Page 7 of Stalked By Santa

It’s bad enough that I didn’t realize sooner that he’s a two-faced liar with no respect for me. But how in the world did I miss how wildly sexually incompatible we are?

Feeling properly sorry for myself, I turn on the gas fireplace, then sink down onto the floor in front of the flickering flames. Leaning back against the sofa, I draw my knees up against my chest. Barry's cruel words echo in my mind, and I struggle not to cry.

Because he’s right—some part of memusthave wanted him to read the letter he found, or I’d have sealed and sent it the second I finished writing it.

God, Mads, knock it off with the tears.I’mthe one who lived like a monk for months, waiting for you to loosen up and start putting out. Imagine my shock when I discovered you weren’t a prude but a sexual deviant. The second I read that letter, I knew you weren’t end game.

No one will see if Idocry, but I've already shed too many tears over him. He's not worth crying over. But that doesn't mean that words didn’t still sting. Because maybe he’s right, maybe Iama deviant. Ugh, Santa probably burned those letters, then put me straight on the naughty list.

But that wasn’t even the worst part. No, it’s what he said next. Things that made me realize I never even knew him at all.

Do you have any idea how exhausting it is to argue the cases of sub-literate morons from shit-hole countries? Of course not. You're a spoiled, selfish baby, supported by Mommy and Daddy and living in a fantasy land. Hell, you're old enough to drink yet still believe in Santa. Grow up.

His words hurt. They hurt because they were true. Well, at least partially.

He’s wrong about my students. English is a nightmare to learn as an adult. Yet every semester, my students manage it. I’m proud of them, proud of how hard they work to build better lives.

But the rest? Well, maybe he has a point.

I graduated over a year ago. Mom and Dad encouraged me to take some time off to try to decide whether I wanted to go to grad school and pursue a more advanced degree. Yes, I volunteer so many hours that it's basically a full-time job. But I don't pay my own bills. I've never supported myself.

I've been living in a fantasyland. I thought Barry was a good person, and that turned out to be a lie. Maybeno oneis really good.

And if that's the case, all the crap I believed about Christmas and Santa was likely a lie, too. What does it say about me that it took me twenty-one years and walking in on my boyfriend getting pegged by a slutty elf to see the truth?

God, I’m such a stupid child. Even now, I’m tempted to go into the kitchen out of habit and see if there are any cookies that I can leave out for Santa. But what would be the point? When I was nine, I caught Dad eating the cookies himself. Except, stupid me had actuallyboughthis explanation.

The world is a big place, filled with children who need Santa's help, children less fortunate than you. Since Santa can't possibly visiteveryhouse, the moms and dads of some children act as his special helpers. I know it must be disappointing to realize that Santa doesn't stop here, but you should be grateful that we don’tneedSanta's help.

His explanation made sense. I never questioned Santa's existence again. If anything, it solidified my belief, gave me a deeper appreciation for how important Santa is. Even now, it's hard to totally shake the habits formed by years of believing. Like I could almost swear that I hear sleigh bells…

Another sound, almost too subtle to hear, disturbs the stillness of the silent night. But even if Santawerereal, he never came when I was a child. Why would he startnow?

I tell myself it’s just the wind. Maybe a branch scraping the roof. But I can't stop my heart from racing as I try to recall if I remembered to set the alarm.

Crap, what if Ididforget? I sit frozen, staring at the flickering flames as I mentally retrace my steps earlier. But I was too busy throwing myself a pity party to pay attention to anything else.

All of my senses are heightened now, though. Heightened to the point that I’m hallucinating. Like I can almost swear that the flames shifting and shimmering. A soft thud.

Oh my God, are those really a pair of black boots behind the fireplace’s glass front?

Except it’s agasfireplace. The chimney isn’t a real one, doesn’t connect with the roof…

But I forget about the fireplace as a massive figure blots out everything else. My gaze travels upward, cataloging details.

Crimson leather pants hug thick, muscular thighs. My face heats when I realize that’s not all they hug… the bulge in the front of the man’s pants is enormous. Tearing my gaze away, I take in a matching biker jacket that strains across broad shoulders and a muscular chest.

Mouth dry, I stare at the strange man standing in my childhood home. A neatly trimmed black beard with just a hint of silver covers a strong jaw. Short black hair is mostly hidden by a… Santa hat. Piercing blue eyes meet mine, then rake over my body, leaving me feeling utterly exposed.

As if in a dream, I stand, drawn toward the man. Feeling small and insignificant, I stare up at him, struggling to catch my breath. He’s just solarge, so much broader and taller than me. He’s also dangerously attractive.

It’s not just all the muscles—or his distractingly large package. Not even the way those eyes seem to be undressing me. No, he radiates power, confidence, mastery…

Moisture forms between my legs. The sort of slick wetness Barry never inspired. I’ve only ever felt this tingling between my legs alone at night in my room when describing my fantasies in my letters to Santa…

Oh my God, am I seriously turned on right now? Have I lost my freaking mind? A stranger just broke into my house. An intruder, one who’s twice my size and almost certainly stronger than me.

I take a step back, my bare legs hitting the sofa. “You shouldn’t be here.”

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