Unwrapping The Billionaire: A Steamy Christmas Novella Read online

I steeple my fingers as my inner sadist comes out to play, catching sight of my reflection in the glass cabinet opposite. I’m grinning like an asshole. Ear-to-ear. And I know exactly what’s making me that way… It’s the thought of Grace, debased and on her knees, taking my dick, over and over. Hitting the back of her throat, and making her spit up all over her delicate chin. Happy fucking Christmas to me…

  “Mr. Farley?”

  The sound of my secretary’s voice filters through my fantasy. She’s standing just inside my office, and watching me warily—like she’s a sheep and I’m a hungry wolf.

  She got that right.

  “What is it?” I lurch forward to disguise the huge bulge in my pants.

  “I’m on my way home and I wanted to wish you…” She tails off when she sees the look on my face. “Nevermind, I’ll see you in three days.” She turns to leave.

  “Two,” I say to her departing back.

  She turns in alarm. “But I-I booked the time off months ago. It’s my—”

  “Do I look like I give a shit? I want you here. You belong here. The Parker & Fisk paperwork needs to be finalized, as soon as possible.”

  That’s right. I have no intention of honoring my sordid little deal with Miss Parker. That company and my sweet revenge is mine to exploit.

  “But—”

  I shoot her a look, which leaves her in no doubt of what will happen if she disobeys me.

  “Two days,” she says quietly, acting like I just told her the whole of Christmas had been canceled.

  “Good decision. Now get the hell out of my office.”

  “Yes, Mr. Farley.” She starts backing out of the room. “You’re the last one in the building… Security is standing by, in case you need anything.”

  I flick my hand at her, and turn back to my acquisitions files, spinning around in my chair to offer up my final dismissal. I can sense her middle finger waving in my direction, but I couldn’t give a fuck. People are there to be used and exploited in this world, just like failing companies are.

  When the door closes, I slap the files back down on my desk and stride over to the bar in the corner to pour myself a large Macallan.

  The first sip tastes like victory.

  The second sip tastes like sex.

  Nothing will ever taste as good as her, though...

  “And it never will,” comes a booming voice.

  “What the hell?”

  I whirl back around, and then freeze. There’s a man sitting in my chair. My chair. But he owned that twisted throne, long before I ever laid a claim to it.

  Thick, salt-and-pepper hair.

  Hard eyes that never told a day’s truth, even when they were alive.

  The cruel smile that still cuts me to the bone.

  “What the fucking fuck are you doing here?” I whisper, and my father just grins at me—the same goddamn grin that was stretching across my face a minute ago, before my stupid, soon-to-be-fired secretary interrupted me.

  My dead father.

  The one I buried two years ago, and never shed a tear for.

  “I’m proud of you, son,” he bellows, as my Macallan starts to decorate the expensive carpet by my feet. “And you know what, asshole? That’s not a good thing… That’s not a good thing at all.”

  4

  Jonas

  Present

  The room starts to shake and spin. I’m having a heart attack… A stroke… I’m losing my fucking mind. Either that, or some dickhead broke into my office and spiked my Macallan. I glance down at the spreading stain in confusion.

  “Ava!” I roar, hoping my beleaguered secretary has had the foresight to change her mind and work late for once. I need the cops on the line, followed closely by my personal physician. Heads are gonna roll for this. “Get your butt in here now!”

  My father just cackles. “There’s nobody here, asshole. It’s just you and me. A good ol’ family reunion…”

  My head snaps back to him. “This is bullshit,” I explode. “I danced on your goddamn grave. You’re supposed to be de—”

  “Dead? Speak up, boy. My ears ain’t what they used to be!” He cackles again as a shard of anger lodges deep within my brain. I always hated it when he called me that. “Of course I’m dead, you moron. Are you going to offer your dearly departed father a drink, or not?”

  This isn't happening, but my sense of balance isn’t getting the memo. I stagger backward into the bar, and my arms go shooting out. The rows of bottles behind me go flying, and one of them happens to roll in his direction.

