Read Online Secrets to Hide 2: Naughty Little Christmas by Ella Sheridan - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ella Sheridan
Tags: Holidays; Contemporay
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through his mind, and he crunched down on the remainder of his candy and swallowed before he choked on it. Sweat broke out on his brow as he watched the woman move, her slender hands tracing the outline of her hips in a way that drew every masculine gaze in the club straight to her rounded ass.
“God almighty,” he groaned.
What followed was a five-minute torture session that spiked his dick and his heartbeat until he thought his ribs might crack along with his zipper. Harley epitomized sex, her body every man’s perfect wet dream, and the way her breasts shook when she danced forced Damien’s hand into his pocket for a surreptitious squeeze. No way in hell was he coming in his pants just from the sight of her breasts, but he wanted to. She made him want to. She made him want a lot of things he knew weren’t good for him. When her arms crossed over her head and she shimmied like that, she could make him forget every principle he’d built his life on.
And then where would he be? A heavy weight settled on his shoulders. If, for a single moment, he was honest with himself, he had to admit he didn’t know. All he knew was this: the club, the people in it, and the rules he’d given himself to live by. On the other side of that line waited a blank abyss he feared would wipe away everything he’d managed to accomplish. He couldn’t let Harley push him over that line.
That same damn honesty popped up again, and a wry grin twisted Damien’s lips. Right. Honesty. If he was honest, it wasn’t Harley pushing him anywhere; it was him trying desperately to stop his own slow slide toward oblivion.
He forced himself to turn, to walk away from the vision that had him hard as a rock and sweating with need. Only once he’d closed himself in Marc’s office and dived into the paperwork awaiting him could he get the image of Harley sensual swaying to the music to recede.
Of course, the woman herself waltzed into the office less than an hour later.
Train was playing softly through the speakers on the entertainment center near the desk, trying to soothe him, and Damien held another damn candy in his mouth. What could he say—he was a glutton for punishment. And a candidate for diabetes if he kept up with the sugar intake.
Speaking of sweets. Harley’s cheeks were flushed with exertion, her hair disheveled like she’d run her hands through it. Or had sex. Her hair would look just like that after I shoved my fingers—
He closed his eyes, told himself to shut the fuck up, and opened them again. If Harley noticed his mood, she gave no indication of it. She crossed to the low glass coffee table in the conversation area of Marc’s office, the area she’d taken over as her own, and sat quietly.
He snagged a pen from the desktop and twirled it casually, but his words sounded far from casual. “Have fun?”
Well, if she hadn’t sensed his mood before, the tone of his voice probably clued her in. Judging from the surprise on her face, she was quick on the uptake.
“Yes,” she said warily.
“Good. Maybe we can get some work done now.”
God, he was such a dickhead. He knew it, knew he needed to find a way to deal with this like a logical, reasonable adult, but the reasonable approach blew up in his face every time he tried it. He opened his mouth, and something totally illogical and not at all reasonable came out.
That’s what the candies are for, remember? Keeping your mouth shut.
He eyed the half-empty bag of Creme Savers on his desk. No, they were too easy to chew or swallow. She’d never make it past her trial period like this, not because he’d let her go, but because she’d kill him and have to go to jail for a lengthy sentence unless she could plead self-defense. Of course, with a female judge, she might get off easily.
“Damien, haven’t we had this discussion before?” she asked, then, with a derisive twist to her lips, “Recently?”
“Right, we did. I believe it was Monday night,” he said, knowing
“God almighty,” he groaned.
What followed was a five-minute torture session that spiked his dick and his heartbeat until he thought his ribs might crack along with his zipper. Harley epitomized sex, her body every man’s perfect wet dream, and the way her breasts shook when she danced forced Damien’s hand into his pocket for a surreptitious squeeze. No way in hell was he coming in his pants just from the sight of her breasts, but he wanted to. She made him want to. She made him want a lot of things he knew weren’t good for him. When her arms crossed over her head and she shimmied like that, she could make him forget every principle he’d built his life on.
And then where would he be? A heavy weight settled on his shoulders. If, for a single moment, he was honest with himself, he had to admit he didn’t know. All he knew was this: the club, the people in it, and the rules he’d given himself to live by. On the other side of that line waited a blank abyss he feared would wipe away everything he’d managed to accomplish. He couldn’t let Harley push him over that line.
That same damn honesty popped up again, and a wry grin twisted Damien’s lips. Right. Honesty. If he was honest, it wasn’t Harley pushing him anywhere; it was him trying desperately to stop his own slow slide toward oblivion.
He forced himself to turn, to walk away from the vision that had him hard as a rock and sweating with need. Only once he’d closed himself in Marc’s office and dived into the paperwork awaiting him could he get the image of Harley sensual swaying to the music to recede.
Of course, the woman herself waltzed into the office less than an hour later.
Train was playing softly through the speakers on the entertainment center near the desk, trying to soothe him, and Damien held another damn candy in his mouth. What could he say—he was a glutton for punishment. And a candidate for diabetes if he kept up with the sugar intake.
Speaking of sweets. Harley’s cheeks were flushed with exertion, her hair disheveled like she’d run her hands through it. Or had sex. Her hair would look just like that after I shoved my fingers—
He closed his eyes, told himself to shut the fuck up, and opened them again. If Harley noticed his mood, she gave no indication of it. She crossed to the low glass coffee table in the conversation area of Marc’s office, the area she’d taken over as her own, and sat quietly.
He snagged a pen from the desktop and twirled it casually, but his words sounded far from casual. “Have fun?”
Well, if she hadn’t sensed his mood before, the tone of his voice probably clued her in. Judging from the surprise on her face, she was quick on the uptake.
“Yes,” she said warily.
“Good. Maybe we can get some work done now.”
God, he was such a dickhead. He knew it, knew he needed to find a way to deal with this like a logical, reasonable adult, but the reasonable approach blew up in his face every time he tried it. He opened his mouth, and something totally illogical and not at all reasonable came out.
That’s what the candies are for, remember? Keeping your mouth shut.
He eyed the half-empty bag of Creme Savers on his desk. No, they were too easy to chew or swallow. She’d never make it past her trial period like this, not because he’d let her go, but because she’d kill him and have to go to jail for a lengthy sentence unless she could plead self-defense. Of course, with a female judge, she might get off easily.
“Damien, haven’t we had this discussion before?” she asked, then, with a derisive twist to her lips, “Recently?”
“Right, we did. I believe it was Monday night,” he said, knowing
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