Page 9 of Pining for Christmas

“Then tell me something, Clara.” Our voices are soft in the empty bar.

“Tell you what?”

I press my words against her soft hair. “Tell me why you don’t think you’re sweet.”

Clara falls silent. Slumps back against my chest again. Then admits in a low voice: “Some of the things I think about aren’t sweet. Some—some of the things Ido—”

She cuts off, embarrassed.

I’ve never wanted to hear the end of a sentence more.

“Tell Santa all about it.” Maybe if I keep this light, keep it playful, she’ll spill the beans. And sure enough, Clara hiccups a laugh. Shakes her head.

“If Santa knew about this stuff, he’d fall off his sleigh.”

“Try me,” I growl. I’m not some jolly old saint from the North Pole. I’ve thought plenty of less-than-sweet things about Clara. Things that would make her eyes go wide.

Plenty of nights, knowing she’s asleep just upstairs, I’ve gripped my cock in my office. Worked myself over, thinking about climbing those steps and joining her in that single bed. Pushing her pretty legs apart and wedging myself home.

I’ve never said a word, obviously. Thoughts aren’t actions, after all, and I was sure I’d scare her. Make her feel awkward in her home.

But now…

“Have you touched yourself, Clara?”

She splutters, clutching my sleeves. “How… how did youknow?”

Fucking hell. “Did you touch yourself and think of me?”

“I… I…”

Enough dancing around it. “Because I’ve done that, Clara. I’ve jerked my cock to the thought of you. To the image of yoursoft tits and your creamy skin and what’s hidden between your legs.”

She’s frozen. Her breaths are quick and ragged, and fuck, I’ve gone too far. But when I start to move my hands off her tits, she slaps her palms on top. Holds them in place, whimpering when I curse quietly, squeezing her again, my forehead pressed against the back of her head.

“Yes.”

When she finally answers, I’ve almost forgotten the question. But then I remember, and the image of her doing that slams into me like a brick wall.

“Clara,” I grind out, eyes screwed shut, shaking my head. “You’re right. Youhavebeen bad.”

Clara

“Hey!” I spin around on Jack’s lap, embarrassment forgotten, and pin him with a glare. “Doing—doing that isn’tbad.It’s perfectly natural.”

He grins, his beard shifting in the moonlight. “I know, baby. I’m just checking you know, too.”

I huff, but okay. He got me. I was never really ashamed of touching myself, only of… what Jack might think. If he knew he starred in my nightly fantasies. If he’d be horrified by it.

But I guess I got that answer too. Because when I spun in his lap, my thigh pressed against the front of jeans, and I felt it. The rock hard length of him, jutting against his fly.

He waits, but I don’t move my leg away.

“Clara,” Jack warns in his gravelly voice.

I wet my bottom lip. Then squirm a little closer. “Uh-huh?”

My movements draw a groan out of him. Dredge it from somewhere deep in his chest. And then he’s moving, lightning fast, scooping me out of his lap and depositing me on the booth table next to him. Jack spins on the bench, Santa hat swinging against his shoulder, and then I’m sprawled in front of him like a meal.

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