Page 13 of Hello Dr. Christmas

ChapterSeven

Mr. Claus begins kissing me and removing my clothing. It seems silly to call him that in my head after he’s shared such intimate details about his life with me. But when he begins to touch me, I remember that I am still fairly drunk on good Christmas wine, and all the warmth floods back to my body.

I am also fairly drunk on him. On his body, and his scent, and his sexy sadness. I don’t think I’ve seen a man show so much emotion in… ever. Maybe witnessing the fact that he was able to care so deeply for his wife makes me wonder if there are any scraps of that affection left for me.

I mean, that woman’s leftovers are probably more delicious than any meal I’ve ever eaten.

As my dress falls to the floor, Mr. Claus realizes that I am still wearing my boots—or rather, one boot, and he moves to unzip that and slide it off my foot. I love watching him undress me. He is so careful and elegant in the way he moves. It’s kind of a reverse Cinderella moment.

But when he goes to remove my sock, I freak out.

“Wait!” I call out, halting him. “Leave my socks on! My sock, rather. Singular.” The other foot is still heavily wrapped up in bandages.

“Are you sure?” he asks.

“Yes, please.”

“Why?” he asks.

“Well, you know I injured that one ankle… but the other one is kind of bruised up too, and I just don’t want you to see how awful my feet look,” I say with embarrassment.

“Whatever you want, Mrs. Claus,” he says, as he begins to rain kisses along my calf and thigh. “You have amazing legs. Holy crap. You must work out alot.”

“I do,” I say, moaning as his kisses move to my sensitive inner thighs.

One look at my feet will tell my whole life story. One look at my feet, and most men go running in the other direction.

Have you ever seen the feet of a prima ballerina? Google it. I dare you. There, that’s what my feet look like. Calloused as hell, warped and covered in weird nubs and bruises. Broken, smashed toenails, bleeding under the nails, black and blue. Horrible bunions that you wouldn’t believe could be possible on feet. My toes are usually covered in bandages where the skin cracks and bleeds, but not for the moment, because I haven’t danced in a few weeks. So I guess they are slightly less awful than usual, which is still pretty awful.

I’m usually proud of my feet. But when it comes to the bedroom, I realize that they aren’t the most delicate and feminine aspect of my body. Keeping my socks on is a way to hide my insecurity.

When Mr. Claus removes my underwear, and positions me on the bed so that he can begin to pleasure me with his tongue, I gasp and moan.

“I should probably warn you,” I tell him between moans, “that I’m… really bad at this.”

“What?” he asks, with his face still buried in me. “Bad at what exactly?”

“Sex,” I say awkwardly. “I just don’t want to get your expectations up. I’ve only had negative reviews.”

He lifts his head from between my thighs for a moment, looking at me incredulously. “I don’t know who’s writing those reviews, but I highly doubt you’re bad at anything. Besides, you can’t be bad at this—it’s my job to make you feel good.”

“What do you—” My words are cut off when he returns to his task. “Ohhh…”

Mr. Claus only pauses briefly to grab a pillow off the hotel bed, and lifts my hips to slide it under my bottom, for better access. Then he plunges his hot tongue into my center, and works on my clit until I am dripping and moaning. His fingers pulse in and out of me, and my head rolls from side to side.

I am so surprised by the sensation creeping up on me that I do not even realize I am close before the orgasm is ripping through me. I stare at the ceiling in shock, blinking. What just happened? How did that happen?

Before I can even process the fact that he made me come so easily, he is grasping my hips and flipping me over, so that I am belly down, with the pillow under my hips and my butt is slightly lifted up in the air. Then he goesbackto work down there, kissing and licking and sucking. It feels somehow completely different from this angle, and I find myself writhing and moaning, and grinding my body back against his face.

When his fingers begin sliding into my pussy at a quickened pace, I find my muscles clenching around him, as a small cry leaves my throat, and I climax again. I am feeling limp and spent, and breathing heavily, and unsure of how this is happening. I don’t think I’ve ever had someone pay this much attention tomybody instead of just caring about his own pleasure first and foremost. It almost brings tears to my eyes.

Rolling over, I reach for his belt, and begin removing his clothing. “I want you,” I tell him, hungrily, groping his erection to make sure that he feels the same.

He groans at the sensation of me squeezing him.

“Do you have something?” he asks.

I nod. “In my purse.” I reach for it and retrieve the condom, and hand it to him. He has slipped off the remainder of his clothing, and he begins to slide the condom over his cock. I can barely wait for him to finish before wrapping my legs around him and pulling him down to me.

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