Chapter 6
E WAN
Knock me over with a feather.
Off all the things that happened tonight.
The time wasted at the bar.
The blonde hitting on me.
The bad news about my son.
The conversation I had with him.
The favor I was asked.
The room filled with kids with sparkling eyes and parents sipping on their drinks.
I’m now hard because of this woman’s little ass?
Frankly, it’s not only her perky round-shaped rear that’s gotten me in trouble.
It’s her entire attitude, those enlivened eyes watching me ferociously from behind a tiny curtain of long lashes. The lips tilted on command, sometimes disapprovingly and other times with a softness that gets me hot.
Her damn blouse molding to her tits and sliding down inside her waistband, highlighting her shape, and making the transition easy to her pencil skirt.
A short zipper runs up her ass, and her hemline hits below the knee, not allowing for big steps.
Only small little strides, her thighs rubbing against each other when she walks, her pussy warm and perfect for the taking.
Whatever she does, I can’t push back the images in my head. My hand running up her zipper before taking a good grab of her ass. And then my fingers slinking under her hemline and pushing her skirt up and up.
My touch pushing up between her thighs before stroking her with my knuckles. Getting a feel of her heat before moving her little panties to the side and sliding my fingers along her seam, touching her wet clit and sliding them into her hole.
I can see her jerk against me, watching me with mesmerized eyes, hypnotized. Unable to say no to me.
I’d eat her out until her eyes rolled back in her head, she arched her back like she needed urgent exorcism, and she cried out unintelligible spooky words.
I don’t know what it is about this woman.
I wasn’t in the mood to fuck someone tonight. And I was even less interested in fucking someone after leaving the hospital.
Pissed couldn’t even describe how I felt.
It wasn’t that I couldn’t do what Ezra had asked of me.
It was that I didn’t want to put myself in a situation where I’d feel like an imposter.
Years ago, I was one of these parents, and Ezra was one of those kids. I had a family back then. A wife I cherished. A son who’s now almost a grown-up.
I was a completely different man. And regardless of the life of crime I’d been involved with, I was still a nice man at home.
Our father taught us not to let the bad spoil the good in our lives.
And I loved my little piece of heaven.
Margot has been gone for years, and Ezra is a young man who strives to make his own decisions and learn from his mistakes.
Can I blame him?
No.
And I––as it turns out––am a horny dude dealing with a beautiful distraction.
I had no idea what I was about to walk into when I pulled into the parking lot, cut the engine off, and dug deep into my bag.
I figured the Santa suit might be a struggle.
Ezra is tall, but I’m bulkier than him.
He’s at that age when long, lean muscles are the norm.
I’m built like a machine.
I could put my shoulder through a door and break a table with my fist.
He’ll get there one day, if he builds more muscle.
So the pants kind of worked, and the belt held everything together, but the jacket gave me hives.
Metaphorically speaking.
The armholes cut into my flesh, the sleeves felt like sand against my skin, and as Miss Scarlett here just noted, the buttons never truly worked.
I left parts open and tried not to break my dick when I walked out of my truck.
I had to get rid of my boxers so I could put the trousers on. The fabric scratched my balls, and not in a nice erotic way. Hence, the exaggerated swagger I displayed when I arrived and the idea that I could make it work if I reached the designated place and stayed until the event was over.
And then… When I finally got things under control, I thought, the woman standing by my side had shown up, throwing a wrench into my plans.
I watch her go to the table and fetch me a bottle of water, my eyes moving with great interest down her legs.
Nice shoes. And beautiful hair.
I know what got me hard. Aside from the obvious.
Perky rear, and nice, round tits. She smells like sex.
Sex that needs to be had. There is that touch of blush in her cheeks and shortness of breath.
The warmth wafting off her body and a sweet perspiration––a mix of body wash and hormones.
Pheromones. Experts still hardly agree on whether we, humans, produce them, and I might not be a specialist on this, but after getting a whiff of that woman, I can confidently say there’s something about them.
I had just started to think about having her legs wrapped around me when she gave me her name.
Man, I wish I had a teacher like that.
She leans over the table to reach the bottles, propped on her free hand, her back teasingly arched, her ass up in the air.
Like an X-ray machine, my mind instantly undresses her.
