Chapter One

Blaze

"Code red," my younger brother, Alaric, announces over the intercom connecting our offices.

"What the fuck is a code red?" I growl, not even looking up from the stack of photo proofs in front of me. Georgia Dillard's angelic face stares back from every single one. She looks stunning in the new pieces for our plus-size lingerie line, but I haven't approved a single photo.

"It's a warning system," Alaric explains. Not even the intercom hides the amusement in his voice. "Red means danger, Georgia is in the building. Yellow means caution, she's on her way. Green means feel free to do whatever you do when you aren't stalking her. Brooding. It's brooding, isn't it?"

"You're an idiot." I shake my head, setting aside the stack of proofs. Even if I stared all day, I still couldn't pick one. I know this because I've been staring at the same photos for the last week straight. The simple fact is… I don't want anyone seeing Georgia in our new line. Every inch of her curvy body is on display in them. The pieces are bold, sexy, and daring, leaving little to the imagination. Jealousy eats me alive every fucking time I think about anyone setting eyes on those photos and thinking the same things I do.

Problematic since that's precisely why we hired her.

"Just thought you'd like to know your future wife is here," he says. The bastard. He's enjoying my misery far too much.

I shut off the intercom before he has a chance to say anything else and rise from my desk to stare out at the city. Rain sheets down the floor-to-ceiling windows, reducing Los Angeles to a series of red and green dots far below…the Christmas decorations scattered from one end of the city to the other. Dark clouds spit lightning in strikes hard enough to rattle the high-rise I'm standing in. I'm so close to the roiling masses, I should hear every thunderous clap. Yet all I hear is the infernal tick, tick, tick of the analog clock hanging over the door.

Soundproofing.

A useful perk when you make as much as I do. But I've recently discovered a flaw in the design. Since no one can hear a fucking thing I do in this office, there wouldn't be a damn thing stopping me from bending Georgia over my desk next time she pops in and riding her until she's pleading for mercy. No one would hear her cries of ecstasy.

Harder, Blaze. Harder.

I'm guessing whoever designed this office didn't think about that. Hell, maybe they did and that's the whole point. I don't know. What I do know is this: I was fucked the instant I set eyes on her.

Whichever god oversaw the creation of Georgia Dillard was a wily bastard. Between her glossy blonde ringlets, her big gray eyes, and her dimples, she looks downright angelic. But that curvy body brings me a never-ending parade of wicked thoughts. I spend the majority of every day thinking about feasting on her in ways that would shame the devil.

Since hiring her two months ago, she's turned my once orderly company on its head. She's set my world to spinning too. She's the sweetest little angel…with a mischievous streak I want to fuck right out of her. She's determined to push every single one of my buttons just to see what I do.

She's tempting the beast.

If she knew how many times I've thought about bending her over my desk and fucking the sass out of her, she'd be horrified. Or maybe she'd like it. I'm not sure which messes me up more. The fact that I've been hard for her since she waltzed into my office the first day on the job and turned my world upside down…or the fact that I'm pretty certain she wants me too.

The only problem?

She's almost half my age, only twenty, and as innocent as they come. And I want her screaming for daddy so badly I'm ready to set fire to this entire planet and watch it burn. I don't just want her in my bed. I want her on my lap, eating from my hand. I want to be the man who takes care of her, who protects her…and then bends her over and rails her senseless.

Until I met her, I didn't know I had a kink. I've been celibate for years, focused on more important shit—like running the plus-size fashion empire my mom left me and my brother. I realized exactly two point five seconds after Georgia smiled at me that I was sadly mistaken. I've been trying like hell to avoid giving into the urge, but I'm at the end of my rope.

Her final shoot is 3 days after Christmas. If she isn't mine by then, I'm not going to be responsible for the damage I do to God's green earth.

It's fucked up, I know. But it is what it is.

Ho ho…hell. I'm going to hell for Christmas.

At this point, I'd drive the bus myself just for a taste of her.

"Your suit is ready, Mr. Parrish."

I turn from the window to find Jill, our newest intern, standing in the doorway with a garment bag draped over her arm. A Santa hat dangles from one finger. A pair of shiny black boots hang from another. Her overly bright smile is a dead giveaway that all is not calm here.

"What suit?" I growl.

"Um, for the Christmas party tonight?" she squeaks. The garment bag trembles on her arm like she's afraid I'm going to eat her alive for bringing me a suit I know nothing about.

Jesus. I haven't been that bad, have I?

Maybe.

The closer we get to Georgia's final shoot, the worse my temper grows. Sue me. I've been unrelentingly hard for two months straight. It's enough to make anyone crazy.

