Page 2 of Bad Santas

She’s been gone at least thirty minutes, curving my brow curiously. “Finally fucked Nico in the bathroom?”

My work wife scoffs and rolls her eyes. “I wish. That man has no interest in me. Idid,however, sit on Santa’s lap, and let me tell you… Total smoke show. He can shove his candy cane in my chimney any day.”

I can barely contain my laughter as she fans herself exaggeratedly and blows out a breath.

“Santa? Hot?” I question skeptically.

“Insanely hot. He’s older for sure, probably late forties, but definitely not the fat old man these little sperm spawns think leave them presents under the tree. I was two seconds away from telling him all I wanted for Christmas washimbefore his elf took our picture.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t,” I chuckle. “You usually have zero filter.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t have time. There’s a line of all the vageen owners in Van Corp waiting their turn.”

I’m not even surprised to hear there’s a Santa in attendance. It’s not a consistent thing, but corporate hired one a few years back when I first started with the company.ThatSanta was definitely not hot and I most certainly did not sit on his lap or have my picture taken. Alma has fabulous taste in men, though, and while curiosity may have killed the cat, I’m far too intrigued to not scope this out.

“My turn, I guess.” Dropping the napkin on my lap onto my emptied plate, I slide out of my seat and adjust my dress, thankful the Spanx beneath haven’t budged or rolled down. “Come with me so I don’t have to stand in line alone?”

Alma nods and quickly gulps down her drink as if it were nothing but juice, looping her arm through mine without another word.

Let’s go see this supposed sexy Santa.

Maybe he’ll bring me something tasty for Christmas.

Alma was right.The line is nothing but women; some of them single, others definitely attached or married.

“Think he’d have a coronary if I ask him for a fuck machine or a few of those delicious masked men?” I snicker, noting it’s almost my turn.

Alma snorts a laugh and shakes her dark head. “Doubt it. I’m sure he’s heard it all looking likethat.”

“What didyouask him for?”

An evil grin spreads full maroon-stained lips. “A pony.”

The most ungodly cackle blasts out of my throat, turning a few heads our way. “You didnot.”

“Oh, I did.” She nods slyly. “And when he asked if I wanted riding lessons with that, too, I told him I was a pro on the saddle.”

I’m about to ask what Santa’s reply was to that cheeky ass statement when a “Next!” erupts from the elf girl keeping guard at the entrance. The woman at the front of the line—Cheryl from advertising, I believe—passes a champagne glass to her friend and makes her way up the small staircase with an extra pep in her step.

We stand there for another ten minutes or so, people watching and chatting, before it’s finally my turn. Elf girl plasters on a tired smile (poor thing is probably dying to go home) as I squeeze past her and run a hand through my waves. I’m immediately dumbfounded and awestruck at how spacious the inside of this little hut is. Decorated like Santa’s workshop, the backdrops of workbenches and toy machines give the illusion of something magically grand that spans a mile on each side. There’s several Christmas trees, stacks upon stacks of wrapped presents, massive candy canes and sizable gingerbread men hanging from the ceiling. Poinsettias, garlands, lights—the whole shebang.

And the moment I seehim, I drop the notion of “supposedly sexy” right on its ass. Even with the faux beard in place, it’s clear this man is not your traditional Santa. He’s not senior discount old or charmingly rotund, his face far from jolly. Icy blue eyes pierce me with every step, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say there’s a smirk playing on his lips. There’s no way I’m not drooling by the time I’m standing right before him at the bottom of the dais, unable to move.

“No need to be shy,” he coos, the husky baritone of his voice going straight to the apex of my thighs. “Be a good girl and come sit on Santa’s lap.”

The combination ofgood girland the way he pats said lap instantly unleashes a rabid swarm of butterflies within my stomach. Praise kink alert much?

Yes.Verymuch.

A new heartbeat arises, too, one that doesn’t belong to the muscle now palpitating against my ribcage. Inhaling a deep breath, I strut up the three steps and take the proffered seat. A rock hard seat, I should add, rousing images of a sweat-slicked body, vigorous workouts, and grunts that foretell what he sounds like in bed.

“And what would your name be, sweetheart?” he questions, blue eyes brazenly trailing up the length of my body.

Unlike Jared’s,hisis very much welcome—and all too palpable. Feels like a laser tracing every dip and swell.

Burning my skin.

Igniting my blood.

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