2. First Day of Doomcember
~ brIDGET ~
Doomcember. I named the month that because it gave me a deep-seated sense of dread and self-loathing. And it was finally here.
Fuck.
I had been a prisoner in my own home for the past ten days.
The only bright spot was my husband. I’d had a panic attack three days before Thanksgiving because we were supposed to go to his friend’s house for the day. But I was so convinced that the moment I stepped out the door I’d be tackled by elves and tinsel, I fell apart.
It was stupid and juvenile and… I couldn’t get myself under control until my gorgeous, sweet, patient husband called his friend and said we weren’t going to make it.
He spent the next two hours teasing me out of my self-loathing for giving in to the anxiety.
I was devastated. I really thought after my father died I’d finally get better. Instead, it seemed like I’d grown worse.
Sam ordered a meal kit and we spent Thanksgiving day thanking each other for giving orgasms… by returning the favor. It was fun and delicious, and an excellent distraction. But every day since felt like the shadow over my head grew heavier.
The only way to keep my heart rate at any kind of normal was to convince myself that I could sit in this house until New Year’s and not step foot out the door.
I’d ordered books online and from the library and sent Sam to pick them up for me so that I had something to do that didn’t require consuming the culture, because everything was now painted in mistletoe and holly.
So there I was on the first of Doomcember, reading a book—which was, admittedly, pretty hot—but that creeping, niggling fear kept crawling up my spine.
I told Sam I wasn’t going to leave this year, but I was only hours into the day, and I was no longer sure I could do this for a whole month.
When the door from the garage banged, my body tensed.
God, I was a mess.
I kept my head down, and my nose in the book because I didn’t want Sam to know that I was sulking, but of course, he walked straight into the living room, straight to my side and pulled the book out of my hands so I had no choice but to look up at him.
“How are you doing?”
“I’m not sick, Sam. I’m anxious.”
“I know. So, how are you?”
I almost rolled my eyes. “Anxious.”
He gave me a look that said I wasn’t funny and folded the corner of my book page to keep the place, then set it on the coffee table next to the couch.
I eyed the book with my brows up. “Half the Booktok community just screamed at you, I hope you know that.”
“I’m good at making women scream,” he quipped.
I snorted, but I didn’t smile.
Sam stared down at me for a second, folding his arms. “Okay, so this was supposed to be a fun thing, but I can see you aren’t in the mood. So, instead of trying to make you smile, I’m just going to say… I need you to sit here with no distractions for a few minutes and wait for me to come back.”
“Come back from where?”
“From… well, you’ll see. But it won’t take long and I want your full attention when I get back. Okay?”
“What for?” I tried not to be a grumpy asshole, but I wasn’t succeeding.
He leaned down, planting his hands on either side of me and leaning right into my face. He smelled like cedar and something minty and my tummy fluttered. I reached for his cheek that was stubbled because he hadn’t shaved this morning, but he caught my hand and made me meet his eyes.
“You’re miserable,” he said bluntly.
“And you’re psychic?” I shot back.
His lips thinned. He’d told me more than once that sarcastic Bridget was his least-favorite Bridget. Funnily enough, my Psychologist, Gerald had said the same thing.
“Bridge, we aren’t going to sit here for a month while you crawl out of your skin. We’re going to have some fun. I’m going to force you to have fun. I have a surprise for you.”
I tensed immediately. I’d been waiting for this. Sam was an amazing man, and he loved me. But he was a fixer. A man of action. He’d already taken steps in his quest to help me that went way too far at times. He was also a Christian and those people ate up Christmas like Sam ate me. Eagerly.
I leaned away from him. “Slow your roll. I know everyone at church loves this whole Christmas thing. But I can’t, Sam. I just can’t.” My throat pinched and I swallowed it back. “Please don’t try to make me like Christmas. I tried when I was younger. For real. It’s just—”
“Hey, hey, no. No, that’s not what we’re doing, babe. Not at all. Just breathe.”
“But—”
“I said we’re going to have fun. Not that we’re going to have Christmas fun, Bridget. I wouldn’t force that on you.”
“But the church—”
He grimaced and shook his head. “People in the church love Christmas because it's a positive holiday about giving and they grew up with it. Jesus wasn’t born at Christmas time, Bridge. That’s just a tradition.”
“But—”
“Santa and noble pines aren’t anything to do with God. You and I don’t need that. So stop stressing. I get it. I want to help. I have something else for you. I need you to stay in here, not follow me, and wait.”
