Natasha stepped out of the cab onto the frost-kissed sidewalk of West 57th Street, her breath forming quick puffs in the December chill. The city hummed with its usual chaos—honking taxis dodging pedestrians bundled in scarves, street vendors hawking roasted chestnuts that smelled like burnt sugar. She tugged her wool coat tighter around her slender frame, the tan from her last Miami shoot still clinging to her skin like a secret. New York for Christmas, solo. Her family was back in Prague, too far and too broke to bridge the Atlantic this year. Modeling gigs had kept her stateside, scraping by on runway scraps and Instagram endorsements. Fine, she thought, shaking off the loneliness. She'd treat herself to a solo eggnog and binge-watch bad holiday movies in her cramped Midtown walk-up.
Her phone buzzed as she fished for her keys. A text from Francis: "Where are you? I'm outside your building." Her stomach did a little flip. Francis Hargrove, the sharp-suited CEO who'd been orbiting her life like a persistent satellite since they met at that Fashion Week afterparty three months back. Tall, broad-shouldered, with that effortless command that came from boardrooms and bottomless bank accounts. He'd been texting non-stop, sending flowers to shoots, even showing up uninvited to her last audition. Persistent didn't cover it; the man was a full-on pursuit missile. She hadn't replied to his latest invite—a weekend at his Hamptons place—but here he was, chasing her to the city.
She spotted him leaning against a sleek black Escalade, steam rising from the coffee cup in his gloved hand. His dark hair was tousled by the wind, and his overcoat hung open just enough to show the tailored suit beneath. "Natasha," he said, voice smooth as aged whiskey, pushing off the car. "You look like you could use a real Christmas."
She arched a brow, crossing her arms. "Stalking now, Francis? That's a new low for a guy who runs a Fortune 500."
He grinned, unapologetic. "Call it strategic investment. Your building's heat is out—landlord texted the whole block. Come to my place. Penthouse on Central Park West. Hot cocoa, tree, the works. No strings, I swear."
She hesitated, glancing up at her dingy brownstone. The wind bit harder, and damn if the promise of warmth didn't sound good. "Fine. But if you pull out mistletoe, I'm out."
The drive was quick, the city lights blurring into festive streaks. Francis's penthouse occupied the top two floors of a pre-war tower, all glass walls and marble floors that gleamed under recessed lights. The elevator opened directly into the living room, where a massive Fraser fir dominated the space, strung with white lights and ornaments that probably cost more than her rent. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the park below, snow flurries dancing like confetti.
"Make yourself at home," Francis said, shrugging off his coat. "Parents are flying in tomorrow. Surprise visit. You'll like them—Mom's a retired artist, Dad's the one who taught me not to take no for an answer."
Natasha kicked off her boots, padding across the heated floors in her socks. The place smelled of pine and something spiced, like cinnamon from the kitchen. She dropped onto a leather sectional that swallowed her slim body whole. "Parents? Bold move, introducing me before we've even had a proper date."
He handed her a mug of cocoa, thick with marshmallows. "Consider it immersion therapy. Besides, you're worth the risk."
She sipped, the warmth spreading through her. They talked—easy banter about her latest shoot in a warehouse turned pop-up gallery, his nightmare merger with a rival tech firm. Laughter came easier than expected, the kind that loosened knots she didn't know she had. By the time the snow thickened outside, Natasha felt the pull, that magnetic draw toward this man who saw her not as a pretty face but as a puzzle he wanted to solve.
The next morning, Christmas Eve, Francis's parents arrived in a flurry of hugs and Chanel No. 5. Elena Hargrove was a vision—silver-streaked hair in a chic bob, eyes sharp with mischief. Victor, broad like his son but softer around the edges, carried a bottle of vintage champagne. "Francis didn't mention company," Elena said, eyeing Natasha with approval. "But what a delightful addition. Tall and tan— you must be the model he's been mooning over."
Natasha flushed, shooting Francis a look. He just smiled, pouring mimosas. The day unfolded in a haze of domestic bliss: decorating the tree with Elena's handmade glass baubles, Victor regaling them with stories of Francis's rebellious teen years—sneaking into underground clubs, not the boardroom wunderkind he pretended to be. Lunch was catered—oysters on the half-shell, caviar blinis—eaten on the terrace despite the cold, heaters blasting warmth.
