Page 4 of Santa's Baby

I’ve been sitting on Santa’s lap plenty of times outside this grotto… I just didn’t know it…

“Don’t be coy,” he chuckles. “Have you been a good girl this year, or a naughty one? Let me guess. You’ve been a naughty one, haven’t you?”

His tone cracks, just a touch, and it’s one of those crazy moments ofyou know that I know that you know. I must be open mouthed as the camera flashes. I twist around in the damn sleigh seat and stare into the eyes of the bearded man I should never have crossed paths with. Not like this.

His eyes are dark, mahogany pools with a hint of green. His brows so heavy.

Eyes I’ve never seen before. Brows I’ve never admired.

“You’re right, I’m definitely on your naughty list,” I say, trying to stay as chill as possible. “You should know it though, Santa. You know which of my naughty boxes are ticked, don’t you?”

He plays it cool. Calm. Collected.

“What’s your name?” he asks me.

My eyes bore into his, my voice barely a whisper. “You already know my name.”

Santa gives aho, ho, hofor the guy behind the camera. What an apt expression. Fuck knows what the photographer thinks ofthis. I shoot him a glance, but it’s just a teenager on his phone, barely interested now that he’s flashed the snapshot. My picture is printing out on the table right next to him. Bizarrely, the guy’s lack of interest only adds to the intimacy in here. It’s baking hot.

“Ho, ho,no, Cream.What’s youractualname?” Santa asks me.

The thought of telling Santa my real name feels like a confession.

“Tiff,” I say.

“Tiffany?”

“Yes, Tiffany.”

“And what do you want for Christmas, Tiffany?”

His stare is so deep and so firm, even with his stupid beard on. The natural energy floods in and crackles like static between us.

Maybe Mariah’s song wasn’t so far off the mark earlier.

I want Santa for Christmas. Real fucking bad. I want the man who has ravaged me so hard I could barely move afterwards. The high paying beast who has pushed me to the limits and then some. The only man to ever put my safe word on the tip of my tongue.

“I want… um…”

The brashness of Creamgirl has gone. I’m just Tiff here. The real Tiff.

The Tiff without walls of balls to keep me safe.

I’m still stumbling over my reply when a little girl’s screech comes from the queue outside. It’s a loud one, a pure wail, and knocks me back to reality with a thump.

I have to get out of here. Now. Before I say something really fucking stupid.

I get up from Santa’s lap and grab my photo on my way out with athanks, happy Christmaaaaas!

And then I’m gone.

How I fight for air when I’m out the other side, a mess of ragged breaths as Ella and Eb step up to join me, both of them beaming. They’re oblivious to the state of me. Absolutely fucking oblivious.

“Amazing, isn’t he?” Ella says. “You were right, Tiff, he remembered me. Thanked me again for coming to his rescue last year.”

Eb sighs. “Damnit. I wish he was an active client. I’d love him to empty his sack for me, even if he is in a pillow suit. Those eyes…”

“What do you meanifhe was an active client?” I ask.

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