Page 6 of Dark Christmas

Still, this is unexpected, and I don’t trust it.

I don’t open the box. Instead, I set it and the envelope inside the house and prepare to head out. I’ll deal with it later. Right now, I have more important things to handle.

I’m halfway out the door when curiosity gets the best of me. I pause, then head back inside, eyes on the box. With a slow tug, I untie the ribbon and lift the lid.

Sure enough, inside are artfully arranged muffins, still warm. The smell of fresh-baked goods hits me hard—sugar, cinnamon, a hint of something fruity. My stomach grumbles in response, but I know better than to devour one before a meeting. I don’t need a sugar rush when I’m closing a major deal.

I grab my keys and head out, locking the door behind me. As I descend the steps, my eyes flick across the street to the neighbor’s house, her house. I’ve seen her more than a fewtimes, often lingering near the window or porch when I jog by, always watching. The idea of her being interested in me amuses me more than it should.

I smirk to myself, sliding into the driver’s seat of my car. I’ll deal with her—and the box—later. Right now, there’s business to take care of. And I never mix pleasure with business.

Not yet anyway.

The drive home is uneventful. I have the top down on my car, the cool San Francisco breeze igniting my senses. I cruise through the Financial District, skyscrapers looming above, reflecting the late afternoon sun. The streets are buzzing with suits and tourists, but I keep my eyes forward, one hand on the wheel, feeling the wind ripple through my shirt.

The meeting went exactly as expected. Borealis Tech practically begged for my services; desperation written all over their faces. All I have to do is build them an impenetrable security system. Easy enough. Every firewall I create is bulletproof, not just because I’m good at what I do but because failure isn’t an option. Not for me.

As I weave through traffic, I reflect on how far I’ve come. A career in cybersecurity was never part of the plan, but after everything that happened with the Bratva, I needed a change. Something cleaner, smarter. And so far, it’s been satisfying. There’s a thrill in creating something unbreakable. Something onlyIcontrol.

As soon as I pull in the driveway, my eyes absently flick over to the house across the street. For some reason, I catch myself hoping she’s there, standing at her window or outside on the porch, just so I could catch another glimpse of her. I stop myself, shaking my head.

Don’t be ridiculous.She’s just a girl. A curious, sweet little distraction.

I remind myself that distractions lead to mistakes. And mistakes are something I don’t make.

I park in the secure garage below my house, the heavy metal door sliding shut behind me. Every inch of my house is secured—cameras, reinforced doors, alarms. A fortress, just like I need it to be. I step out of the car, my footsteps echoing in the expanse of the garage, and make my way inside.

Climbing the stairs to my office, I glance around my place—simple, clean, and above all, private. When I reach the office, I take a moment to admire the view from my desk. The Mission District, with its mix of old Victorian houses and modern condos, stretches out in front of me. The sun’s starting to dip lower, casting a golden glow over the city.

I pour myself a small glass of whiskey, savoring the burn as I sit down behind my computer. The first thing I do is check my account. Sure enough, there’s a deposit from Borealis Tech—$1.2 million for a month’s work. Half of it paid now, the balance when the firewall is complete.

I lean back, sipping my whiskey, feeling that satisfying burn settle in. This is what I live for—control, power, success.

Glass in hand, I head downstairs. As I pass the kitchen, my eyes fall on the box of muffins. My stomach grumbles, and I realize Ihaven’t eaten since this morning. Maybe it’s time to see what my neighbor left for me.

The muffins are impressive, decorated with care. My eyes land on one that looks like it’s bursting with blueberries, the sugar crystal glaze catching the light. I take a bite, andholy shit. The taste hits me so hard I nearly moan. Soft, sweet, with just the right balance of tartness from the blueberries and the buttery crumble on top. I take another bite, then another, losing control in a way I rarely do. The muffin isn't just good, it's incredible. I can only imagine how perfect it must’ve been fresh out of the oven this morning. I cheated myself by waiting this long.

I savor one more bite, my appetite barely restrained, when the envelope that was on top of the box catches my eye. I set the half-eaten muffin down, curiosity piquing as I tear open the envelope. Pictures. I flip through the first few and my breath hitches.

The pictures are of my neighbor. Professionally done shots of her in a holiday-themed outfit. In the first, she’s standing with her hands on her hips, a sultry smile on her face, wearing a tight green velvet costume that hugs her curves in all the right ways. The hem is so short it barely covers her thighs. As I flip through, the poses become more provocative—legs crossed, back arched, each photo revealing a little more skin.

One shows her sitting, legs spread just enough to tease, her chest pushed forward, the neckline plunging dangerously low. In another, she’s tugging at her top, slipping it off one shoulder, exposing creamy skin but never quite giving it all away. The photos are in the order of a slow striptease, removing just enough clothing to drive any man insane, but always stopping short of fully revealing her body.

She’s fucking sexy. Sexy enough that my cock is getting hard just looking at her.

Using all the restraint I can muster, I set the photos down, pulse racing. I flip over the envelope, searching for a clue as to why she would have sent these when she’s never so much as spoken a word to me. Muffins are one thing; racy pictures are quite another.

On the front side of the envelope it’s addressed to an Amelia Jameson.

I realize immediately that I’ve seen something I wasn’t supposed to. Those photos weren’t meant for me—they were delivered to my address by mistake. But one thing’s clear—I’m horny as fuck. My cock is rock-hard, stiff as a spear, the images of her now burned into my brain.

I tuck the photos away, trying to get a grip on myself, but it’s too late. I’m already imagining her in that tight elf outfit, and every muscle in my body is begging for release. I hurry upstairs and step into my bedroom, closing the door behind me.

Once there, I pull out my cock, already swollen and throbbing. I wrap my hand around it, stroking slowly at first. I close my eyes, letting the fantasy take over. I picture her on her knees, looking up at me with those bright green eyes, that sly, teasing smile on her lips. She’s still wearing that ridiculous elf costume, her breasts barely contained in the fabric, the hem of her skirt just brushing the tops of her thighs.

She parts her lips, taking me into her mouth, slowly at first, teasing the head of my cock with her tongue, then sucking me deeper, her hands sliding up my thighs. I imagine the heat of her mouth, the way she’d relax her throat, her eyes watering as sheswallows all of me.

Fuck, I can barely hold back.