  I watch him bend down to pick it up, and I can’t take my eyes off his shoes. He’s still wearing the snaffle loafers he was buried in. Come to think of it, he’s still wearing the whole caboodle—from the gray Armani down to the silver tie.

  I picked them out for him myself. The choice was a no brainer, as far as I was concerned. It was my last, glorious ‘fuck you’ to a man who’d shared his name with me, and absolutely nothing else. In life, he’d only ever worn black. His nickname was ‘The Undertaker’, which was as much about his clothing choice as it was for the number of skulls he’d crushed on his way to the top.

  In a daze, I watch him pop the lid and sink an entire bottle of my Macallan Rare Cask, before smacking his lips together. “Couldn’t taste a drop,” he gurgles, “but I’m betting it’s still just as silky-smooth as my favorite pussy. My seventh wife was one hell of a gold-digger, but she knew how to make me—”

  “That’s it! Get the hell out of my brain!” I yell, smacking my fist against my temple a couple of times. My father’s sex life was of no interest to me when he was alive, and it sure isn’t getting my attention now.

  His pale, dead head jerks in my direction. A second later, he’s chucking the empty bottle right at me. I duck just in time, and it smashes into the wall.

  “Jesus!”

  “Quiet! I’m here to save your soul, boy!” He bangs his palms down on my desk.

  I’ve had enough of this. If I’m sliding down to Looney Town, I’m going out in style.

  “Wrong,” I thunder. “My soul’s on fucking fire, right now, old man. I’m making more money these days than you ever did.”

  “Pah! Money! That green’s a cunning bitch, and she’s asking for more than you can afford. Tell me, son. Do you want to end up as another billionaire corpse like me, with nothing but a collection of empty vases and mansions to show for it?”

  “What vases? What the hell are you on about?” I brush at the shards of glass now decorating my shoulders and lapels. I really am losing my mind. I’m arguing with a fucking ghost.

  “Gracie isn’t like those other vases, son. She’s pretty to look at, all right. Oh, she’s mighty fine, with that tight little ass and those perky tits… But she’s not a vacant, not like the ones who have kept your dick wet these past few years.”

  “Shut your filthy mouth,” I yell, grabbing a bottle as my own weapon and hurling it in his direction. No one is allowed to disrespect Grace Parker, other than me.

  My father doesn't duck.

  He doesn’t need to.

  The Beluga Gold Line passes right through him and smashes against the window in an ugly show of liquid.

  Holy shit.

  I stumble backward again, and not even God and a chorus of his fucking angels can keep me upright this time around.

  My father throws his head back and laughs as I go crashing to the floor, and then his cold, black eyes are focusing in on me again.

  “Are you planning on breaking her tonight, son?”

  Yes.

  No.

  “Stop calling me that! You're dead! You're no more my father, than I am your goddamn son. Not anymore…”

  “Are you planning on breaking her?” he bellows again. It’s like he hasn’t heard me. “Are you planning on pounding all of that sweetness out of her? Are you going to let that pretty light die in her eyes?”

  “Damn right I am!” I say, rising to my feet, and brushing myself off…again.

  “Is the flavor of your revenge that much sweeter than the taste of her—?”

  “YES!”

  Is it?

  “You’re going straight to hell, boy,” he says, silencing me into submission. “You’re riding an express elevator all the way to the hot place, and let me tell you, there’s no fucking shade when you get there. I failed you in this life, but not anymore... Tonight, I’m going to squeeze all that coldness and cruelty out of you like a tube of butt cream. Tonight, I’m opening your eyes to just how much of an asshole you’ve become.”

  “Security!” I yell, as my brain finally engages with an exit strategy. I need a Xanax. I need a whole script of them…

  “Three ghosts, Jonas,” announces my father, rising to his feet, as well. “Tonight, you will be visited by three flawless little sex kittens who even you won’t wanna fuck with.”

  “I look forward to it,” I say, inching toward the door. “It’ll save me wasting money on cocktails if they’re a foregone conclusion.”