"I didn't order a suit, Jill." I cut my eyes at the garment bag. "Especially not a Santa suit."

"Oh." Her thin lips pull down into a frown. "Georgia said you were playing Santa tonight at the party…. Maybe I misunderstood."

Georgia. Of course she's behind this.

"I'm sure you didn't," I mutter, my tone dry. This right here is exactly why I can't get our new model out of my head. She's exactly the right combination of devilish and sweet to keep my blood pumping and my blood pressure soaring. I never know what she's going to do next to stress me out.

I shouldn't find that nearly as attractive as I do, and yet every single time she throws some new wrench into my plans or hits me with a curve ball, I want to scoop her up into my arms and ravish her body with pleasure until she breaks.

She needs a daddy to settle her little ass down.

That man will be me. It has to be me. If it's not, I'm going to snap. End of story.

But I'm not playing fucking Santa Claus tonight. If my little princess thinks otherwise, she's going to be sorely disappointed.

"Give me the suit," I say, thrusting out my hand. "I'll handle it."

Jill darts forward, shoving it into my hands like it's cursed. She nearly takes my finger off with the boots.

I bite out a smile. Judging by the way her face pales, it's not a friendly one.

"Thank you," I add for good measure.

She scurries out again, her brown hair practically flying behind her. I'm killing my brother for hiring her. She's a sweet girl, but she's terrified of her own shadow. I have a design room full of temperamental artists. They're going to eat her alive.

I toss the suit over my arm and follow her out, turning right toward Alaric's office. I find him at his desk, his feet up, his tie undone, tossing a stress ball at the ceiling. Though, why he has said ball in the first place, I don't know. Alaric never stresses about anything. He's more likely to be causing stress than feeling the selfsame.

"Do you ever actually work?" I ask him.

"Nope." He catches the ball before launching it into the air again. "You won't let me see the pictures of Georgia, so I'm on strike."

I growl a wordless warning. Hell will freeze over before he sees those photos. He may be my brother, but I will bury his body where no one will ever find it. It's not like he really wants to see the pictures anyway. He just likes fucking with me. He knows exactly how gone I am over her. It's quality entertainment as far as he's concerned.

"Jealous bastard." He flashes me a shit-eating grin, his gaze sliding toward the suit in my hands. "What the fuck is that?"

"Georgia sent it. Apparently, she thinks I'm playing Santa at the party tonight."

"You're serious?" He sits forward in his chair so fast his legs fall off the desk, thumping against the floor. The ball lands beside his chair with a soft thud. His dark eyes light up, a crack of laughter escaping his lips. "Oh, this is fucking great! I was planning to skip out early, but now I'm definitely staying for the whole shit show."

"I'm not playing Santa," I growl.

"Yeah, you are." He grins. "As soon as she smiles at you, you're going to cave like a sandcastle, bro. I can't wait to see this shit."

"I'm not playing Santa."

He's too busy laughing to take me seriously. If he doesn't breathe soon, he's going to die on the floor. I probably won't do CPR. If our mother were still alive, she'd understand.

"I hate you."

He guffaws again, pounding his fist on the desk.

I leave him to die alone, ducking out of his office in search of Georgia. Our new building is massive, but we use every inch of space. My mom built this company from the ground up, turning it into the industry icon it is today. She knew decades ago what so many others failed to see until recently: plus-size women deserve beautiful clothing too.

Since she died five years ago, Alaric and I have taken it to new heights. The new lingerie line is already sold out and it doesn't even drop until late January.

I take the stairs down to the design floor, confident that's where I'll find Georgia. She spends most of her time there, being fitted for one thing or another. Sure enough, I find her in the sewing room. Scraps of fabric are strewn from one side of the room to another, along with mannequins in every state of undress.

The room is organized chaos, everyone furiously sewing. Georgia's in the center of the room with Sariah Davenport, their heads together as they giggle about something Sariah is sketching out. As soon as I see Georgia, my pants grow tight, and my tie chokes me. That laugh. That impish smile. I'd kill to be the reason for both.

"What is this?" I ask, my voice booming across the room. I lift the suit high as everyone in the room looks up.

Georgia's gray eyes meet mine, her smile making my fucking knees weak. Her gaze drifts from me to the garment bag. "Oh!" She jumps out of her chair, her tits bouncing in her UCLA sweater as she hurries toward me. "Your suit is finished."

"I don't recall agreeing to play Santa tonight, little one," I growl.

Ten sets of prying eyes bounce between me and her like this is a soccer match and Abbott James, the beast of Edinburgh, has the ball. But no one else says a word.

