalwood and power. He didn’t look up when she entered, his focus entirely on the large monitor embedded in his d

Jojo Lenn pulled her wool cap low over her eyes as the cab crunched to a stop outside the remote ski lodge. Snowflakes danced in the dim twilight, blanketing the pines in a hush that felt like salvation. She’s a twenty-sex year old beauty and was the voice of a generation, her sultry ballads topping charts and fueling tabloid frenzy. But the latest scandal, a leaked affair with a producer twice her age, had paparazzi swarming her LA mansion like wolves. She needed this. A week alone in the Swiss Alps, under a fake name, to breathe without flashes blinding her.The lodge was quaint, all timber beams and roaring fireplaces, but isolated enough to feel safe. Jojo dragged her suitcase inside, boots squeaking on the wooden floor. The lobby was empty, save for a man behind the check-in desk. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a beard framing a jaw set like stone. His eyes, dark and unreadable, flicked up from a ledger. Charles, the caretaker, according to the booking email. Mid-thirties, maybe,

The snow fell in thick, relentless sheets outside the burning warehouse on Christmas Eve, turning the night into a frozen blur. Sirens wailed through the storm, cutting sharp against the crackle of flames devouring the old brick building. Gerrick hauled his gear tighter, the weight of his turnout coat pressing heavy on his shoulders as he kicked in the side door. Smoke billowed out like a living thing, thick and choking, but he pushed forward, flashlight beam slicing through the haze.Inside, the heat hit him like a wall, sweat already beading under his helmet despite the subzero chill outside. He heard her before he saw her, coughing hard, voice raw over the roar of the fire. Christine. Of all people, it had to be her. The journalist who had made his life hell for years, her articles painting firefighters like him as reckless heroes at best, incompetent at worst. Their encounters always ended in shouting matches, her sharp tongue clashing with his blunt anger, but underneath it sim