Page 3 of Santa's Baby

I yank off my parka as I bark her name.

She doesn’t respond.

I lift her up like she weighs nothing and wrap her lower body in my jacket. Her hands flop against my chest, and those are bare, too.

“When you wake up, we’re going to have a long talk about weather-appropriate clothing, young lady,” I mutter to her as I march back up the hill. My pulse is pounding erratically in my chest—and not from the effort of carrying her.

That wasn’t hard at all, except for how right it felt to cradle her in my arms.

You sick fuck. She’s barely conscious, so I can’t disagree with the voice in my head. I am a sick fuck when it comes to Neely. I have no right to the thoughts I’ve entertained, the desire I indulge in during the darkest hours of the night.

When I arrive at the lighthouse, I have to shift her in my arms so I can open the door, and her jacket bunches up. My hand tightens down on her thigh, practically bare in only a thin pair of tights, and she whines at the contact.

If she’s gotten herself frostbite, I will—

Do nothing.

I’m not in charge of her; I’m not her parent. I’m just a guy with opinions about how a girl should dress. Though I’m a social hand grenade, even I know it’s not cool for an old man like me to have opinions about how she should dress.

Except for when it’s a matter of life and death.

Jesus. I push inside and slam the door behind me.

In my arms, she rouses a little. “Ford?”

“It’s me, baby.” I think about putting her down on the couch, but I don’t have any throw blankets or shit like that.

She needs to warm up.

She needs to be in my bed.

My bedroom is on the ocean side of the lighthouse, a cozy nook of a room with a single window high on the wall. It’s dark and warm, only the light from the occasional pass of the turning beacon high above illuminating us. And it has an extra heater that I’ll crank up just as soon as I get her under the covers.

“I need you. . .” she murmurs as I unzip her wet coat and discard it.

“You need to get warm,” I mutter.

“Be my Santa again.” It’s a whisper, and her words break as she shivers.

I set her down on the bed, gentle as can be, then pull off her boots. Her tights are wet, and through them, her skin is cold.

I say a prayer to whoever the patron saint of horny old men is and tap her face. “Neely, sweetheart. Can you get undressed? I’ll find you a shirt.”

No response.

I pull the blankets over her. Fuck. I turn up the heater, take her coat out to the living room, and hang it next to my woodstove. Taking off my wet clothes, I text Susan to say that Neely is here and already asleep for the night—sort of true—then stalk back to the bedroom.

She’s shivering under the blankets.

Fuck it. I strip down to my boxers and climb in with her. “Let’s never talk about this again,” I whisper as I tug her dress up to her hips and find the waistband of her tights.

She’s so damn little in my hands. My fingers cover a lot of her flesh as I peel them off. I can’t help but brush her panties and notice where the soft cotton covers her ass cheeks—and where it doesn’t. Not so little anymore, I guess. Her bottom fills my hands as I get the tights down to her thighs, and a flash of forbidden desire crystallizes in my mind.

Neely on top of me. My hands on her hips, guiding her down onto my cock. Those cotton panties ripped away, her wearing nothing at all as I watch my erection disappear inside her perfect little cunt.

Her sexy, untouched virgin pussy.

Daddy’s little girl, taking every inch of his massive cock, until he’s buried inside her.

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