Page 4 of Christmas Kisses

Anyone who believes in the magic of Christmas is.

Karma bites me for the second time tonight when my bah humbug rant is ended by me stubbing my toe on the stupid ornaments box Peter brought up from storage last week.

Now instead of only speaking two languages, I’m fluent in multiple, but they all appear to only have cusswords in their vocabulary.

My little toe’s pain is more prominent than my heartache. I’m not surprised. Things haven’t been great with Peter for a while, but I wanted to believe him when he got down on bended knee and promised to do better.

I said yes because I want a love that spans decades, and the “supposed” clock all women are meant to march to isn’t ticking in my favor.

I will still achieve my happily ever after. I’m determined to have a lifelong love like my parents. It’ll just have to wait until I’ve gotten “my rocks off” with a man I’ve paid for the privilege.

2

ZANE

“Keep the change.”

As I stuff a handful of bills through the slot of the privacy partition separating the cab driver and me, my phone buzzes in my pocket. December should be when my industry slows, but things changed when Covid showed up. Instead of my bookings keeping me solely stateside, personal recommendations see me jet-setting across the globe for twelve months of the year.

I haven’t had a day off in years, so this week’s hiatus is long overdue.

As I step onto the bustling sidewalk of a town I’ll forever call home, even with me only visiting once a year at the most, I read the message on my phone screen.

Emma:

He’s willing to pay double for the short notice.

Emma is my assistant. She’s as cute as a bunny and has a nose to match but couldn’t be more in love with her girlfriend if she tried. They’ve been together for a decade and are one of myfirst success stories, which is odd to admit since I predominately work with heterosexual females.

Don’t hang me out to dry just yet. I’m not a shrink or one of those weirdos who watch couples have sex before pointing out where they’re going wrong, though I’ve been offeredmanytimes to do that. I’m a?—

A jolly fat man in a velvety red suit cuts off my inner monologue. “Ho, ho, ho.”

With each “ho,” he thrusts a charity tin closer to my chest. He wants a donation, and since he’s covered head to toe in a body-hugging Santa suit on an unseasonably humid Florida evening, I dig my wallet out of my pocket for the second time tonight.

“Any chance of a receipt?” I ask when I fail to find a single denomination under triple digits. Donations are tax deductible, and I need to do everything possible to bring down my IRS bill.

“No.”

He steals my ability to announce his donations would skyrocket if he popped down to Walmart for a receipt book by snatching the freshly printed Benjamin Franklins from my wallet and squashing them into his locked charity box.

I’m about to berate him, but his promise puts me on the back foot. “Now your every wish will be my command.” After a saucy wink, he returns to haggling the patrons outside my sister’s restaurant. “Ho, ho, ho.”

My pissy attitude swings toward favorable when a flirty voice replies, “Don’t worry, Santa. I’m planning to doexactlythat.”

A gorgeous brunette with legs that go for miles playfully tickles Santa’s beard before she skips by him minus a donation. I cut Santa some slack. The beauty’s little black dress reveals she’s carrying nothing but dick-pumping curves. There isn’t even a cell phone imprint like some women get when they use their bra as a purse. Every beautiful curve she owns is on display for theworld to see, and I’m suddenly wishing I had a beard as thick as Santa’s to mop up the mess. I’ve got drool everywhere.

My cab can’t merge with the flow of traffic until I move, but try as I may, I can’t get my feet to budge. The only part of my body functioning are my eyes while I watch the striking Spaniard dart through the crowd like a woman on a mission.

Whomever she’s racing for is a lucky bastard. My cock has been trained to respond on cue, but even it went off script tonight.

The springy bounce of her steps.

Her playful tease with Santa.

The quickest connection of our eyes when she twirled around the man who robbed me of a three-hundred-dollar tax deduction.

They’re not usually points that rile a response out of me, but I’d be a liar if I said my cock’s head wasn’t knocking at the zipper on my pants, begging for some space.

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