Compromising Her Position Read online

  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…

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Samanthe Beck… Private Practice

  Light Her Fire

  Falling for the Enemy

  Lover Undercover

  Falling for the Marine

  Wicked Games

  Best Man with Benefits

  If you love sexy romance, one-click these steamy Brazen releases… Played

  Blackmailed by the Hero

  Tell Me You Need Me

  Wrong Bed, Right Guy

  Dear Readers,

  David Gandy, in bed, naked except for a Santa hat.

  If a picture doesn’t immediately take shape in your mind, do yourself a favor and Google “David Gandy Naked Santa.” Then brace yourself.

  This image, dear readers, inspired “Compromising Her Position,” (and a whole mess of other stuff I need not go into here). I grant you the Santa hat might actually be Photoshopped into the shot. Doesn’t matter. I spend very little time looking at the hat. But after my initial, “Holy crap, imagine the line at the mall to sit on that Santa’s lap!” reaction, I got to wondering…what if a super-hot guy lurked beneath the iconic red suit? Would we even know?

  Then, because I live to put my characters in compromising positions, I thought…what if my heroine tugged him into a supply closet during the office holiday party, thinking he was someone else, and wished him the ultimate NSFW Merry Christmas?

  Fun job I have, right?

  It really is. I had a blast dreaming up illicit adventures for my Gandy-inspired Santa, Rafe St. Sebastian, and poor, hapless, Chelsea Wayne, who stepped out of her goody-two-shoes one measly time, and landed right on Santa’s…ahem…naughty list. I had even more fun proving to her that the wrong Santa was actually the right man.

  I hope “Compromising Her Position” brings a smile to your holidays! May they be safe, happy, and very, very sexy.

  Xoxo

  Samanthe

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 by Samanthe Beck. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

  Entangled Publishing, LLC

  2614 South Timberline Road

  Suite 109

  Fort Collins, CO 80525

  Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.

  Brazen is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC. For more information on our titles, visit www.brazenbooks.com.

  Edited by Heather Howland

  Cover design by Heather Howland

  Cover art from iStock

  ISBN 978-1-63375-465-2

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition November 2015

  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 thig
hs 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 co
nsenting 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.