"You should have thought about that before you hired a bank robber," she says. Two seconds later, she whisks the suit away, practically dancing in excitement to see it. "The one you hired is in jail."

"Since when?"

"Since he got caught trying to break into an ATM last night."

How does she know this? Better yet, why don't I know this?

"Why am I just hearing about this?"

"Alaric told you earlier," she says.

"He most certainly did not."

"He did," she insists. "He told me he did."

In Georgia's world, no one lies. It's not that she's ignorant because she's not. My princess is pulling straight A's at UCLA. She just sees the best in everyone, including my pain in the ass brother. He's a wily motherfucker, though. He knew she'd run with this. He was probably counting on it.

If he didn't already laugh himself to death, I'm killing him.

"Oh, look!" Georgia cries, whipping the suit out of the bag.

Instead of a ridiculous red coat and baggy red pants, it's a red tuxedo, complete with a red and green plaid vest and a stylish overcoat. The tie matches the vest. The only familiar parts are the hat and boots still in my hands.

"Something is wrong with it," I say, pointing out the obvious.

Georgia laughs at me.

"There is," I mutter.

"Haven't you heard?" She flashes me a bright smile. Hell, everything about her is bright and shining, from the golden threads in her hair to the warmth in her eyes to that fucking million-dollar smile.

"Heard what?"

"It's 2021. Santa got hot."

Fuck it. I'm torching this planet. It's the only rational thing to do at this point. Because I know damn well this little princess didn't insinuate that she thinks I'm hot in front of everyone.

Except she did.

Why does that make me feel bulletproof?

"I'm not dressing up as Santa, Georgia," I say, standing my ground.

Her mulish expression sets my teeth on edge. And makes me hard enough to hurt.

She sets the suit aside, popping her hands on her hips. Those gray eyes flash fire at me. "You're the big boss. This is a big boss job, Blaze. The only kind of Christmas party that doesn't have a Santa is the lame kind. He's the most important person at a Christmas party. Do you want to be the reason your employees are sad at Christmas? Do you want everyone whose anyone talking about how lame your party was? No, you don't."

My future wife is a Christmas nut.

Could she be any more fucking adorable?

No. No, she couldn't.

"Do I look like I'm equipped to play this role, princess?" I arch a brow.

Her gaze roves down my body, her eyes squinted as if she's putting considerable thought into this question. When you make as much as I do, you're expected to look a certain way. But when you run a company as big as this, finding time to hit the gym is all but impossible. I work twelve-hour days, every day. I'm not out of shape, but I'm not ripped or lean. I'm thick everywhere. And this is Los Angeles. As far as they're concerned, I'm the Pillsbury Dough Boy.

Do I give a fuck? Hell no. They still try to kiss my ass like it's their job.

Georgia is different. I want her to find me attractive. Hell, I want her to find me irresistible. And nothing makes me feel like king of the world more than the pretty pink flush currently climbing up her porcelain cheeks.

My princess likes what she sees. Thank God. Also, problematic because I now feel like stealing a sleigh, commandeering a herd of reindeer, and saving Christmas like some jolly hero of yore.

Her shoulders go back as she draws herself up to her full height—which is still a good five inches shorter than my own six-two. My gaze immediately drops to her breasts. I want to know what it feels like to slide between them more than I want my next breath.

She tips her chin up, a brave little soldier unwilling to retreat.

"I think every woman at the party will be thinking about sitting on your lap if you wear that suit," she says.

"Will you?" I growl, unable to stop myself. It might be my imagination, but I think I detected a hint of jealousy glittering in her eyes. As if anyone could ever compete with her. Even though there are ten other people in the room right now, all I see is her. All I ever see is her.

"Everyone will," she says. The pulse in her throat jumps, belying her nerves. She's not nearly as composed as she wants me to think. But the thing about Georgia…she never backs down. Ever.

"I didn't ask about everyone else, little one. I asked about you."

"I'm always thinking about it," she whispers for my ears alone. The quiet longing in her voice is unmistakable. The same reflects in her expression. She isn't just fucking with me. She means it. "I think about a lot of things I probably shouldn't."

Her guilty gaze slides from mine, but not before I see what she's been trying to hide. She tucked it away, carefully keeping it behind layers of attitude and mischief. But I know what it looks like. I see the same damn thing every time I look in the mirror.

My little princess has been up to no good.

"Fine," I growl, caving exactly like Alaric said I would. One week. I have one week to make this girl mine. I don't plan on needing it. By the end of the night, she will be mine. "I'll do it on one condition."

"What condition?" The suspicion in her voice would be cute if it didn't have my dick hard enough to snap in half.

"You're playing my elf."