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He could afford the expense, but the prices the local cleaning companies charged to come out and do a property in Knightsbridge were highway robbery with violence and buggery.
With an exhausted sigh, he stepped out of the elevator and made straight for his bedroom down the hall, shrugging off his jacket and tugging his tie loose as he went.
It had been the usual hullabaloo that it always was on Christmas Eve. He’d been representing his organisation, Firewall, at a charity ball for the rich and famous, pretending not to know all the funds raised would actually get carved up amongst the host and organisers to pay for the spread and décor.
Strange as it might seem, he’d used to enjoy the yearly shindigs. The pomp and glamour masked behind a veil of festivity and good will to all men, and an opportunity to press flesh with the stars without them begging for funding for whatever vanity project they were fronting.
That was while his wife was alive. His angel. His Sonja.
The uncontested love of his life. And his greatest regret.
Without her on his arm, the charade just wasn’t worth the effort.
Pulling at his dickie bow, desperate to loosen its noose around his neck, he pulled open his bedroom door, and suddenly stopped dead, his eyes wide in disbelief.
Compared to the wealth and opulence of the rest of the penthouse, Josh’s bedroom was little more than a cell. A quiet, almost humble abode with only the most plain and functional of furnishings. A simple double bed flanked by side-tables, a wardrobe against one wall, and a chest of draws on the other. Simple, practical and minimalist, just like its owner.
A Black Country boy born and bred, Josh had never been entirely comfortable with the trappings of wealth. It was just too big and too much. He liked things small and poky, like his parent's place on the council estate where they'd grown up. So when they’d stumbled across a place with what the estate agent had described as a glorified coat closet round the back, he’d made an offer there and then. While Sonja had busied herself turning the rest of their home into a palace fit to house any denizen of high society, he’d been erecting his man cave. It was a quiet little piece of Birmingham, the only place he could really call his own. His Sanctuary.
And someone had violated it.
Lying in the middle of the room was perhaps the biggest sack he had ever seen. A cavernous cloth bag with a red and white fur trim worthy of old Saint Nick himself, and all his reindeer pulling that damn sleigh too.
What was it doing there, in his bedroom?
“What the?” Josh mused slowly, arching a brow, before treading in and circling the sack, giving it a slow walk around. What on earth could it be, and how could it have gotten in. His secretary, Reina, might have dropped it round if something had arrived at the office while he was away, but she always let him know when she did. But it was well past office hours, and she never trespassed into his private rooms. Noticing a card attached to the silk ribbon that tied it, he reached out to read it, but the contact caused whatever was inside to move.
“Christ!” Cursing, Josh lurched backward, as if expecting a cobra to rear up before him. However, when nothing happened, the bag stilled as whatever was inside settled. He took a breath. Waited for a moment. Then, when still nothing happened, he slowly reached out and poked the sack again.
It wriggled, and then there was a noise, soft and excited, like… giggling.
Curiosity getting the better of him, he undid the ribbon and opened the sack-
“Surprise!” An excited voice cheered and Josh felt the air being punched from his lungs as a red and black blur burst from the sac and hit him in the chest, sending him tumbling back to the floor. Grunting as his back hit the ground, he found his head suddenly buried in a mass of wavy black hair rich with the scent of forest fruits and a pair of sapphire blue eyes staring back at him, bright with mischief.
“Erica?”
“Merry Christmas Daddy.” His stepdaughter beamed before swooping down and crushing her lips to his in a lush, hungry kiss.
She tastes like… strawberries, Josh realised as Erica’s mouth moved against his, sucking hungrily at his lips before her lush little tongue found his own and coaxed it into a dance that made his cock hard within its prison.
Stroking. Teasing. Swirling. Drinking him in as her hands fisted in his hair, drawing him close so he could feel how soft and small she felt against him. How warm and inviting.
Yet for all that, he couldn’t help but wonder if this was how her mother had tasted.
He supposed it was. They had always been so alike. Near identical in fact, except for the obvious age difference, and even that had been less and less noticeable near the end. That same bright smile and playful expression. Those same full lips and little nose that would twitch adorably whenever she laughed and sneezed. The same soft, wavy dark hair that tumbled down to the flair of their dancer’s hips and long legs.
So alike, he could have almost believed it was her mother kissing him.
Yet she had never kissed him, and it was that thought that gave him the strength to pull away.
“Erica! What are you doing?” he demanded, his breathing hot and heavy as he glared down at her, eyes dark with lust. “And just what are you wearing?”
His surprise was well warranted.
Though no one would ever call Erica’s wardrobe conservative, she'd surpassed herself this time. Hell, it was unquestionably one of the sexiest things Josh had ever seen. A piece of crimson cloth trimmed with snowy white fur that hugged her body like a second skin. Hung off her shoulders, it both accentuated the slope of her neck while boasting a deep plunging neckline that left nothing to the imagination and went perfectly with the thigh-high flounced skirt that, even from that angle, teased a glimpse of her derrière.
“Aww… don’t you like it?” she pouted, the corner of her plump pink lips curling with a naughty half-smile. Her big innocent eyes widened and stared up at him with a look that was both innocent and sexy as fuck. “It’s your Christmas present.”
