Page 8 of Naughty Santa Daddy

I shake my head, a wry smile on my face. “Not at all, man.”

“Well, that’s life with the Jokers. You never know what’s going to happen.”

JD calls from the door, “Hey, the girls want to know if we’re partying tonight?”

Miller sighs, muttering under his breath, “Jesus, it’s a miracle if these guys can keep their dicks in their pants for longer than an hour.” Then, louder, he twirls his finger in the air. “Line ‘em up, boys, but let’s not get too crazy.”

The clubhouse is buzzing with energy as the guys pour out of church and into the common room. I watch as they pair up with women, the air thick with the sounds of laughter, flirtation, and the occasional moan. JD is already making out with a blonde in a barely-there dress, his hands roaming freely over her body. Cowboy’s got his hands full with two brunettes, one on each side, groping and kissing with reckless abandon.

A few of the guys head to the bar, and soon, shots are being poured and passed around. The clink of glasses and shouts of “Cheers!” echo through the room. I see Drake throwing back a shot, his face lighting up with a grin as the burn hits.

In the corner, a group of hang-arounds starts up a game of pool. The crack of the cue ball against the others punctuates loudly. It’s a familiar scene, one I’ve missed in a strange way, but also one that feels almost overwhelming after so much time away.

Miller and Wash make their way to a table and start setting up for a game of poker. As they shuffle the deck, three women descend on them, laughing and trying to get their attention. Oneperches on Miller’s lap, running her fingers through his hair, while another leans over Wash, her cleavage practically spilling out of her top.

Miller laughs, shaking his head but not pushing the woman away. “Alright, alright, but don’t think this is going to distract us from taking your money.”

The woman on Wash’s side giggles, tracing a finger along his jawline. “We’ll see about that.”

The booze flows freely, bottles of whiskey and beer making their rounds. The party is in full swing now, the atmosphere electric. Music blares from the speakers, some classic rock anthem that gets everyone moving. A few guys are dancing with any women they can get their hands on, the grind of bodies creating a sensuous, almost primal vibe.

I lean against the wall, taking it all in. The energy is infectious, and for a moment, I consider joining in.

JD catches my eye and raises a shot glass in my direction. “To Goliath, back from the dead!” he shouts, and a few of the guys join in with a cheer.

I nod, lifting an imaginary glass in response. It feels good to be acknowledged, even if I’m not quite ready to dive into the fray.

Miller catches my eye and gives me a knowing look, one that says he understands. He’s been my friend for a long time, and he gets what I’m going through.

Maybe Drake is right, and I am a grandpa. Tonight, I’d rather stay in my room. The thought of mingling, drinking, and dealing with the noise feels exhausting.

I push off the wall and make my way down the hallway to my room. The sounds of the party fade with each step, replaced by the quieter hum of my thoughts. I pass a few closed doors, the muffled sounds of laughter and music slipping through the cracks, but I keep my focus ahead.

When I reach my room, I push the door open and step inside. The room is simple and functional. A full bed against the wall, the sheets neatly made—a habit from prison I can’t quite shake. A small nightstand sits beside it, a lamp and a few personal items resting on top. Across from the bed is a sturdy dresser, its surface bare. Mounted on the wall above it is a TV, currently off, reflecting the dim light of the room. To the right, there’s an attached bathroom.

I let out a breath, the quiet of the room wrapping around me like a familiar blanket. It’s not much, but I don’t need more than this. I close the door behind me, ready to leave the sounds of the party behind for the night.

I head to the bathroom and turn on the shower, letting the steam fill the room. I undress, my clothes dropping to the floor in a heap, and step under the hot spray. The water cascades over me, washing away the grime of the day.

My thoughts drift to Alex and our hot fuck yesterday. I can’t get her out of my mind. The memory of her body, the way she moved, the sounds she made—it all comes rushing back. I feel myself getting hard, and I don’t fight it. I let the water hit my back as I wrap my hand around my cock, stroking slowly at first, then faster as the images become more vivid.

I lean against the wall, my hand moving faster now. Alex’s moans, the way she looked at me with pure desire. It’s enough to push me over the edge. I stroke harder, my breathing ragged, and with a final stroke, I come, the hot, sticky mess splattering on the floor.

I stay there for a moment, letting the aftershocks pulse through me. The water washes away the evidence, but the memory lingers. I turn off the shower and step out, toweling off and feeling a strange mix of satisfaction and melancholy.

I wrap a towel around my waist and head into the bedroom. The sounds of the party are muffled, just a distant thrum ofmusic and laughter. It’s still early in the night, but going out to join them is the last thing I want to do.

I turn off the lights, letting the darkness envelop the room. Dropping the towel, I get into bed naked, the cool sheets a welcome contrast to the warmth of the shower. I stare up at the ceiling, my mind going over everything that was said in church.

There’s a long list of people who would want to take out the Hell’s Jokers: rival clubs, old enemies, even some pissed-off ex-prospects. But something about this doesn’t sit right. I’m not so sure they’re after us specifically.

Alex’s words replay in my mind, along with the way she acted. The confidence in her voice, the way she carried herself—it was clear she knew what she was doing. That wasn’t the first time she had been in a situation like that. Her movements were too smooth, too calculated.

Alex is a mystery. Mysteries have always intrigued me.

I think about the way she looked at me, her eyes filled with a mixture of challenge and something else I can’t quite place. It’s been a long time since someone piqued my interest the way she has. There’s something about her—something beyond the surface.

I roll onto my side, trying to shake off the thoughts of her, but it’s no use. She’s there, in the back of my mind, a puzzle waiting to be solved. I want to know more about her, to understand what makes her tick. What’s her story?

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