Page 9 of Santa's Baby

I can come like this, and I know it. I’m on my way quicker than I’d expect, all thoughts of prosecco and beer forgotten as we groove and moan. His pace picks up so it’s faster than the bass, and I’m so turned on I’m hardly dancing anymore, just squatting on my stilettos as he gets me off. Fuck, I’m almost there. My breaths are heaving, and my mind is turning blank, and I’m over the fucking moon at the achievement of coming on a packed dancefloor as my client stares on.

I’m sure he can see me. I’m sure he can see I’m serious. This orgasm isn’t going to be some bullshit fakery – it never is – and I’m ready, I’m so fucking ready.

Until I feel the buzz of my phone in my clutch.

I could fucking scream. So close. So fucking close. But I know the rules. I know how this story goes.

I stop grinding, stop humping, stop moving. I take hold of my finger fucker’s wrist and push him away.

“I need to get this, sorry.”

He knocks back the rest of his beer as I grope inside my clutch, ready to resume the action, but there isn’t going to be anyfurther action. The notification on my phone speaks loud and clear.

User 2906. Leave the club right now.

I could give the man in the shadows a middle finger.

I shove my phone back in my clutch and down the rest of my prosecco. Hell only knows how there’s still any left in the glass after being finger screwed to the crest. My finger fucker looks mortified as I shove my empty glass into the hand that’s still wet from doing me.

“I’ve got to go.”

“Go?”

“Yeah, see you around.”

I don’t wait for thebutand the awkward questions. I’m out of there on a mission, shoving my way through the other dancers until I get to the edge of the room. I don’t bother composing myself. It’s going to be straight out of the flames and into the fire, so I march towards the exit, barely bothering to smooth my dress down.

I’m nearly at the doorway when a figure catches my eye, leaning off to the side against the wall. I have to do a double take – a slamming shiver of recognition zipping up my spine.

I get prickles upon prickles. Tingles up my arms.

No. Fucking. Way. It can’t be.

I stop dead in my tracks.

My instincts know this man, even though I don’t.

He’s in a tailored jet-black suit with a glass of red in his hand – and he’s staring right at me as the lights flash through his silver fox hair. It’s his eyes… his gaze.

I step closer to check him out at close quarters, rationality still doubting my intuition, but I already know what I’m going to see when I get there. I already know they are the same eyes I was gazing into in the grotto. Instincts never lie.

Santa doesn’t look anything like Santa tonight. His clipped grey beard is a perfect complement to his easy smile, and he tips his head as I give him another round of open mouthed WTAF. What do I call him? What the fuck do I even say?

He speaks before I do, gesturing to the exit.

“Got somewhere to be, haven’t you, Tiffany? Someone waiting out there?”

“I, um…”

My thoughts are scattered. I stare at him, my brain a tumble.

“You’d better go,” he says with a smirk. “You wouldn’t want a bad rating to tarnish your record.”

Santa isn’t User 2906, of course he isn’t. But he knows where I’m going, he knows where I’ve been. He knowseverything, since he’s one of the owners of the whole damn Agency.

He’s also well aware what I’ve been doing on the dancefloor, I see it in his stare.

He’s likely seen just as much as my client outside…

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