Page 7 of Santa's Baby

Look at me. See me for the woman that I am.

No such luck, though. He gathers one leg of the sweatpants and shoves it at my foot. “Step into this.”

I sigh and do as he commands, one foot and then the other. Somehow he gets them up to my hips without his big, thick fingers touching my legs once, which is truly rude.

He rises as he tugs them up, looming over me again as he roughly pulls them over my ass. My dress lifts with the waistband, and then his hands are under my clothes, fumbling with the drawstring. Now he can’t help but touch me, and it feels so good to have his fingers brushing against my stomach, even if it’s a purely functional task from his end.

For me, it’s magic. He’s a little hesitant, like he knows he shouldn’t be touching me under my dress, even though it’s innocent. Those little moments before he yanks his fingers away from my skin as if touching me has scalded him, but then his touch returns. . . It’s the stuff my fantasies are made of.

Of course, in my fantasies, my legs are bare and—

“Neely, stop that.”

I jerk my head up, staring at him. “What?”

“Breathing like that.” He drags in a rough breath of his own as we exchange a heated look I don’t really understand.

How was I breathing?My chest rises between us, then falls as I try to calm myself. Had I given my desire away?

Daddy. . .This is the second or third time I’ve revealed who I am to Ford. And he’s still standing right next to me with that wild, feral burn in his expression.

“Put the shirts on.” He points to the other items of clothing.

Shirts. Plural.

My pulse jacks up. “You do it.”

His eyes go wide.

I turn around, presenting him with my back. “There’s a zipper.”

At first, I don’t think he’s going to do it, but then he steps forward, and his hands are on me again.

Neither of us speaks as he drags the zipper down my back, revealing my bare skin. There’s a window in front of me, and I realize I can see our reflection in it.

So can he.

Without saying a word, I lift my arms in the air, and he tugs the dress up and over my head, leaving me topless.

I’m not wearing a bra. I don’t need to because the dress has cups built into it, and that’s all the support my nineteen-year-old tits need.

Behind me, Ford makes a wounded sound as his gaze catches on the reflection in the window. He drops the dress and sets his hands on my waist.

I press my hands against his, holding his palms to my belly. Behind me, his whole body goes taut.

“I’m all grown up,” I whisper, gambling every ounce of pride I have that I read him correctly.

He shudders. “Trust me, I’m painfully aware.”

Hope burns inside me. “Do you know why I’m here?”

“Your car broke down.”

“Mmm.” I drag his hands up my torso, urging him to touch me higher.

His grip on me tightens just beneath my breasts, his fingertips grazing the curve of my aching flesh. “Stop,” he growls. “We can’t.”

I ignore him. “I wanted to ask you to play Santa Claus tomorrow at Cliffside Village.”

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