Page 3 of Bad Santas

And the arm curled around me?

Don’t get me started…

When our stares intertwine, his lips definitely quirk—as if he knows exactly what he’s doing to me—and while I’m internally trying not to melt into a puddle, on the outside, I’m cool as acucumber. “Shouldn’t you know that already?” I tilt my head playfully. “I mean, the real Santa would, right?”

Santa’s smirk spreads into a full-on wolfish grin as he beckons me closer with the wave of two long fingers. Two fingers I have no business having such instant dirty thoughts about. I oblige without hesitation and lean in, a rousing shiver racking down my spine like a xylophone when he tucks my hair behind my ear and brings his lips to the shell. The synthetic fibers of his beard tickle as he murmurs, “I have a little secret… I’m not the real Santa. My nameisNick, though. Nick Cross.”

He looks like a Nick…

“Well, where is he then,Nick?I was told I’d be meeting Santa.”

Easing back, Nick gives a noncommittal shrug and twirls a finger through the air, the arm curled around my body tightening just slightly. “He’s a little busy tonight. It’s Christmas Eve, remember? He’s out traveling the world, delivering presents to all the good boys and girls.”

“Oh, I see. So he sticks you with the adults ‘cause we’re all on the naughty list,” I hedge, trying and miserably failing not to smile, to not notice how he isn’t wearing the quintessential Santa gloves and how those delicious veins of his hands protrude.

“Something like that,” he nods, “I like to gauge it based on what they ask me for Christmas. Says a lot about a person. So tell me, Noelle… What doyouwant this year?”

You.

The thought hits me just as hard as it must have hit Alma when she sat in this very spot. I can’t blame her one bit. This man would unravel my stocking if I let him, and I’m down for the festive fuckery.

Tapping a finger against my chin, I hum aloud, purposely making a show of “pondering” what’s on my list. “What has everyone else asked for thus far?”

“Hmm, well…” He slouches in his throne a bit and mirrors my actions, rubbing his chin pensively. “I had someone ask for winning lottery numbers. Another asked for an all-expenses paid vacation to Bali. There were a few requests for dildos, a pony, afuckmachine…”

The way he emphasizesfucksends my stomach into another trapeze act as those filthy thoughts reform at the forefront of my mind.

“So what would be the verdict if I said all I want for Christmas is three masked men?” I fire back, emboldened by the wayward nature of this conversation.

“Threemasked men?” he asks dubiously, brow raised.

“Oh, come on, Nick. Don’t tell me the North Pole doesn’t have internet? Masked men all the rage right now, and women like me want to?—”

“Naughtywomen like you,” he interjects.

He’s killing me…

“Naughtywomen like me,” I repeat with a curl to my lips, “want to give them a whirl.”

Nick remains silent for a beat, regarding me with a wicked twinkle in his blue eyes as he sets the hand at his chin on my thigh and rubs the softest of circles. “I see. Three’s a little greedy, though, don’t you think? One of these masked men isn’t suffice?”

Breathe, Noelle.

If he notices the way I gulp, the way a light sheen of sweat likely clings at my temples as every singular molecule within my body focuses on the way he touches me, he doesn’t show it.

“Listen, I’m a good girl all year round. I don’t bed hop, I go to work, do the things I need to do, and that’s it. I think I deserve a little holiday cheer.”

“Do you now?” he chuckles, trailing his hand up just a smidge higher. “Well, I can’t make any promises… But I’ll see what I can do.”

THREE

Somewhere In My Memory - John Williams

It’s almostmidnight when I make it back to my little house about thirty minutes into the countryside. It was my great grandfather’s and sits on five acres of lush, tree-trimmed land. Though currently, it’s covered in a thick layer of sparkling, fluffy snow. The daily hour drive to work sucks, but not having to pay rent or a mortgage in this economy? Yes, please. Plus, it’s nice not to live on top of my neighbors. The closest is a good ten minutes down the winding road.

Not a moment after flipping on the lights and hanging my coat on the rack, I’m ripping off my bra. And I meanrip,like through the sleeves of my dress, in one brutal tug. Sighing in relief, I trudge on to my bedroom and rub at the indents now pressed into my shoulders. Damn straps have been digging into my skin all night, once again reminding me of how much I envy the small titty club and the fact they can forgo a booby trap whenever they please. The well-loved floorboards protest in certain spots as I amble my way through the house, and by the time I make it into the en suite, I’ve left a small trail of clothes behind me.

My heels included.

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