I slumped in the seat, but I believed him. He wouldn’t lie to me about this. “Okay,” I said reluctantly. “Fine. I’ll wait here.”
“Don’t follow me into the bedroom—I mean it.”
“I believe you.” I smiled, because I knew what he meant by that—he didn’t want me chasing him for sex. It hadn’t even been on my mind, but now it was, of course.
“Bridget, I know that look.”
“I won’t!” I said, putting my hands up and smiling more. “I give you my word. My butt will stay here in this seat, and I’ll wait for you to come back.”
He gave me a pointed look for a second, then leaned in and kissed me—which wasn’t helping with the no-sex directive—then straightened and disappeared down the hallway.
I heard a small thump at one point. Rustling paper. And a muttered curse.
By that time I was curious enough about what he was doing to be distracted from my funk. So when I heard his footsteps down the hall, I sat up straighter… and blinked when Sam appeared in the open archway between the hallway and living room, leaning on the wall and smiling at me like an evil fucker.
I couldn’t take my eyes off him.
He wore long, loose, velvet pants with a black belt and white fur at the hem, but instead of the bright red of Christmas, they were black. He had a matching jacket too—complete with a wide loose hood, and sleeves, both lined in that white fur again. And also black. But he’d left it open, revealing his abs and pecs that were framed so beautifully, my mouth went dry.
Sam had one arm hiked up because he had a big, black, fabric bag full of strangely shaped lumps thrown over his shoulders.
He looked hot, and silly, and… a little bit dangerous.
Perfect.
“Sam, what the fuck are you doing? Are you… dark Santa? You do realize—”
“Tsk tsk. I’m not Santa. I’m Krampus, the anti- Santa.”
I snorted. “Krampus?”
“The Anti-Santa, yes.”
“Sam—”
“I said, Krampus . Look, I used to be one of Santa's helpers, but I hate that bastard.” He pushed off the wall and strode across the room to stand over me, his eyes locked on mine and that smile so handsome, and so menacing, the hair on my arms stood up. “So while that fat fucker is giving presents to the good kids, I’ve taken it upon myself to reward all the naughty girls… So, tell me, Bridget. Have you been naughty, or nice?”
I tried not to smile, but I failed. “Definitely naughty,” I said, spluttering a laugh.
“That’s right. I’m glad you didn’t try to lie because I already know all the ways you’re naughty, Bridget,” he purred as he put his bag down on the floor and leaned over me while I fought not to laugh. “In fact, you’re my naughtiest girl of all. Well done, beautiful. It’s my job to reward you for your resistance to the jolly old man.”
“ Reward me? How?”
His gaze went hot and dropped to my lips. Those goosebumps that had started on my arms tripped down my spine. Sam had always been able to take my breath away, but when he leaned right into my ear, his stubbled cheek brushing against mine, I shivered.
Then he whispered in that rough, deep voice, “Ho… ho… ho.”
I burst out laughing and Sam straightened, mock scowling at me.
“Oh my god, that was so cheesy!” I gasped.
“Hush,” he muttered. “I’m distracting you.”
“Well, that’s certainly true.”
“Bridget—”
“No seriously, Sam—you should film this. Tiktok would go insane—” I cut off with a gasp because Sam snapped forward, planted one hand on the back of the couch, grabbed my hair with the other and twisted it around his fist, then yanked my head back, his mouth open and lips almost brushing mine as he stared right into my eyes.
“I said, hush,” he growled.
Hush I did. Very quickly. Eyes wide and heart pounding in all the right ways.
“Good girl,” he purred and my belly fluttered again. “Now, listen carefully: I have several presents for you, because you, Bridget Priestley, have been a very, very naughty girl.”
I gaped at him because I couldn’t lift my head and his mouth was just out of reach. I licked my lips and his eyes dropped. I smiled.
“Will any of my presents be… toys?” I whispered.
Sam arched one brow. “It’s not outside the realm of possibility.”
I was still trying not to laugh, but also getting turned the fuck on. “But, wow, Santa… aren’t you married? I mean, can we even do this?”
“Tsk tsk, Bridget. You think I’m a good boy? I’m the Anti -Santa . But yes, I am, and my wife is hot as hellfire. Just so you know.”
His eyes dragged down to my mouth again and I thought he’d kiss me, but he let me go and dropped down into a squat like he hadn’t just turned a blowtorch on my insides.
As I blinked and tried to regain the upper hand, he dug around in that bag on the floor, then straightened again with a rectangular box in his hand.
