Chapter 2
TWO
Santa Baby - Ariana Grande
After an hour of watching various colleagues called on stage to receive their awards—spoiler alert: I didn’t get one—jazz style Christmas music and idle chatter rents the air as everyone enjoys their meals. Some drift off to the dance floor once they’ve finished, while others wander back into the cocktail lounge to mingle and reignite their waning buzzes. Meanwhile, I’m looking for any reason to leave. I showed my face and put on a smile.
Surely that’s suffice, right?
“You are not going to believe what I just did,” Alma murmurs as she slides into her seat beside me with a fresh vodka cranberry in hand.
She’s been gone at least thirty minutes, curving my brow curiously. “Finally fucked Nico in the bathroom?”
My work wife scoffs and rolls her eyes. “I wish. That man has no interest in me. I did, however, sit on Santa’s lap, and let me tell you… Total smoke show. He can shove his candy cane in my chimney any day.”
I can barely contain my laughter as she fans herself exaggeratedly and blows out a breath.
“Santa? Hot?” I question skeptically.
“Insanely hot. He’s older for sure, probably late forties, but definitely not the fat old man these little sperm spawns think leave them presents under the tree. I was two seconds away from telling him all I wanted for Christmas was him before his elf took our picture .”
“I’m surprised you didn’t,” I chuckle. “You usually have zero filter.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t have time. There’s a line of all the vageen owners in Van Corp waiting their turn.”
I’m not even surprised to hear there’s a Santa in attendance. It’s not a consistent thing, but corporate hired one a few years back when I first started with the company. That Santa was definitely not hot and I most certainly did not sit on his lap or have my picture taken. Alma has fabulous taste in men, though, and while curiosity may have killed the cat, I’m far too intrigued to not scope this out.
“My turn, I guess.” Dropping the napkin on my lap onto my emptied plate, I slide out of my seat and adjust my dress, thankful the Spanx beneath haven’t budged or rolled down. “Come with me so I don’t have to stand in line alone?”
Alma nods and quickly gulps down her drink as if it were nothing but juice, looping her arm through mine without another word.
Let’s go see this supposed sexy Santa.
Maybe he’ll bring me something tasty for Christmas.
Alma was right. The line is nothing but women; some of them single, others definitely attached or married.
“Think he’d have a coronary if I ask him for a fuck machine or a few of those delicious masked men?” I snicker, noting it’s almost my turn.
Alma snorts a laugh and shakes her dark head. “Doubt it. I’m sure he’s heard it all looking like that.”
“What did you ask him for?”
An evil grin spreads full maroon-stained lips. “A pony.”
The most ungodly cackle blasts out of my throat, turning a few heads our way. “You did not.”
“Oh, I did.” She nods slyly. “And when he asked if I wanted riding lessons with that, too, I told him I was a pro on the saddle.”
I’m about to ask what Santa’s reply was to that cheeky ass statement when a “Next!” erupts from the elf girl keeping guard at the entrance. The woman at the front of the line—Cheryl from advertising, I believe—passes a champagne glass to her friend and makes her way up the small staircase with an extra pep in her step.
We stand there for another ten minutes or so, people watching and chatting, before it’s finally my turn. Elf girl plasters on a tired smile (poor thing is probably dying to go home) as I squeeze past her and run a hand through my waves. I’m immediately dumbfounded and awestruck at how spacious the inside of this little hut is. Decorated like Santa’s workshop, the backdrops of workbenches and toy machines give the illusion of something magically grand that spans a mile on each side. There’s several Christmas trees, stacks upon stacks of wrapped presents, massive candy canes and sizable gingerbread men hanging from the ceiling. Poinsettias, garlands, lights—the whole shebang.
And the moment I see him , I drop the notion of “supposedly sexy” right on its ass. Even with the faux beard in place, it’s clear this man is not your traditional Santa. He’s not senior discount old or charmingly rotund, his face far from jolly. Icy blue eyes pierce me with every step, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say there’s a smirk playing on his lips. There’s no way I’m not drooling by the time I’m standing right before him at the bottom of the dais, unable to move.
“No need to be shy,” he coos, the husky baritone of his voice going straight to the apex of my thighs. “Be a good girl and come sit on Santa’s lap.”
