"Fuck me harder against the tree," Molly had gasped last Christmas, her nails digging into Leonard's shoulders as the ornaments rattled above them. The memory flashed hot behind her eyelids now—the sting of tinsel on her bare thighs, the way her swollen breasts had swayed with each thrust, milk leaking onto his crisp dress shirt. The HR file labeled him a predator. She called him a god.

Her fingers lingered on the hem of this year's dress—thinner fabric, no bra. The elevator hummed upward, her reflection sharpening in the polished doors. Twenty-three floors. Just enough time to roll her nipples between thumb and forefinger until they peaked visibly beneath scarlet silk. Last year's promotion had evaporated with her maternity leave.

Leonard's laugh cut through the crowd—low, knowing. He hadn't noticed her yet. Molly let her clutch drop, bending slowly to retrieve it so the slit in her dress parted around one stockinged thigh.

Across the room, Leonard's hand rested possessively on some intern's waist. Molly licked her lips. That broad palm had left bruises on her hips when she was seven months along, his teeth marking where her maternity blouse gaped open. The intern giggled at something he said. Amateur. Leonard didn't want giggles. He wanted the wet sound of a woman trying not to scream as her cervix got battered.

Her own thighs pressed together, silk dampening against her swollen clit. Christ, she could still feel the way her milk had sprayed when he'd pinched her right nipple during last year's performance review—hot arcs hitting the glass walls of his corner office.

His gaze dropped to where her dress clung to leaking nipples. She arched slightly, fabric pulling taut. Two years ago, this dress would've been professional. Now it was a battle flag stitched from the silk of surrendered panties.

Molly recognized that rhythm of Leonard's thumb on the intern's back—the same lazy teasing he'd used before bending her over the copier. She adjusted her stance, letting one stiletto slide suggestively against the marble. His eyes darkened. Good. Let him remember how her pregnant belly had jiggled with each spank, how her tits had swayed heavy with milk while she choked on his cock under mistletoe. The intern would be crying in a bathroom stall by midnight. Molly intended to be vice president by dessert.

She could still taste the pine needles from last year—sharp and resinous where they'd pricked her back as Leonard fucked her against the tree. Her milk had sprayed in hot arcs when he twisted her nipples, each pull sending shockwaves down to where his monstrous cock pistoned into her. The orgasm had hit like a freight train, her swollen belly quaking as she came so hard her vision whited out. The tree had toppled. Someone from accounting found her panties in the potted poinsettia.

"Ms. Whitmore." Leonard's voice rumbled against her ear suddenly, his breath scalding where it touched the shell. "You're... glistening." His fingertip traced the damp V of her dress, pressing just enough to make her clit jump. The scent of her arousal thickened between them—thick and primal. She didn't bother hiding the shudder that rolled through her. Let him see what he did to her. Let everyone.

The champagne flute trembled in Molly's grip as Leonard's thumb found the exact spot where her clit strained against silk. He didn't press. Didn't need to. The knowledge alone—that he remembered how her body clenched around him eight months pregnant, how she'd sobbed when he made her come with one hand while signing termination papers with the other—sent slickness trickling down her thigh. His chuckle vibrated through her. "My office," he murmured against her temple, "in five." Not waiting for agreement. Never waiting.

Molly watched him disappear into the crowd, her pulse hammering where his teeth had left ghost marks last winter. The intern was still talking. Poor thing. She didn't understand that Leonard's attentions were a live wire—dazzling until they burned you raw. Molly adjusted her dress, fabric clinging obscenely to arousal-slicked skin. She'd built her career on the wet, messy truth of what happened when Leonard's 10-inch cock met resistance. And tonight? Tonight she intended to earn every inch of that promotion.

The penthouse bathroom mirror showed her exactly what Leonard saw: nipples like bullets beneath ruined silk, pupils blown wide with anticipation. Molly twisted the faucet, splashing cold water between her breasts. Not to cool down. To highlight. Droplets caught on stretch marks, tracing the map of where his hands had molded her. She bit her lip hard enough to taste copper. Good. Pain would keep her from coming too fast.