  “Three ghosts,” repeats my father, looking as solemn as I’ve ever seen him. “Past, Present and Future.”

  “Catchy names,” I mutter, as I hear the dull thud of footsteps in the hallway outside. “I take it they’re not their real ones?” I glance across at my desk, but my father’s gone.

  I can still hear his cackle though, even as the two security guards come bursting into my office

  5

  Jonas

  Present

  “Mr. Farley, sir? Is everything okay?”

  “Did you see him?” I demand, marching back over to my now-empty desk. “Did you see the bastard who was sitting here?”

  Was it all a nightmare?

  No chance… The air is still tainted with my father’s shitty cologne, complete
with an undercurrent of dirt and maggot.

  “Err, no Mr. Farley.” The first security guard shakes his head slowly. I watch his gaze darting over my face.

  No, I’m not going mad, dickhead. But my psychiatrist may be shortening his annual skiing holiday to Colorado.

  “Can we do anything else for you, sir?”

  “Yes. I want a cleaner in here right away. This place is fucking mess.”

  With all the broken bottles littered about the floor, my office stinks worse than a bar.

  The guy’s face pales. “But, sir… It’s Christmas Eve. All the cleaning staff left half an—”

  “I don't care if you have to pull one out of your ass,” I yell, losing my shit completely. “I want someone in here within the next half hour, or I’m pink slipping you all the way back to the Stone Age!”

  “Yes, Mr. Farley.”

  They’re tripping over themselves to exit my office before I make good on my promise, a whole twenty-nine minutes early.

  Grabbing the last, surviving bottle of Macallan, I reclaim my rightful place at my desk. The chair is fucking freezing though, and a violent shiver rips up my spine.

  Three ghosts.

  I need a drink.

  I need Grace.

  Where the fuck did that thought come from?

  I’m interrupted by a knock. That was fast. Maybe those two jokers will get to keep their jobs, after all.

  “Come in,” I say, raising the bottle to my lips.

  The door bangs open, and my bottle slams back down to the desk. The hottest blonde I’ve ever laid eyes on is standing in my doorway, wearing nothing but white lingerie and a smile. Legs up to her armpits, hair like golden silk... Gigi Hadid, eat your heart out. I’m still picking my jaw off the floor as she saunters into my office.

  “Can I help you, sweetheart?” I drawl. If she’s a fucking cleaner, so am I. “You look like an early Christmas present to me.”

  “Your father sent me,” she says huskily, drawing a delicate finger across the impressive swell of her tits. I barely glance at them, though. I’m too busy losing my smirk so damn fast I’m still feeling the breeze. “I’m Past,” she adds, moving even closer, owning those six-inch heels like she was born wearing Louboutins.

  “And I’m past all this crazy shit,” I croak. “If you’re not here to clean up my office, I suggest you get the hell out of it.” I glance at the clock on the wall. It’s nine twenty. Grace is due here in forty minutes. For some reason, I’m filled with relief at the thought.

  “You don't get to smart talk your way out of this one, Mr Farley,” she says, moving closer to my desk.

  “How do you know my name?” I demand.

  “I know everything about you, Mr. Farley, and you’ve been a bad, bad boy…”

  Any other man would be leaking from those words coming out of those lips, but my dick’s fast asleep and dreaming of another.

  She leans over my desk, her long blonde hair trailing over my discarded acquisitions file, and fingers the tails of my red silk tie. I only ever wear that color and style, and there’s a reason behind it which I try and ignore.

  A second later, she’s yanking me forward so hard I’m sprawling out across my desk. I try to jerk away, but she’s too strong.

  Who is this chick? Arnie’s cousin?

  Giggling like a maniac, she lets go of me with a hard shove to my shoulder, and I tumble backward into my chair. It rocks violently, and then I’m tipping—arms and legs flailing—until the back of my head hits the floor.