The combination of good girl and the way he pats said lap instantly unleashes a rabid swarm of butterflies within my stomach. Praise kink alert much?
Yes. Very much.
A new heartbeat arises, too, one that doesn’t belong to the muscle now palpitating against my ribcage. Inhaling a deep breath, I strut up the three steps and take the proffered seat. A rock hard seat, I should add, rousing images of a sweat-slicked body, vigorous workouts, and grunts that foretell what he sounds like in bed.
“And what would your name be, sweetheart?” he questions, blue eyes brazenly trailing up the length of my body.
Unlike Jared’s, his is very much welcome—and all too palpable. Feels like a laser tracing every dip and swell.
Burning my skin.
Igniting my blood.
And the arm curled around me?
Don’t get me started…
When our stares intertwine, his lips definitely quirk—as if he knows exactly what he’s doing to me—and while I’m internally trying not to melt into a puddle, on the outside, I’m cool as a cucumber. “Shouldn’t you know that already?” I tilt my head playfully. “I mean, the real Santa would, right?”
Santa’s smirk spreads into a full-on wolfish grin as he beckons me closer with the wave of two long fingers. Two fingers I have no business having such instant dirty thoughts about. I oblige without hesitation and lean in, a rousing shiver racking down my spine like a xylophone when he tucks my hair behind my ear and brings his lips to the shell. The synthetic fibers of his beard tickle as he murmurs, “I have a little secret… I’m not the real Santa. My name is Nick, though. Nick Cross.”
He looks like a Nick…
“Well, where is he then, Nick? I was told I’d be meeting Santa.”
Easing back, Nick gives a noncommittal shrug and twirls a finger through the air, the arm curled around my body tightening just slightly. “He’s a little busy tonight. It’s Christmas Eve, remember? He’s out traveling the world, delivering presents to all the good boys and girls.”
“Oh, I see. So he sticks you with the adults ‘cause we’re all on the naughty list,” I hedge, trying and miserably failing not to smile, to not notice how he isn’t wearing the quintessential Santa gloves and how those delicious veins of his hands protrude.
“Something like that,” he nods, “I like to gauge it based on what they ask me for Christmas. Says a lot about a person. So tell me, Noelle… What do you want this year?”
You.
The thought hits me just as hard as it must have hit Alma when she sat in this very spot. I can’t blame her one bit. This man would unravel my stocking if I let him, and I’m down for the festive fuckery.
Tapping a finger against my chin, I hum aloud, purposely making a show of “pondering” what’s on my list. “What has everyone else asked for thus far?”
“Hmm, well…” He slouches in his throne a bit and mirrors my actions, rubbing his chin pensively. “I had someone ask for winning lottery numbers. Another asked for an all-expenses paid vacation to Bali. There were a few requests for dildos, a pony, a fuck machine…”
The way he emphasizes fuck sends my stomach into another trapeze act as those filthy thoughts reform at the forefront of my mind.
“So what would be the verdict if I said all I want for Christmas is three masked men?” I fire back, emboldened by the wayward nature of this conversation.
“Three masked men?” he asks dubiously, brow raised.
“Oh, come on, Nick. Don’t tell me the North Pole doesn’t have internet? Masked men all the rage right now, and women like me want to?—”
“Naughty women like you,” he interjects.
He’s killing me…
“Naughty women like me,” I repeat with a curl to my lips, “want to give them a whirl.”
Nick remains silent for a beat, regarding me with a wicked twinkle in his blue eyes as he sets the hand at his chin on my thigh and rubs the softest of circles. “I see. Three’s a little greedy, though, don’t you think? One of these masked men isn’t suffice?”
Breathe, Noelle.
If he notices the way I gulp, the way a light sheen of sweat likely clings at my temples as every singular molecule within my body focuses on the way he touches me, he doesn’t show it.
“Listen, I’m a good girl all year round. I don’t bed hop, I go to work, do the things I need to do, and that’s it. I think I deserve a little holiday cheer.”
“Do you now?” he chuckles, trailing his hand up just a smidge higher. “Well, I can’t make any promises… But I’ll see what I can do.”