Page 5 of Christmas Kisses

I’m hard in the middle of a bustling metropolis, even with Santa eyeballing me like he can see the imprint of my cock in my jeans.

I realize that is the case when he taps on his nose before telling me my secret is safe with him.

“There’s no secret for you to share,” I mumble under my breath before my body finally answers the pleas of my head and steps toward my sister’s restaurant.

“Everyone has secrets,” Santa replies, unwilling to back down. “Even you, Zane.”

I almost fall for his trick. “How do you know my name?” is on the tip of my tongue. But then I recall my name is on over a dozen cards in my wallet, so he would have spotted it while forcing a donation I can’t claim as a tax deduction.

“Nice try, Santa. Youalmosthad me.”

I turn away from his grin, which is brighter than his fake white beard, when he says, “Next time, then?”

“There won’t be a next time.”

The last half of my reply makes my throat uncomfortable since I don’t wholly express it. As I turn back to face the jolly man, my mouth falls open. Santa is gone. His red cheeks and shiny black boots are nowhere to be seen, and a guy in a red velvet coat stands out among Floridians.

After shaking off my unease as a side effect of a long flight, I enter my sister’s restaurant while replying to Emma’s text.

Me:

Double of nothing is still nothing. I don’t work on my home turf. You know this.

As the hostess searches for the chef, an ellipsis trickles across my phone screen.

Emma:

He’s one of those deep-pocketed, most likely asshole stockbrokers. This could open up a ton of referrals. Things have been quiet of late. I’m not sure this is an opportunity you should give up.

Me:

My calendar is full until October.

The swiftness of her reply announces she preempted mine.

Emma:

By single desperate housewives who want to pretend they’re not paying to have their undercarriages serviced.

Me:

Em…

I’m interrupted by the hostess before I can complete my reply.

Well, I assume it is the hostess until my cock responds to the floral fragrance in the air long before my senses.

The brunette who mesmerized me only moments ago is standing next to me as if she’s my plus-one for my mother’s wedding, glancing down at my phone. She is even more dazzling up close. The fairy lights throughout the restaurant bounce off her sultry locks and halo her head like she’s more innocent than her voluptuous frame suggests.

When it dawns on her that she’s gained my utmost devotion, she purses her fuckable lips before asking, “You don’t have an account with Trust Bank, do you?”

“I do,” I answer promptly, even though I’m shocked at her weird line of questioning.

Asking someone their banking preference isn’t a pickup line I’ve ever used before.

If she weren’t standing across from me, I would have ended her attempt to sell me something by disconnecting our call.

The situation gets even weirder when she asks, “Would you be opposed to me using your account for a withdrawal?” It isn’t solely her question encouraging the awkwardness. It was my cock’s response to the faintest scrape of her teeth over her lower lip before she asked her question. “I’m not explaining myself very well. I?—”

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