I can see her pussy lips peeking at me from between her legs, her asshole tight and puckered, her boobs touching the table as I stand behind her, draw her hair into my fist, free my hard-on from my pants, let it dangle, heavy and engorged, before running my touch on it a couple of times and pushing it slowly inside her center.
Damn, I feel it in my crotch.
She’d probably need to put a blindfold on me so I don’t see and think about her.
My semi is now a full erection, and I spread my legs to let it rest between my thighs, ease some of the tension, and, basically, conceal it.
I still have the Santa sack on my lap, and I sweat like fuck under my too-long beard, but I’m now more determined than ever to go through with it and get lost.
The woman is not even my type.
I get the professorial type. Some women enjoy role-playing that. Not in a very successful way, I might add, but they do.
I don’t think I have a type, but she’s definitely not my type. The women at the bar were closer to my type. The kind of woman who wants to have some fun and leaves your place early in the morning, or even better, just before you return from the bathroom after the last round of sex.
I don’t touch real women.
Women who have their own little lives with problems specifically tailored for themselves. Money problems. Sex problems. Boyfriends problems.
Is she married?
I glance in her direction again. No, she’s not.
I give her a double take. She has some spunk to her. A lot of energy and interest in me.
Yeah, I’ve been around the block a few times. She almost bit her tongue when I tested her with that blowjob proposition.
A woman involved with another man would normally be numbed.
She wouldn’t see me if I walked naked in front of her. That’s how Miss Scarlett here would be if I were her man.
She returns with two bottles of water––great minds think alike––and despite her bra, her boobs jiggle every time she moves.
God help me.
I could run the tip of my tongue from her clit to the dip between her tits, up her neck, and right into her mouth.
She’d moan like crazy if I had my tongue down her throat and my hand between my legs.
This won’t work.
I tear my eyes away from her and grumpily accept her water when she puts it next to me on the bench.
I look away while her eyes stall on me for a few seconds before she sets her hand on my shoulder.
“Take your time,” she says, leaning to me, her soft breasts in her bra, moving that warm perfumed air toward me.
Like I needed it.
I don’t need to look to know.
Her breasts are there in the eye of my mind. I can feel them in personal space. Dangling like ripe peaches, waiting for my teeth to rip them apart.
“Just signal to me when you’re ready,” she says. “I’ll be over there.”
She points to some random spot in the room, yet all I can think of is the soft rustle of her blouse rubbing against her skin and dipping into her flesh. It's not like the suit that makes me itchy.
“You can stay,” I say, my voice scratchy like my costume. “I’m good.”
Unless she can’t figure out from how stiffly I sit, she must know I’m not good. It’s how I know a lot of damn things about her.
Things I shouldn’t know.
Things that aren’t my business.
“Are you sure?”
“Damn sure,” I say, untwisting the cap of one of the bottles and gulping it down under her eyes.
I put the bottle under the bench and feel much better.
As long as she doesn’t step in front of me and only does her job, we can make this work.
“Let’s get started. I need to leave soon,” I say dryly, and the woman gets my drift.
SCARLETT
Wow. That was intense.
But the man handled it like a pro.
He didn’t talk much, but he nodded his head when he had to, offered the gifts when he was supposed to, and never did anything to spoil the evening.
He pulled his hat down his forehead and produced a pair of round-shaped glasses that might’ve hidden his face from the kids but never concealed his eyes from me.
No emotion fleeted through them as he did his job. And you couldn’t tell whether he smiled or not, but I suspected he was not.
It didn’t matter.
And we’re done now.
The last kid gets their gift in front of us, and I consider myself lucky for saving the night despite the difficulties I have faced.
My feet hurt, and I can’t wait to get home and put this evening past me.
The little boy smiles from ear to ear, making this event worthwhile.
His mother seems pleased with how things turned out.
“Thank you so much,” she says. “It was a wonderful evening.
Her husband, the mayor, nods from the sideline.
“It was indeed,” the man says before little Joey lifts his arms, compelling his mother to bend over and listen to what he whispers in her ear.
We all wait as we feel it must be something important.
The woman smiles.
“Why don’t you tell her yourself. And maybe ask Santa, too?” his mother encourages him while my antennas go up.
My eyebrows go up as well, while I maintain a neutral grin on my face.