Chapter 7
His home is gorgeous, far nicer than I’d imagined.
The dark wooden beams stretch high above us like a cathedral, a giant chandelier made of antlers the focal point of the expansive living room.
The open floor plan is filled with a huge sectional, leather chairs, and iron finishings.
There isn’t a single decoration for Christmas.
He gestures toward a door. “Go pee.”
“You go pee.”
He grabs my chin, firm, towering above me. “In my house, you do as you’re told.”
Rawr. I burst out laughing, and his grip on my chin tightens. “I know this sassy bratty thing is a defense mechanism, but you’re not here to be defensive. You’re here to let go and not think.”
I refrain from saluting him, from giving him more brat, and instead nod, because nothing he said is incorrect. He points at the door again, and I stare into his blue eyes.
I’ve been with a couple guys like this, Doms, and always liked it—for the most part.
One ended it with me because I didn’t worship his cock.
But why would I worship his mediocre cock?
What did he do to earn that? Not that I’m really into that.
I could go the rest of my life never giving head and be completely content.
Another was too rough and didn’t care about my boundaries. So, I stopped sleeping with him.
Turning from this guy with a nice car, face, and body, I scan the cabin before stepping toward the open door.
It’s definitely a man’s place. Nothing is feminine. The fact that this cabin is more like a log mansion shouldn’t put me at ease, but it does.
Washing my hands after I pee, I chuckle, already excited to call my roommate Taylor about this tomorrow. My one night with Santa.
Making my way farther into the home, I spot him sitting on the sectional, leaning back. His presence is commanding in a way that’s hard to ignore. He pats the cushion, but my eyes drift to a tray on the ottoman with familiar white lines as I approach.
A memory of being in a friend of a friend’s condo, partying my freshman year, flashes. The guy offered all of us coke. It was the first time I did it. He was an asshole who tried to get me to blow him for sharing his drugs and remains the only person I’ve ever punched in the face.
“Aren’t you a little old for that?” I ask, nervous.
“Yes, but you aren’t,” he says easily.
“I’m good,” I say with a straight face, masking my unease.
You can’t trust drugs anymore, not that you ever really could. I’m not doing coke with a stranger tonight.
“Good,” he says, sounding pleased, standing and picking up the tray. He smirks, leaving the room and disappearing down the hall.
I quickly contemplate if I should take a seat or not.
He took the drugs away. Green flag. He has drugs in his house …
red flag. So, we’re still at yellow. I can work with yellow.
Too amused with myself, I take a seat on the dark brown, deep-set sectional.
Rubbing my hand over the fabric, I find it soft, plush—definitely not from Wayfair.
“Did I just pass some little test?” I ask when he returns.
He squeezes my knee before sitting down next to me. “I assumed wrong.”
“Do I really give off those vibes?” I hope I don’t give off “I do drugs” vibes. Maybe it’s my risk-taker behavior, the fact that I’m with this guy whose name I don’t know, in his house alone.
“Plenty of girls like free coke.”
I tilt my head. “You need free coke to make friends?” Cause that’s a turn off.
“No.”
It’s silent for a moment until I share. “That’s never been my thing.”
“For the best.” He smiles softly as his hand lands on my thigh, moving up my jeans. “What’s your thing then?”
“Fucking guys whose names I don’t know.”
He grumbles before patting his lap. “Tell me more about why you’re on the naughty list this year.”
“Okay, Santa,” I mock. “Why do you think I’m on the naughty list?”
“Your mouth.” He pats his lap again, more firmly this time.
I guess I’m going to sit on Santa’s lap.
As I shift to sit on his thigh, he widens his legs until mine rest between his.
He plays with my hair before his hands run down my body.
“We both know that mouth has you on the naughty list this year.”
“What can I say, Santa? I’m always running my mouth.” His smirk—it’s hot. I’m finding everything about this man’s being hot. I never thought I’d be fucking a sixty-something, but here we are.
“Tell me something really naughty you did this year,” he says, resting his hands on my hips. My mind immediately flashes to work, to how I got my boss fired. “Tell me,” he breathes, like he’s reading my mind. Then, his lips land on my neck.
