A Sinful Little Christmas. J. Margot Critch

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      Michael’s face was set in a frustrated frown as he crossed the floor of Di Terrestres. He’d come to Vegas ready to get to work, to put everything in his past behind him and put down roots in a new city. To start a new successful life. But as he slung the plastic dry cleaning bags over his forearm, he shook his head. There was one thing standing in his way of that. Alana.

      So far, his first day had included pissing off his new boss, then hitting on her, then being sent to pick up her dry cleaning. But he wanted to do more work than that. He was restless.

      Normally, there was a way for him to ease his restlessness—sex. It was plenty available in Vegas, especially at Di Terrestres, but he wasn’t interested in taking part in the activities at the club. He had to focus his time and energy on work, to make a good first impression on his new bosses. He’d already blown that to hell with Alana, he knew. But he had to be on his best behavior going forward.

      Whether she knew it or not, she’d kicked his ass all over her office. But the thing was, he’d kind of liked it. He was a dominant type, he liked control—in every aspect of his life—and he’d identified the same traits in Alana. She ran one of the most well-known erotic clubs in the country, and was known internationally. He knew from experience that it wasn’t an easy job, and he respected that. It couldn’t have been easy being her—and that was most likely the reason for the walls she had erected around her—he could see them, felt them. But even though she was his boss, he was confident that with a little persistence, he could break them down.

      He recalled the way she narrowed her eyes, pursed her lips at him. Standing face-to-face with her had stiffened his dick, and he’d wanted to reach out and kiss her. But he didn’t. As well as being a sucker for punishment, he was a professional. He needed the fresh start that she and her friends had given him. And keeping it in his pants to do the job was imperative.

      He scanned Di Terrestres as he headed for the private suites. They had put him up in a room there until he could find a suitable place of his own. His room was well equipped but on the small side, and he knew he would need to find something bigger once he got settled in the city. Looking around the club, during peak hours, he was able to see the crowds that flocked to Di Terrestres. The people who gathered for the drinks and conversation that preluded a night at an erotic club. The energy felt so close to that of his own place, and he felt it snap and sizzle through his blood. He couldn’t wait to get down to work. Pull his weight and show Gabe, Alana and the others that they had made the best decision in bringing him aboard.

      He came to the staircase, and, nodding at Andre, the host he’d met earlier, Michael bounded up the stairs, removing the electronic fob from his pocket. He stopped outside his room, and held the key over the pad to unlock the door. Shifting Alana’s dry cleaning to his other arm, he entered his suite.

      His bags were still packed, sitting by the door, the room still neat and unlived-in, but there was something out of place. A black patent leather purse was left on the small table. The bottle of tequila had been taken from its place in the wet bar and left out of place.

      “It’s about time you got here,” someone called from the bathroom. He knew the feminine voice, even though it was tinged with a bit of humor, and not the anger he’d heard in it earlier. But he waited, shocked and silent by the door, still holding the plastic bags of clothing as he heard the click of stilettos on the tile floor as she got closer, and he could picture the red soles on the bottom of her shoes. He knew exactly who would turn the corner to enter the room, but nothing prepared him for the vision of Alana Carter—his new boss—standing before him in her bra and panties and expensive high heel shoes.

      Her smile faltered when she saw him, and not the person she’d been expecting. They stood several feet apart, watching each other. She finally spoke, making no effort to cover herself. He was grateful for that. “What the fuck are you doing here?”