The wood is always my favorite part. 

A crackling fire on the hearth, a warm cup of cocoa, and a cozy sweater makes Christmas feel like a miracle after the stresses of a tough college semester. I'm home for Christmas at my parents' house, but something is different this year.

I think my parents aren’t telling the truth. I have a work-study job at school. They say a clerical error is why the school thinks I need one. But I don’t push. I took on a job at my college as soon as the school notified me that I needed to. I'm in school; I'm costing my parents a lot of money. My mother makes no qualms about the fact that she wishes I would simply marry some rich man and not worry about going to school until after I snag a husband. If I consider school at all. My father indulges me, but only to a point. I can tell they are frustrated. I know they must have money problems.

Now, my father is holed up in his study, going on several hours now, instead of us even having a family dinner. Christmas is in two days and I'm stuck upstairs while he deals with some jerk who won't hold off their business until after the holidays? What's so bad? Who's being so rude?

I figure that I should trot my own butt downstairs. Get my own hot cocoa. I have the cozy sweater—check—and I will curl up with a novel after I procure the desired chocolate. Thanks to my dorm mate, I’m reading a saucy romance that heats up these cold winter nights. Better, at least, than the cozy mysteries I usually read.

Now, I swear, I have no intention of bothering my father. But when I hear raised voices, my attention is grabbed. Particularly, the voice I don’t recognize grabs me. A deep, masculine voice that gives me chills the instant I hear it. 

"Damien!" I hear my father shout at him, sounding frazzled.

This Damien continues to say something about how it would be in my father's best interest to do as he was told. 

Who is this jerk? He bothers us, interrupting our family time during the holidays, and works my father up to the point that he sounds frantic. Tells him what to do. I can’t help but lean in closer, and my mug slips out of my hand. Uh oh. Both male voices stop. I yelp.

"Sarah?" my father says, with a hint of ... hopefulness? Something odd colors his voice. I want to think that he's just happy to see me, but that seems like a foolish thought, even for an introvert like me. I don’t pick up much in social cues, but that’s due mainly just my naïveté to new surroundings. Something burns in my stomach. That heat pools deep in my belly when I hear that Damien man repeat my name in his delicious, dark voice.

It sounds like Damien tastes my name rather than just says it, and I'm covered in chills again, despite the thick cable knit sweater I'd made between classes this year to keep me warm. All the sweaters in the world won’t sheath me from the chills Damien’s voice creates all over my body. I am painfully aware that I'm not wearing much more than this sweater. Nothing can cover me up enough if I'm in the same room as Damien.

"Come in, won't you?" my father says. He sounds like the cat who ate the canary. Why? I think he must be mad that I'm spying, and that I'd probably just broke one of my mother's mugs. Mom will bitch about it, and then in turn my father will have to hear that bitching and he'll bitch to me about it. Still, I have no real reason to think ill of my father's intentions. I step inside, wishing I had more than the thin pajama pants on I thought wouldn't be seen by anyone. I didn't even have any panties on, not that I should be thinking about that, but I feel naked. 

When I see this Damien, sitting in my father's desk chair while my father stands behind one of the chairs in front of his desk usually reserved for guests, I want to run away. I'm frozen in place. Damien is tall, taller than any man I've ever seen before. His shoulders are broad and frame an impressive barrel chest and a chiseled set of abs I can see through the cotton of his shirt, it fits so tightly. He has tattoos, intricate designs that are striking. But nothing is as striking as the power he seems to emanate. While his face is the very image of classically handsome prince charming, there is a rugged danger about him that screams villain more than savior. That danger doesn’t mar the definite sophistication he has, but it's the final touch of a devil's food cake of a decadently hot man. 

I've upgraded from thinking about drinking hot chocolate. This incredibly hot man makes me think about wanting to drink him in, eat him up, even though I wouldn't know the first thing about that. A man like him couldn’t be attracted to a nerd like me. All I do is read and study. I've never even had a boyfriend. Until seeing him, I hadn't had much of an interest in one.

But nothing about him is ‘boy’—Damien is one hundred percent male, a grown man. I hug my arms to myself.

"Hi, dad. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to drop the mug, I was just going to make some hot cocoa--" I stop stammering when I follow my father’s gaze to see that now he’s looking at Damien. 

Damien looks at me. I feel something in my core pulse when Damien's hot gaze meets mine. I know this look, though not usually do I see this look in my direction. Or so intensely. Damien is looking at me the way a man looks at a woman that he wants. On Damien's face, looking at me, it's so intense that the temperature of the room heats to a suffering boiling point. I want to tear off my sweater. I gulp. My palms sweat. My stomach swirls.

"Sarah, honey," my father says, putting on a sweeter voice than he normally does with me. I can’t figure out why.

I can’t pull myself from this spell Damien cast on me with just his wicked eyes.

"Yes, daddy?" I don’t understand what my father is doing. I can’t linger to think about it because my heart is racing so much I can barely listen to my father’s words.

"Why don't you sit on Damien's lap, you could help with this decision we're trying to come to?" My father phrases and inflects it like a question. But it is a request. I think I must be hearing him incorrectly. What?

I can't breathe. Damien's eyes blaze in my direction, and a smirk plays over one corner of his mouth. It eggs me on, annoys me a little even. It's like he's saying that I won't do it, and for some reason, I'm unable to accept that. Sure, he's right, it's the sort of thing I would never do. 

But I want to.

The reptilian part of my brain wants it. Hungers for this man.

I will do anything for this man. Just looking at him, somehow I know this.

I waltz right behind my father's desk. My legs move me, my brain able to get the message to them even though I feel like I'm made of jelly and can’t think straight. I sit on Damien's lap. Internally, I'm screaming.

Damien pulls me further back on his lap, not allowing me to sit on the edge of his knee tentatively. I feel the full length of the undeniable form of Damien’s cock in his trousers. I nearly yelp out loud but contain the screaming to my mind. A small gasp escapes. I hope no one notices. I can’t hear anything other than the rushing of my blood, blasting through my ears, as if it's playing through speakers.