As evening fell, the penthouse transformed. Candles flickered on every surface, not the cheap tea lights but beeswax pillars that cast a golden glow. They gathered around the tree, gifts piling up: a silk scarf from Elena for Natasha, a leather-bound sketchbook from Victor. Francis's gift to her was wrapped in simple kraft paper—a delicate gold necklace with a pendant shaped like a shooting star. "For the girl who lights up runways," he murmured, fastening it around her neck. His fingers brushed her skin, lingering just a beat too long.
Natasha's gift to him was impulsive—a bottle of rare Scotch she'd snagged from a client's party. "For the man who won't take no," she teased. But under the table, her foot nudged his, a spark igniting.
Dinner was intimate: roast goose with trimmings, wine flowing like the East River. Laughter echoed, stories turning bawdy as Victor recounted a disastrous family trip to Aspen. By dessert—yule log cake dusted with powdered sugar—Natasha felt buzzed, not just from the merlot but from the easy intimacy. Francis's hand found her knee under the table, thumb tracing circles that sent heat pooling low in her belly.
Later, as his parents retired to the guest suite, Francis led Natasha to the library, a cozy nook lined with books and a crackling fireplace. "They adore you," he said, pulling her close. The door clicked shut, sealing them in warmth.
She tilted her head, lips curving. "Is that your play? Win over the parents first?"
His hands slid to her waist, pulling her flush against him. "Maybe. Or maybe I just want you." His mouth claimed hers, slow at first, tasting of wine and want. Natasha melted into it, her fingers threading through his hair. The kiss deepened, tongues tangling, her body arching as his hands roamed—up her back, down to cup her ass through her dress.
She broke away, breathless. "Your parents are down the hall."
He grinned, wicked. "Soundproof walls. Trust me."
Emboldened, Natasha pushed him onto the leather armchair by the fire. Straddling his lap, she felt the hard ridge of his dick pressing against her through their clothes. "Then show me how a CEO closes a deal."
Francis's eyes darkened, hands hiking up her dress to reveal lace panties. He traced the edge with a fingertip, teasing. "Fuck, Natasha, you're killing me." She ground down, eliciting a groan. His mouth found her neck, sucking lightly, teeth grazing her pulse. She tugged at his shirt buttons, exposing a chest dusted with dark hair, muscles honed from gym sessions that probably cost more than her wardrobe.
Clothes came off in a frenzy—her dress pooling at her feet, his pants kicked aside. Naked now, save for the necklace glinting against her tan skin, Natasha stood before him, slender limbs glowing in the firelight. Her breasts were small and pert, nipples hardening under his gaze. Francis pulled her back down, his mouth latching onto one, tongue swirling as she moaned, fingers digging into his shoulders.
"God, your tits are perfect," he murmured, switching sides, sucking harder. Natasha's pussy throbbed, slick with arousal. She reached between them, wrapping her hand around his cock—thick, veined, pulsing hot in her grip. She stroked slowly, thumb circling the head where pre-cum beaded.
Francis bucked, cursing under his breath. "Shit, that feels good." He flipped them, pinning her to the armchair, her legs draping over the arms. Kneeling between them, he spread her thighs, exposing her shaved pussy, lips glistening. "Look at you, so wet for me."
His tongue flicked out, tracing her folds. Natasha gasped, hips lifting. He licked broader strokes, lapping at her clit, then delving inside. She tasted tangy-sweet, and he groaned against her, the vibration sending shocks through her core. Fingers joined—two sliding in, curling to hit that spot that made her see stars. "Fuck, Francis," she panted, grinding against his face. He sucked her clit, relentless, until her orgasm built like a wave, crashing over her in shudders. She came with a cry, pussy clenching around his fingers, juices coating his chin.
Not giving her time to recover, Francis stood, cock jutting proud. Natasha dropped to her knees, eager. She took him in her mouth, lips stretching around his girth. He was salty, musky, and she swirled her tongue, hollowing her cheeks as she bobbed. His hands fisted her hair—not pulling, just guiding. "Jesus, Natasha, your mouth..." He thrust shallowly, fucking her face as she hummed, the vibration making him swear.
She pulled back, strings of saliva connecting them. "I want you inside me." Rising, she bent over the armchair, ass presented—firm, rounded from squats and stairs in the city. Francis gripped her hips, rubbing his dick along her slit. "You sure?"
"Now," she demanded, pushing back.
