Page 13 of Letters to Satan

Literally.

“That is a shame,” he agrees, reaching up and fingering the edge of the sweater I just pulled on. “This looks so cozy. I wasn’t sure what to pack, seeing as I’ve never had to brave the cold.”

“When’s the last time you saw snow?”

His fingers continue to glide over my shirt as his eyes roll up in thought. “Honestly, I couldn’t tell you. The previous Santa came to visit in Hell, although I was part of an emissary to the North Pole in my youth before I took over the position.”

“How long have you been The Lucifer?” I ask, curiosity piqued, since he doesn’t look a day older than twenty-five.

“Trying to learn my secrets, Niklaus?” His fingers swipe under my sweater, barely brushing against my skin, and the heat of his body has goosebumps rising on my stomach. A ball of tension builds and shoots lower, my cock giving a content little twitch.

“Only the ones you’re willing to share.” He lets out a pleased hum as he releases my shirt and takes a step back, and I gesture at the chair across from my desk.

Blonde curls cascade over his forehead as he sinks into the seat. “I’ve been in office for one hundred and seventy-nine years.”

“And just exactly how old are you?”

He grins, flashing me his rows of pearly white teeth. “Now, now, that’s not a question you normally ask a gentleman, is it?”

“Are you, though?” I ask, hiking a brow as he leans forward, tilting his head. “A gentleman?”

Another of those infuriating hums leaves his throat before he smiles again, and I’m struck once more by how stunning he is. “When I want to be, I suppose. What about you?” I wave my hand for him to clarify. “How old are you, Nik?”

My lips twitch at the nickname, loving the sound of it coming from him. “Forty-seven,” I answer, and he appears genuinely shocked for the first time since we’ve met. “You’re surprised.”

“I assumed you were older. Or does the Santa’s magic not work like that?”

It’s my turn to give one of those noncommittal hums, and I love the way it makes him squirm. “No, it does,” I finally say. “The position of The Santa grants long life to the holder.”

“How long of a life?”

“Long enough,” I answer, and he gets another faint, sly smile on his face when he realizes he’s not the only one playing this game of chess. “Now, I’ve got a few minutes if you wanted to discuss your issue further.”

His brows give the tiniest confused flex before realization smoothes them back out. “The letters?”

“Unless there are other issues I don’t know about?” Amused humor dances in his eyes as they flicker up to mine, suggesting there is an entire world of secrets hidden behind that charming smile. It’s yetanother reminder to keep my guard up while he’s here.

“Issues? Oh, no,” he muses, still with silent laughter painted on his face, and I track him as he stands from his seat and walks to my side of the desk. I spin in my chair to face him, hand on my chin as I watch. “There’s probably very little that happens here that you don’t know about, I imagine.”

“Mmm,” I hum, refusing to answer while he’s speaking in riddles. I straighten my back as he confidently steps forward between my knees, a small smile gracing his lips before he turns to the side and lowers himself onto one of my legs.

My voice is huskier than I intend as I murmur, “What are you doing?” and he flashes another of those innocent smiles.

“It’s how this works, isn’t it? You sit on Santa’s lap when you tell him what you want.”

Years of self-control are tested as he wiggles, and I force myself not to react as my cock flexes, my fingers digging into the arms of my chair until the leather pits. Although I want nothing more, I fight the urge to put this insolent man in his place.

Speared on my cock and bent over my desk, pants around his ankles.

Yeah, that sounds right.

“And what do you want, Damien?”

“Well…” He drags his finger across the line of my jaw before he turns to face the desk, rubbing that pert ass all over my lap. My hand is halfway to gripping his hip when he says, “The issue seems to stem from the supernatural delivery system.”

I blink a few times, realizing he’s actually talking about the mail.

Instead of letting my hand fall, I reach around him and let it rest on his thigh, leaning forward to glance over his shoulder at the stack of letters on the desk. “Well, to be fair, they are seeingSatanclearly written on the envelopes. They really can’t be blamed for sending them to the intended recipient.”

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