He stared down at me for a second, pulling the present out of my reach when I grabbed for it. “Can’t stop being naughty even when you should ,” he muttered like he was disappointed. “No wonder you’re the one I have the most presents for.”
“Give it to me!” I said excitedly. “Please?”
Sam’s lips pursed as he pretended to be thoughtful. I thought he’d kiss me, or fuck me, then give me the present. But to my shock, he suddenly grabbed me around the waist and hoisted me up and over his shoulder, slapping my ass when I shrieked and carrying me out of the room and down the hallway.
“Sam!”
“It’s Krampus—but quiet now. I have work to do.”
And then… then he sang softly as he carried me to the bedroom.
“You better watch out, you better not sigh.
You better not pout, I'm telling you why:
The Anti-Santa’s coming to town.
He's made you a list you’ll want to read twice,
He knows all the ways you’re naughty and nice.
The Anti-Santa’s coming to to-own.”
He turned the corner in the hallway that led back to our room, and let his voice drop to a deep gravel, but kept singing.
“He watches when you’re sleeping,
He stalks when you're awake.
He knows that you’re a naughty girl.
Keep it up, for goodness sake!”
He slapped my ass again and I squeaked. By then I was gripping his back and babbling at him to put me down, but he cranked his free arm around my thighs and kept me on his shoulder as he pushed into the bedroom.
“You better watch out, you better not sigh,
Better not pout, I'm telling you why:
The Anti-Santa’s coming to toooooown.”
He dropped to kneel and put my feet on the ground as he held that last note. I giggled.
“You’re such a dork.”
“A dork who can spank your ass, so watch your mouth,” he muttered, tossed my present onto the bed, grabbing my hips to stop me turning around because there were other things in the room, but I hadn’t had a good look at anything yet.
Still kneeling in front of me, he grabbed my chin and wouldn’t let me turn my head. “Look at me,” he said, and all the playful fun was gone from his tone and his expression.
I went still.
“I have a present for you, Bridget. Are you ready?”
I nodded and turned to look at the bed where he’d thrown the present. But instead, Sam started to undress me.
That was a present I could get behind, so I helped him push my underwear and yoga pants to the floor, and lifted my arms for him to pull his hoodie off me. When he leaned in to unlatch my bra, I kissed his neck and slid fingers into his hair. I was about to whisper something sexy in his ear when he pulled back to meet my eyes, shaking his head again.
“So naughty,” he muttered, then straightened and swept me up. I squealed as my stomach swooped, but he plonked me down in the chair in the corner… and grabbed my ankles first.
Half-thrilled, and half-shocked, I leaned forward to watch him bind my ankles to the legs of the chair. Then he pinned each of my hands down on the arm of the chair and wrapped soft bonds them.
“Well, Krampus is very thorough,” I said. “The only problem I see is that if I’m bound to the chair, how are you going to get involved?”
Sam looked up from my second hand where he was still tying me down, and shot me a dark, heated look.
I swallowed when he planted a hand on my thigh to push himself to his feet, but he didn’t touch me again, instead he turned away and picked up the present he’d thrown on the bed.
“Now, it’s my advice that you keep your mouth shut for a moment, because if you don’t I’m going to be forced to gag you, and neither of us wants that.”
“We don’t?” I joked, waggling my eyebrows.
His jaw flexed as he smiled. “Not that kind of gagging, Bridget. But I do like the way you think, wife.”
Something warm always bloomed in my chest when he called me that.
But before I could tell him so, he looked down at the present in his hand—it was wrapped in a beautiful, matte-black paper with a white ribbon and a slightly rumpled bow.
“The Anti-Santa says you’ve been extremely naughty this year, Bridget. And I have proof.”
“Oh?”
He nodded, his eyes hooded as he smiled down on me. “You’ve been lusting after other men.”
I blinked and my head snapped back. “Wait…”
He tossed the present into my lap—it landed between my thighs. It was heavier than I expected. But both my hands were tied down so I just looked at it, then back up at him.
“Sam, you don’t really think—?”
“I can see you’d find it a little difficult to open the present. So I’ll do it for you,” he said in that low growl.
His mood was strange—cute and sexy and silly… but that dark husk in his voice didn’t seem faked. I licked my lips. “Sam, this is a joke, right? You don’t really think I’ve been—”
“I can prove it,” he said, kneeling in front of me again and picking up the present, tearing that lovely wrapping off like the neanderthal that all men seemed to be, and opened the Amazon box inside… to reveal a Kindle?