  “Hold tight, Mr. Farley,” I hear her say as things go hazy on me. “It’s time for the truth, and she bites and kicks even more than I do…”

  6

  Jonas

  Past - Four Years Ago

  The worst thing about Christmas isn’t the eight million corporate events I’m expected to attend. It’s the forced joyfulness of the occasions. It’s the whole fucking farce of it. People who have spent the last twelve months firing litigation bullets at their rivals’ backs are now fawning all over them like they’re old college buddies from way back when.

  As far as I’m concerned, no amount of holiday cheer can erase those kinds of shit stains. Loyalty is for life, not just for Christmas.

  Then again, I’m biased... I’ve always hated this time of year. My mother died of a broken heart on Christmas Eve five years ago. Thanks Dad. Last year, my older brother decided to join her by committing hare kari off the side of the Brooklyn Bridge. Tonight’s event is good for one thing, and one thing only—getting so shit-faced I can't remember my own name, with a bunch of assholes who will forever remain nameless to me.

  I sip my Macallan and glance about the swanky Manhattan bar, blatantly ignoring the idiot who’s reeling off stock market figures at me like they’re baseball scores. This place is puking crystal chandeliers and gray marble. It’s also radiating heat, designer suits, and bucketfuls of that fake Christmas cheer I was talking about.

  My father has decided to branch out into the entertainment industry. When I say ‘branch out’, I really mean ‘seek and destroy’. He sent me here as his spy. Loose lips sink entire corporations, especially after several glasses of Dom Perignon. Any hint of an injured business, and he’s on that shit so fast any CEO will think a magician’s made his sales figures disappear.

  In truth, mergers and acquisitions bore me stupid, but since my mother and brother died, I’ve been moving through my life like a shadow, and this industry gives me a lot of dark corners to hide in.

  It also gets my father off my back. Recently, he’s decided he wants to mold me into his successor, and I’m happy to play along, for now… As soon as his cocaine habit catches up with him, I’ll be selling his company and reaping the rewards for putting up with his selfish dickhead ways for thirty years.

  All of a sudden, the door behind me bangs open as a gust of wind takes charge. A woman appears in the entrance, shaking her umbrella out, and clearly flustered by her tardiness. Her pale cheeks are flushed from the cold and embarrassment, and her soft, brown curls are still smeared across her face from the wintry blast outside.

  All around me, heads turn and expressions frown, before disinterest draws them back to their inane conversations again. Not me. I can’t take my eyes off of her, and that’s strange because usually women hold my interest for all of about two seconds, and then I’m done.

  She slips out of her coat and hands it to the hovering cloakroom attendant. I watch her mouth a thank you at him. Strange occurrence number two. Most people in this bar don’t know the meaning of those two words, let alone how to say them out loud.

  Underneath, she’s wearing a short, black dress that makes her slender legs seem endless. She’s adorably awkward in her high heels, too. It gives her whole game away, even before she’s had a chance to open her mouth. Definitely a Chucks girl I decide, and I’m thinking her favorites might be a pair of cherry-red high-tops to match those fuckable lips.

  I continue to observe her for a little while before making my move. From the way she’s glancing around the room, I can tell she’s been coerced into attending this event, too. Let’s be reluctant attendees together, sweetheart. Maybe I could use a drinking partner, after all.

  Her gaze shifts my way, and she catches me staring. Predictably, her blush deepens. I’m used to that reaction from women. If my height doesn’t prompt it, my face usually does the trick. For some reason, it doesn't irritate me like it usually does, and I find myself guessing at her name as I make my way over, concluding it’s most likely something feminine and florid like Rosie or Daisy.

  “Fashionable, or deliberate,” I say, extending my hand. Up close, she’s at least a foot smaller than me, and even more alluring. She has that delicate, classy thing about her, a bit like the actress Natalie Portman, but she’s far more interesting than that.

  “Excuse me?” A polite frown appears as she takes my hand. Her grip is surprisingly firm. Fuck me, her eyes are amazing. Deep, dark and curious... Like two oval windows into a place I want to slap down a deposit on immediately.

  “Your excuse,” I clarify, motioning to the doorway.