Page 19 of Santa & His Elf

But I can’t help it.

As does my asshole when it gets wet and my prick starts to wake up.

Thankfully, or maybe not, my mother chooses this moment to throw open the door. My willy shrinks in mortification as she rushes down the steps in her bedazzled holly apron and engulfs me in the world’s biggest bear hug. A full head shorter than me, she squeezes and coos like only my mother can. I try to breathe through the painful embrace as my father laughs heartily from the bottom step and extends his hand to Nick in greeting.

Not feeling bad for me in the slightest, Nick joins my father with his signature Santa laugh, then follows him in from the cold, leaving me with my mother to contend with. Traitors.

“Mom,” I grouse when she rubs her face against my shoulder like a cat, so often the skin might be raw.

“My boy is home!” she cries, sniffling as tears soak into my down-stuffed vest.

This is not what I expected.

“Mom.” Staring down at her full head of neatly styled gray hair, an homage to the former Mrs. Claus, I try to shake her off, but the stout woman won’t release me. “This is too much, Mom. Let your son go.”

“You’re home.” She rubs her snotty nose on my vest as I struggle to get my arm out from under hers to pat her back.

“It’s okay, Mom. I’m home. Now, let’s stop ruining myvest and go inside. I can smell the turkey and fixin’s from here.” Tilting my nose into the air, I breathe deeply. “And pecan pie.”

“And mint chocolate pie,” she tacks on as she finally releases me and steps back, but only far enough to get a good look at me. Up and down, she assesses every inch like she hasn’t seen me in years, not months. It hasn’t been that long.

When I left home a couple hundred years ago, I moved into a single-bedroom studio less than two blocks away, where she could visit anytime. The apartment’s still there, along with my belongings. I tried to sleep in my bed after the inscribed band appeared around my wrist, but that pit in my stomach, that need, kept pulling me back to the workshop. Ten out of ten wouldn’t recommend sleeping in a closet for months. It’s stuffy, and magic crackles across the ceiling all night.

My mom cups my cheek. “I missed you. You look good. You’re glowing.”

Smiling, I blush at her compliment as a gruff man clears his throat from the open doorway. “You coming inside, handsome?” Nick asks from his post, leaning against the frame, where his head nudges the top.

Elf-sized house. Human-sized man.

My heart picks up seeing him here, with me, visiting my family. Willingly. Happily. I’m… I don’t have the words.

Turning to face Nick, Mom gasps as she gets the full view oftheSanta standing in her house, ready to enjoy her home-cooked meal. The woman throws an arm out as if she’s afraid she’ll suddenly faint. Shaking my head at Mom’s overreaction, I chuckle and escort the gobbed-smacked woman into the house and right past Nick, who lets us by and shuts the door in our stead.

In the kitchen, I help her onto her favorite twelve-days of Christmas stool I painted as a child. From the looks of things, Dad has already finished setting our four-person table as Mom blinks at me with owlish eyes. “Santa’s in our house,” she whispers, as if reality has finally set in. “Santa.”

“You can call him Nick, Mom.” There are not many elves in our world I’d be okay with calling him anything but Santa, but my parents are family. They can address him in any way they please. Plus, I know Nick doesn’t mind. He despises formalities.

Stealing a kitchen towel from the counter, she swats my arm. “I will do no such thing,” she scolds.

I lift my hands in surrender. “Okay. Mom. Okay. Whatever you want.”

“Come eat, Marybelle,” Dad calls from the dining room. “It’s rude to leave Santa waiting.”

Lighting a fire under her behind, my mother hops off the stool, grabs my forearm in her iron grip, and drags me to the dining table, thankfully set with a seat large enough for Nick. She pushes me toward my normal chair beside my partner and quickly claims the one on the opposite side, beside Dad.

“This looks amazing, Mr. & Mrs. Minstix.” Nick smiles politely and pats my knee under the table. He’s calm—far calmer than me. If only his emotions would dictate mine when I need them to.

“You may call us Monty and Marybelle,” Dad, in his infinite wisdom, notes to their guest.

Nick nods, pleased. “And you may call me Nicholas.”

“We can’t do that,” Mom cuts in, and my father grumbles under his breath in protest.

Squeezing my knee in support, Nick rests his massive hand there. The heat seeping through my trousers calms methe tiniest bit until he opens his mouth. “May I ask why not? I am your son-in-law.”

Oh no.

Not now.

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