My Favorite Holidate

by Lauren Blakely

“Have you considered law?” I ask as she reaches for a towel and wipes her mouth. “Actually, I have. Environmental law. I think I’d be a good attorney protecting the forest and polar bears.” Her gaze drifts pointedly to her pajamas—they’re covered with cartoon polar bears wearing Santa hats. “I’d hire you,” I say as we head down the hall to her room. “I already have my first client, and I haven’t even gone to law school yet.” “Let alone high school,”

Ah, hell. I can’t let her get ideas. Even if her mistletoe was strategic, I can hear the little bit of hope in her young voice. Mac is eleven. She’s sharp as a tack and more clever than a book. I could see her engineering a romance even out of a fake one.

But that’s not in the cards. Love is for other people. It’s for people who don’t have trust issues a mile long.

And I could never trust a fake romance. For a romance to truly work, it needs a solid foundation—not one built on a game of trickery. This is a fun, intoxicating, wi...

Hell, I couldn’t even make a romance work with the mother of my child. And she’s a kind, warm, thoughtful person. Clea...

But did he? He was hardly around. He was always off at the tables, gambling, trying to win the big one. He was wandering into casinos, casing out private poker parties, hunting for a score. Mom was the parent who was around every morning, every evening. She was there for my sister and me. And the three of us were left to pick up the pieces he left behind. Broken, dirty pieces.

Okay, correction: I couldn’t possibly forget the annual holiday party for the football team I own—the one where we make the sponsors happy by giving them a chance to fanboy with the players. But yes, I absolutely forgot that, of course, I should bring my girlfriend to that fete.

Ah, that’s it! The team party! And I must be going with my Christmas boyfriend. And his clever daughter covered for me this morning. Damn, that’s impressive espionage for an eleven-year-old.

It’s kind that she offers me support for a party, but it also makes me wonder—am I a little My Fair Lady in Wilder’s glittery world?

Wilder scoffs. “You don’t need to do ten million crunches.” I flap a hand toward his obviously flat stomach. “You probably do one crunch and get instant abs. Is that your secret?” His lips twitch in a smile. “How do you know I have abs?” “Because the universe is unfair.” Also because your shirts fit nice and tight, and it’s unmistakable.

“One, you’re gorgeous as you are, and you don’t need to change a thing. And two, the universe is unfair.”

“Am I your My Fair Lady?” “Fable,” he says, gentle but firm too. “Why would you say that?” I frown, then look around his office, pointing to the window overlooking the stadium that he owns. “We don’t live in the same world. Your aunt has a stylist named Arbor who serves Veuve Clicquot. She’s sending a fancy car. And I made you a thank-you ornament from yarn,” I blurt out, and his eyes widen at the last point, but I keep going. “And I spilled Christmas glitter dicks on you, and I live in a tiny apartment and⁠—”

“Don’t think I didn’t notice the gift confession.” A sly smile teases his lips. “You made me an ornament?” I roll my eyes. “It’s nothing,” I say. He drops my hand and raises a finger. “It’s not nothing.” “You haven’t even seen it yet.” “It’s from you. It’s not nothing.”

The command in his voice sends a shiver down my chest, right to my core.

I want to lean into him, to catch his mouth with mine, to thread a hand through his hair and demand he kiss me hard on this couch, in his chair, on the…

“Thank you. For reassuring me. I’m sorry I came in a little hot earlier.” “I like it when you come in hot,”

As the music pulses, he drops the snowman ornament onto the desk, then covers my mouth with his with zero hesitation. This isn’t a three-second practice run. This is not a mistletoe moment. This is a stolen office kiss.

It’s a hard, deep kiss from my billionaire boss.

It’s a full-body kiss, and I can’t get close enough to him.

I yank him nearer, and he grunts—a carnal noise against my mouth. A low, dirty groan. His right hand grasps one hip, then his left hand comes down on the other. He’s bending over me, my back bowing on his desk. Wicked images flash before my eyes. Me scooting up on the mahogany then lying back, tugging him on top of me. Him hiking up my leg. Him grinding against me.

He breaks the kiss, eyes wild, mouth lush, and—I steal a furtive glance down—cock hard. It’s tenting his tailored suit pants. Wilder Blaine is outrageously aroused by me.

He roams a hand along the outside of my thigh. I’ve never been more grateful to be wearing a skirt. His strong palm travels down my leg, and I whimper. I actually whimper. It just feels so good. His touch is nothing like the caresses I’ve received from other men I’ve dated. Wilder is strong, determined, and focused completely on me. When he reaches the hem of my skirt, he plays with it then murmurs, “What am I going to do with you?” Touch me. But I’m afraid to say that out loud. Afraid to voice how potent this lust has become.

He kisses me deeply but with tenderness too. With a sigh. And a groan. With one hand on my skirt.

His mouth coasts down my jaw, then to my throat, and he’s kissing the hollow of it. Has anyone ever kissed me there, like this? Like I’m precious and sexy all at once? No. No one has. I feel like I will die from desire.

I’m clutching his tie, and he’s kissing my throat, and his hand… I gasp. His hand is inching up and u...

“So fucking perfect,” he praises. “I want to make you feel so fucking good.” “News flash: you kind of already are,” I gasp, lifting my hips, seeking more. “I know,” he says, and that’s borderline cocky, yet it makes me wetter. “What I mean is…I desperately need to make you come. Right here. On my desk. Right now. Can I?” My mouth falls open. My breath staggers out. I blink. “Is that even a question?” Another wicked smile. Then a taunt. “I don’t know, Fable. Is it a question?” “Yes. The answer is yes. Whatever you’re asking. Yes.”