He thrust in, slow at first, stretching her tight pussy. Inch by inch, until he was buried deep, balls against her. They both groaned. He started moving, steady rhythm, each slap of skin echoing softly. Natasha braced, pushing back to meet him, the angle hitting her g-spot. "Harder," she gasped. Francis obliged, pounding into her, one hand reaching around to rub her clit.
Sweat slicked their bodies, the fire's heat mirroring the one building between them. He slapped her ass lightly, the sting blooming into pleasure. "You like that? My dirty little model."
"Fuck yes," she moaned, clenching around him. The rhythm faltered as his control slipped; he was close. "Come inside me," she urged, the risk thrilling.
With a guttural "Fuck," he slammed home, spilling hot cum deep in her pussy. The sensation tipped her over again, her walls milking him as she squirted lightly, wetness dripping down her thighs.
They collapsed, tangled and spent, breaths mingling. But Francis wasn't done. His fingers trailed to her ass, circling the tight ring. "Ever tried this?"
Natasha shivered, intrigued. "Not yet. But with you... show me."
He fetched lube from a drawer—prepared, the bastard—coating his fingers. Gently, he worked one in, then two, scissoring as she adjusted, the fullness strange but electric. She rocked back, moaning. When she was ready, he positioned his cock, still hard, at her entrance. "Relax, baby."
The push was slow, burning stretch giving way to pleasure. He filled her ass completely, inching in until seated. Natasha panted, hand between her legs rubbing her clit. Francis moved carefully at first, then faster, the taboo intensity heightening everything. "So fucking tight," he growled.
She came first, anal orgasm ripping through her like lightning, body quaking. Francis followed, pulling out to cum on her back, ropes of semen painting her tan skin.
They cleaned up quietly, stealing back to the main suite for a shower. Under the rainhead, soapy hands explored lazily—his on her breasts, hers on his spent dick, stirring it back to life. But exhaustion won; they tumbled into his king bed, limbs entwined.
Christmas morning dawned bright, snow blanketing the park. Elena and Victor bustled in the kitchen, pancakes sizzling. Natasha and Francis joined them, flushed and secretive, exchanging glances over coffee.
The day blurred into games—charades turning raucous, Victor's impressions drawing tears of laughter. Gifts opened: Elena's painting for Francis, Victor's vintage watch for Natasha. As evening approached, his parents announced an early flight out—Elena's gallery show in Paris calling.
Alone again, the penthouse felt charged. Francis cornered Natasha in the kitchen, lifting her onto the island. "Round three?" he murmured, hands under her sweater.
She wrapped her legs around him. "Make it count."
He stripped her slowly this time, savoring—kissing down her long torso, nipping at her hipbones. On the cool marble, he ate her out again, fingers in her pussy while his thumb teased her ass. Natasha writhed, coming hard, squirting onto his tongue.
She returned the favor, dropping to suck him off, deepthroating until he begged. But instead of finishing, she pushed him back, climbing on. Reverse cowgirl, she rode him, ass bouncing as she took his dick deep in her pussy. His hands gripped her cheeks, spanking lightly, a finger slipping into her ass for double penetration feel.
"Fuck, Natasha, you're insatiable," he groaned, thrusting up.
She ground down, clit rubbing his base, orgasm building fast. "Cum with me," she demanded. They did—her pussy flooding, his cock pulsing cream inside, a messy creampie leaking out as she slowed.
Panting, they laughed, the absurdity hitting. "Best Christmas ever," Francis said, kissing her shoulder.
But the night wasn't over. In the bedroom, he blindfolded her with a silk tie—trust game. Hands bound loosely to the headboard, she surrendered as he teased: feathers from a gift box trailing her body, ice cubes from champagne melting on her nipples. His mouth followed, warm contrast. When he finally entered her, slow missionary, eyes locked through the blindfold's edge, it was intimate, raw. He fucked her deep, whispering filth: "Your pussy's mine now, gripping me like that."
She came whispering his name, him following with a roar, filling her again.
Dawn broke with them tangled in sheets, the city waking below. As they dressed, Francis's phone buzzed—a work crisis. "Duty calls," he sighed.
Natasha smirked, packing her bag. "Told you no strings."
He pulled her close. "Liar. This is just beginning."
She left with a wink, hailing a cab into the snowy streets. Back in her walk-up, heat flickering on, she touched the necklace, smiling. Christmas alone? Hardly. But as her phone lit with his text— "Dinner tomorrow?" —she typed back: "Only if you beg."
Witty bastard, she thought. He'd probably do it.