Jack
I ’m not proud of it, but my first thought is: she’s mocking me. Why else would a beautiful young woman say she wants a man like me?
But I don’t say it out loud, thank god, because this is Clara, and Clara is not cruel. She doesn’t toy with people’s emotions, and besides—she’s flushed. Breathless. Squirming in my lap like she’s as worked up as I am.
I clamp one hand down on her thigh. Hold her in place. If she wriggles any more, she’s gonna brush up against something she’s not ready for.
“You want me?” I need her to say it again. Say it clearer. Spell it out for me, so it gets through the ringing in my head.
“Yes.” Clara leans in again, tracing the cold tip of her nose along my cheek, and I screw my eyes shut. The scent of her coconut shampoo is everywhere, invading my senses. Addling my overworked brain.
“You want me like—like that?” I clear my throat. Shit, this is awkward. “Intimately?”
She nods. “Uh-huh.”
“Now, wait. Wait a minute.” I jiggle her on my knee. Clara squeals and laughs, clutching at my shoulders to hold on, and it’s so distracting I can barely force the words out. “Do you want me as ? Or as Santa?”
Look, I’m not one to judge. It takes all sorts, and if Clara has some kind of Santa fetish, I won’t tease her too badly for it. But I need to know if this is something bigger, if it’s the thing I’ve been dreaming of for a year, or if it’s all because I put on this stupid hat.
Would I tell her no, if she only wanted the role play?
Probably not. I’m weak when it comes to Clara.
She snorts, and tugs on my pom pom. “Both. I’ve never liked Santa that way before, but when it’s you…”
Hell yeah. I’ll take that answer. And now my chest is swelling, and I’m sitting up straighter, and the string lights seem to glow brighter as I rearrange Clara in my lap, turning her to face forward and bracketing her waist with my hands.
She wants me? She’ll get me. I’m done feeling guilty about my feelings. Maybe it looks wrong from the outside, but there’s nothing bad about the way I love Clara. I want only good things for her. I want her to be happy. Satisfied.
“Tell me.” My command is rough. “Tell me how good you’ve been, baby.”
She trembles on my thigh. Lets out a tiny, relieved sigh. Then Clara melts back against my chest, her head resting on my shoulder, and begins to speak.
* * *
“I work hard in the bar.”
I squeeze her waist in a gentle pulse. “You sure do.”
Clara hums and thinks for a second, then adds: “I keep my room tidy.”
My thumbs rub back and forth over her ribs. Back and forth. She’s wearing a thick wool sweater and her pajamas underneath, but I can still feel the shape of her. She’s soft and curvy. Made to fill my big hands. She’s perfect . “That’s good.”
“And I…” Clara trails off, but there’s no way that’s the whole list. I wait patiently, pressing my face against her head so I can smell her hair. Whatever brand shampoo she uses, I need to buy a bottle. Keep it by my bedside, so I can sniff her anytime.
“I’m a good friend to Gina,” she says at last. “I listen to her problems. Text her things she’ll find funny.”
My chest rumbles in approval. My hands trace higher up her sides, until my fingers brush the sides of her breasts. “You’re a sweet girl, Clara.”
She snorts. “I’m not.”
That’s bullshit. Anyone who ever met Clara knows she’s sweet, but I don’t argue. I give her a chance to explain. And while she’s chewing over her words, her fingers plucking absentmindedly at my sleeves, I duck my head. Drag my lips along the heated skin of her neck.
Yeah, she blushed like crazy earlier. Blushed so hot, her burning cheeks practically warmed up the whole bar. She’s still blushing, the red tinge warming her skin.
Guess now I know why. Little Clara was busted. Caught wanting something she thought she shouldn’t.
“Oh,” Clara mumbles, her head turning to give me better access. I work my way up her throat, pressing hot, whiskery kisses, sucking and nibbling at her soft skin. “I can’t—can’t think when you do that.”
Me neither. My hands slide around her body, palming her soft tits. Weighing them in my palms, squeezing them, kneading them, and all the while I keep kissing.
“,” Clara breathes. “I can’t believe we’re doing this.”
I pull my head up. Clear my throat, sitting back, but I keep my hands on her tits. Can’t help myself.
“You want to stop?” My thumbs find her hard nipples, even through her layers. As I pinch, she sucks in a sharp breath, wriggling against my leg.
“ No. Oh my god. Don’t you dare.”
“Then tell me something, Clara.” Our voices are soft in the empty bar.
“Tell you what?”
I press my words against her soft hair. “Tell me why you don’t think you’re sweet.”
Clara falls silent. Slumps back against my chest again. Then admits in a low voice: “Some of the things I think about aren’t sweet. Some—some of the things I do —”
She cuts off, embarrassed.
I’ve never wanted to hear the end of a sentence more.
“Tell Santa all about it.” Maybe if I keep this light, keep it playful, she’ll spill the beans. And sure enough, Clara hiccups a laugh. Shakes her head.
“If Santa knew about this stuff, he’d fall off his sleigh.”
“Try me,” I growl. I’m not some jolly old saint from the North Pole. I’ve thought plenty of less-than-sweet things about Clara. Things that would make her eyes go wide.
Plenty of nights, knowing she’s asleep just upstairs, I’ve gripped my cock in my office. Worked myself over, thinking about climbing those steps and joining her in that single bed. Pushing her pretty legs apart and wedging myself home.
I’ve never said a word, obviously. Thoughts aren’t actions, after all, and I was sure I’d scare her. Make her feel awkward in her home.
But now…
“Have you touched yourself, Clara?”
She splutters, clutching my sleeves. “How… how did you know? ”
Fucking hell. “Did you touch yourself and think of me?”
“I… I…”
Enough dancing around it. “Because I’ve done that, Clara. I’ve jerked my cock to the thought of you. To the image of your soft tits and your creamy skin and what’s hidden between your legs.”
She’s frozen. Her breaths are quick and ragged, and fuck, I’ve gone too far. But when I start to move my hands off her tits, she slaps her palms on top. Holds them in place, whimpering when I curse quietly, squeezing her again, my forehead pressed against the back of her head.
“Yes.”
When she finally answers, I’ve almost forgotten the question. But then I remember, and the image of her doing that slams into me like a brick wall.
“Clara,” I grind out, eyes screwed shut, shaking my head. “You’re right. You have been bad.”