This is a line. And we’re not just crossing it. We’re obliterating it on a Monday morning on his desk as his fingers trace a dizzying circle against my clit, then move down my center, where I’m soaked for him.

Pleasure winds tighter in me, curling in my belly as he plays with my clit, then pinches it. I gasp into his mouth. Loud, maybe too loud. He breaks the kiss. “Quiet, little elf, while I make you come.” I nod, eager to try, eager to please.

I watch his face. I don’t know who’s enjoying this more—him or me. His eyes are dark, etched with wicked determination as he brushes dizzying circles along my clit expertly, confidently. This is a man who isn’t worried whether I’ll come. This is a man who intends to give me a screaming orgasm.

“Do you want me to stop?” He eases out his fingers. I grab his wrist, halting him, shaking my head. “Don’t say such a terrible thing.” A grin takes over his handsome face, and he thrusts back into me, then fucks me harder with his fingers, deeper, urging me with his body to keep going.

I collapse onto his desk, but he catches me, looping an arm around my back as he gently eases out his fingers. With me spread out on his desk, he presses the gentlest kiss to my lips, then straightens his spine, adjusts his tie, and brings his fingers to his lips. My eyes pop wide, and I push up on my elbows and watch him lick the taste of me off his fingers.

His eyes are fiery. His hair is sticking up in all directions. His lips look bruised. He’s a man who’s just fucked a woman well. And he licks every last drop of me, sighing contentedly as he finishes. “So fucking delicious.” And the world remakes itself yet again with a fresh new realization—my boss wants to eat me.

“Don’t hide your face. You were gorgeous when you walked into my office, and you were stunning when you came,”

The compliment sounds beautiful on his lips but it’s terrifying too. I don’t know where we go from here. To bed? To my knees? To the couch?

I’m not even sure what I like better—the double orgasms or the dress. I decide I like both.

I never told Wilder my size, and yet he knew exactly what to get me. Just like he knew how to play my body.

It’s Wilder fake boyfriending like no man has fake boyfriended before.

“Hun, if a man sent me something in my size, it wouldn’t mean he had a knack for shopping. It’d mean he had a knack for me. And your boyfriend has a very big knack for you.”

“We’ll see,” I say evasively, fighting off a smile. “Oh, yes, hun. We absolutely shall see.” After Arbor selects a pair of sparkly, silver shoes, he blows me an air kiss. “Can’t wait to be right.”

I squeal. I fucking squeal. The man has been offering to comp me a room at his five-star hotel for more than a year. He didn’t wait for me to take him up on his offer. He just did it. And I just love the way he takes control sometimes. Like a boss.

Fable: Have I told you I owe you the biggest thank you in the world? Wilder: You owe me nothing. It’s my pleasure to treat you the way you deserve. Whether that means in private suites, on shopping sprees, or…desks. A hot wave of desire crashes over me. Fable: I really like desks. Wilder: Me too.

“Stop,” I mutter to them as we reach the door. “Stop what?” Josie asks, faux innocent. “Stop grinning like that.” “Like what?” Maeve chimes in. “Like you all think you know something,” I whisper. Maeve’s smile ripens. “Oh, I know nothing. Just that your fake date arranged not only a last-minute private paint-and-sip class with a very coveted teacher so you wouldn’t miss it, but also dinner for the four of us at a fabulous new restaurant that’s practically impossible to get into.” “And he’s comping us a penthouse suite in his hotel,” Everly adds, making the point too. “It’s nice. That’s all. He’s nice,” I insist. Josie snorts. “That’s not nice, Fable. That’s above and beyond.”

“Hush. Let’s go paint and sip.” We do and it’s the best class I’ve ever taken. Dinner at Gabriel’s is the most mouthwatering meal I’ve ever eaten. And the penthouse suite is the most decadent place I’ve ever stayed.

Is there a handbook somewhere for fake dating? If so, I could use it right now

It’s the first time I’ll have seen him since I learned exactly how good he is with his hands. A blast of heat rushes through me. I could barely get that first office kiss out of my head, not to mention the mistletoe kiss, and now the session on his desk has claimed a permanent spot in my brain.

Just because his fingers were inside you doesn’t mean you can walk in like you own the place. Check with his assistant.

“Do I need to remind you?” What is he talking about? “Remind me of what?” “What my Christmas girlfriend once said,” he prompts then says, “I quote, Santa’s not hot. Of course you aren’t going as Santa.” Ohhhhh. That’s what I said about the Christmas movie costume party. “That does ring a bell.” “You also said Santa as a nickname gave you the ick.” I gasp, all over the top. “What is wrong with me? Am I a Santa hater?” He smiles smugly. “Maybe you are.” “No! I can’t be.”

“Be that as it may, I’m wearing a suit instead.” It takes me a moment to fully register what he’s saying. “Because I said Santa’s not hot?” He nods. “Yes. And because you also said You’re my boyfriend. You’ll look hot.” “And you want to look hot…for me?” “Yes.”

He leaves first, leaving me with the admission—he wants to look good for me. Because I’m his holidate? Or just because? No idea, but I really could use that handbook.

But do fake boyfriends want to look hot for their Christmas girlfriends? Do they want to bend them over desks? Do fake girlfriends want their pretend lover’s fingers fucking them in the office?