“Am I confessing my sins here?” I laugh breathily, enjoying the way he’s teasing my neck.
“Yes. Then, I will decide how many spankings you’re getting.”
I giggle. “You’re assuming I want spankings.”
“You need them.” His hand grips my chin again. “My handprint will be on your ass for at least a week, because we both know you’ve been a naughty girl.”
I’m playing with fire and loving it. This is such a fucked little fantasy we’re weaving. “Confession, since you’re a stranger I’m never seeing again—”
“I thought I’m going to dinner tomorrow.”
“You wish.”
“No more of that,” he scolds. “Not unless you want something more severe than spankings.”
Like? But I’m not asking, not pushing. This is still a caution situation. For all I know, he could lock me up and throw away the key. Let’s hope not.
“What’s your confession?” he presses.
“My former boss was incompetent. What I do for a living is technical, so the non-technical people above him didn’t know he was an idiot.”
“What did you do?” he asks, intrigued, flirty. His hand dips under my sweater, caressing the skin above my jeans.
“I built a trap for him to fall into and metaphorically hang himself.”
“You wanted his job?”
“I was already doing his job,” I say softly, and his hands squeeze my sides, a silent signal I take to keep talking, “without the title or pay. We were about to onboard a new account, and I wanted to get the credit for their success.”
“Ah. You want to be called a good girl even though what you did to get that praise was very naughty,” he says, pushing my hair over my shoulders.
I stick out my tongue then bite it. “It was too easy. He fell right into the honeytrap.”
“You’re into computers,” he groans, his tone signaling his distaste of the subject.
“Santa, people have to be into computers to have jobs these days.”
“Hopefully, you don’t work for Cryptoball.”
Cryptoball? That’s so fucking random. My roommate’s boyfriend works there. I mean, it’s one of the largest employers in Chicago, but still.
Mafia. There are whispers about the CEO of Cryptoball growing up in the Polish Mafia.
“Why?” I manage to ask, reeling about who this guy with the tatted hands might be.
“Because then, I’d have to take you back. Tell me you don’t work there.”
“I’ve interviewed there before, but I don’t work for that weird fucking cult of a company.”
Without warning, he pulls me in by the back of the neck and teasingly licks the sensitive skin above my collarbone. The pressure. The way his hand curls into my hair, keeping me close. I’m going to have hickeys, and that brings a smile to my face for some reason.
“Wait,” I breathe, still curious.
“No.” His other hand pulls me in by the hip as his tongue continues to explore my neck.
Fuck, Santa. This feels so good, but I pull back, my mind swirling.
“Now I’m more curious about why you can’t hook up with me if I work there.” I squint at him.
“Just a rule,” he says casually, and I cock my brow. “Tinsel, you don’t want to get to know me. Do you?”
“When you say things that pique my curiosity … I want to know.”
“Too much talking.” He shoves my shoulders, and I flop back on the couch cushion.
He’s right. We’re here to hook up, not get to know each other. He barely raises my sweater up before humming with what sounds like satisfaction. His fingers release the fabric and begin tracing my hip bones above my jeans.
“I wasn’t anticipating tattoos,” he says, and my smirk matches his. He isn’t the only tatted party here. I have a lot of tattoos, but I’ll let him discover them on his own. “What kind of flower is that?”
“Gladiolus.”
He leans down, sticking his tongue out to trace the stalk on my left hip. I twitch at the touch, turned on, his tongue following the curve of my hip. I’m just generally turned on by his tongue and hoping it explores other areas too.
“I like that you’re a mystery,” he says, his eyes flicking up to meet mine.
I like that my reverse tramp stamp is doing its job, I think. I fucking love when guys lick and kiss my tattoos. His tongue delicately traces my other tattoo before his hand slides my sweater above my bra.
“I don’t like this tattoo,” he says, tracing the one on my rib cage. “Imperfect,” he scolds as he reads. “You’re a goddess. Who’s fucking perfect anyway?”
“Ro—”
He presses two fingers to my lips. “No sassy, little comeback. You’re a fucking goddess deserving of worship.”
“Not punishment?”
“I haven’t forgotten about the spankings, Tinsel,” he grumbles, pulling my sweater over my head and throwing it across the room.