Leonard's index finger dragged through the water beading above her left nipple. She exhaled shakily as his other hand gathered her hair, exposing the bite mark he'd left last year. His teeth grazed it now, tongue lapping at salt and Chanel No. 5. The mix always drove him wild.

Against the vanity, her hips jerked involuntarily. Leonard chuckled, palming her through the dress. "Still so greedy." His voice was rough as the stubble scraping her shoulder. "That cunt wept when I filled it eight months gone. Now it's begging for another round." Beneath his grip, her clit throbbed in time with her heartbeat. He could probably feel it through the silk—a frantic pulse he'd trained to recognize his touch like a dog knows its master's whistle.

The party noise dimmed as Leonard's free hand unzipped his trousers. Leonard's grip on her hair tightened, forcing her to watch as his cock split her open again and again, her own slickness glistening where their bodies joined. "Look at you," he growled. Her knees almost buckled when his thumb found her clit. "Now earn that promotion."

She came, screaming into his palm, her cunt milking him in pulsing waves. Leonard didn't slow—just ground deeper, his balls slapping her oversensitive flesh. Molly sobbed as a second orgasm ripped through her, the vanity rattling with their force. Hot cum flooded her, so much it dripped down her trembling thighs before he'd even finished.

The mirror fogged with their breath. Leonard smoothed a hand over her stomach, possessive as a property deed. "Vice President Whitmore," he murmured against her sweat-damp neck. The title sounded like a consummation. Outside, the intern's laughter floated by. Molly arched into his touch, still impaled. Let the girl hear. Let them all hear how a real woman sealed a deal.

His laugh scraped raw against her nape. The hand in her hair twisted tighter, forcing her to watch as two thick fingers plunged into her cunt, scooping up his own release. "Greedy bitch," he murmured, smearing the slickness lower. The first press of his thumb against her asshole stole Molly's breath. She braced against the vanity, silk tearing as she spread wider. "Last year you screamed when I took you here."

"And you came down my throat while I sobbed," Molly countered, arching her back to present herself properly. The champagne flute shattered under her heel. "Fuck me like you did when I was thirty-two weeks—"

His cockhead breached her with a brutal shove, the stretch bordering on agony. Molly's scream ricocheted off the tiles as Leonard buried himself to the hilt in one motion, her milk spraying the mirror where her torso snapped forward.

Somewhere beyond the door, the intern's laughter cut off abruptly. Leonard's palm cracked against Molly's ass, the sting radiating through her pelvis. "Quiet," he growled, hips already pistoning. "Let them hear what happens to ambitious sluts."

The marble countertop bit into her hipbones as he fucked her ass with the same relentless pace that had once sent her into early labor. Molly's vision whited out when his fingers found her clit again, the dual onslaught tearing another orgasm from her writhing body. Leonard's teeth sank into her shoulder as he came, his roar muffled by her flesh. Outside, high heels click-click-clicked toward the elevators. Poor girl. The real corporate ladder was slick with come and tears.

Her knees gave out afterward, the scent of sex and shattered crystal thick in the bathroom. Leonard adjusted his cufflinks over her trembling form. "Conference room in twenty," he tossed over his shoulder. "Bring the Ralston files."

Molly spat on the tiles, copper-bright with blood from where she'd bitten through her lip. Twenty minutes was enough time to wipe his spunk from her thighs, reapply her smudged liner, and—she paused, fingers drifting to the tender rim of her asshole—swallow two of the painkillers she kept in her clutch for occasions like this. The first time Leonard had taken her here, she'd limped for a week. Tonight, she'd walk into that conference room like she owned it.

Because she would.

Let the interns think promotions came from overtime and networking. She knew better. Power pooled between a woman's thighs when she stopped fearing the men who wanted to ruin her—and started ruining herself first.

"Vice Presidents don't leave evidence. Merry Christmas," whispered Leonard.