Page 17 of Texting My Secret Santa

My Secret Santa:Don’t get me wrong. Sometimes, I am. It’s not black and white. I haven’t got serious bodyissues, but I haven’t got some deluded idea that I’m the hottest woman alive.

Me:That’s where you’re wrong, I type.You’re hotter than any woman at the company or in the city. When I came home and saw you, I didn’t believe you could be the same little Tarantino I left behind. Your curves, your tits, and your shape make me hungry and savage.

Needless to say, I delete this before I send it. The nickname alone would reveal too much and tell who I am, let alone the lust boiling off each word.

Me:That’s a healthy approach, I reply instead, feeling lame.

My Secret Santa:I’m in the same boat as you,she texts.I’ve got to do something Christmassy tomorrow.

Me:Aren’t you excited about it? You seem very gung ho about the holiday spirit.

My Secret Santa:It’s going to be awkward,she replies.

Me:Why?

My Secret Santa:It involves some private stuff. I can’t really explain. I can say that I’ll need to wear a mask, just like you will. I’m going to need to fake it until I make it. Pretend.

Me:Pretend what?

My Secret Santa:I can’t say.

I sit up. My body is growing hot. I’m physically warming up like I’ve just run a 5K. The image of her sitting in bed, possibly withher knees tucked to her chest, possibly with her shorts riding up her ass and into her haven, won’t quit my head.

Me:You’re not giving a man much to go on.

My Secret Santa:It’s Secret Santa, duh. That’s why I’m being so secretive. Anyway, I need to get some sleep. We still need to get around to the whole gift thing, Grinch.

Me:Good night, I text.

I put the phone on the bedside table, close my eyes, imagine the taste and texture of her sensitive crests in my mouth, imagine my hand sliding up her leg, imagine her sex soaked with wetness.

At work the next day, I notice Mia looking at me again. It bothers me, mostly because her name isn’t Holly Harper, and no other woman apart from my best friend’s sister could interest me. Unquestionably, I’m broken on some fundamental level to have these thoughts.

All too soon, it’s time for Holly and I to drive to Mom’s place. I meet her in the underground parking lot of Dan’s building near my new car. She’s changed into an over-the-top red Christmas sweater with green jeans that make her look like the curviest, sexiest holiday ornament ever.

“Nice wheels,” she says.

I open the butterfly doors. “A man has to have his indulgences,” I say, looking at her, wondering if she gets my double meaning.

She climbs into the car, wriggling in a way that lights up my mind with ridiculous fantasies. She’s just getting comfortable, but I imagine her crawling into my lap, grinding her thick ass against my imprisoned manhood, making me hard, coaxing precome out of me.

“How are you feeling?” she asks.

Unfairly jealous that you’re texting a man you don’t know is me, Holly. Guilty about keeping secrets from you, too. “Fine,” I grunt.

“Fine,” she says, mimicking my tone.

I chuckle. “Excuse me for not being artificially happy all the damn time.”

“I’m notartificially happy.”

That’s right. She knows how to fake it until she makes it. If I say that, though, I’ll be hinting that I’m her Secret Santa.

I drive without speaking for a few minutes.

“How’s your Secret Santa going?” she asks.

I glance at her, searching for any sign she’s playing games. The question seems innocent. “Not too bad,” I say vaguely. “You?”

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