Wicked Christmas Eve

I rushed through the door marked Suite 650 without so much as a glance at the sign next to it, focused only on arriving on time. 


And froze.
Like a deer in headlights, I couldn’t move. 


There was a—uhh—a woman bent over the desk. Her skirt lifted. Her ass bare. Tears streaked across her face. 


I couldn’t speak. Hell, I couldn’t think. 


“Can I help you?” The low and steady male voice caught my attention as I turned from the woman who’d captured my attention so fully I’d failed to notice the man standing in the doorway to an office only a few feet away from the desk. 


Big and imposing were my first thoughts as I took in the loosened tie, the broad chest straining the buttons of his shirt, all of which tapered down to a trim waist and thick legs. 


But it was the hands that drew me to him like a moth to a flame. Or one hand actually, because in it he held his belt loosely looped together as if he’d been about to roll it up—


My gaze jerked back to the desk and the woman still laying unmoving atop it. 
Oh God. 


He was going to—