Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92809 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92809 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
What I do want right now is for Reuben to make me come, and unload into me before we leave for the grotto today. I let out a grunt and urge him on.
“Make me come, please. I need to fucking come, Reuben. Take my insanity and use it. You drive me fucking wild.”
The kisses come back, deep and all consuming. We’re a sweaty mess of flesh and lust as he unleashes the pent-up want that he’s been stoking. I don’t give a fuck when I gush and soak the sheets underneath us. I keep pushing down on his dick, spraying like a hose until he curses against my lips and comes inside me. Deep inside me. Thrusting hard with every spasm of his rock-hard cock.
My sex god Santa.
Mine.
Anyone would be lucky to have him, even for a few days. Christmas is being kind to me for once, but will my good fortune last?
It feels like for ever, our panting breaths as one as he holds me, his dick still inside me.
“That was amazing,” I tell him.
He drops a kiss on my nose and eases his cock free.
“We need to make a move,” he says. “Don’t want to be late,” and heads off to the ensuite.
I feel so awkward as we shower together. There is no soaping each other up. No languorous kisses. Santa is in a hurry, that much is obvious. It’s also obvious that Santa is stewing over the fact that I didn’t grant his Christmas wish.
Fuck.
“Jam? Marmalade? Butter?” he asks when we hit the kitchen. “I’m still unsure of your breakfast favourites.”
“Just butter, thanks.”
I watch him making my toast, sitting at the breakfast bar and kicking my heel against the leg of the stool.
Can I do what he wants of me? Really? Is it worth the risk of pissing off the Agency, and leaving a black mark on my scorecard, AND missing out on nearly one hundred grand?
It’s one hell of a fucking decision for 7.30 a.m. after a few hours’ sleep.
I’m supposed to be acting like an elf today, not a headcase. So, I should leave it. Think things through when I’m not high on Santa vibes and waiting for the toast to pop from the toaster.
Shame that the word impulsive might as well be my middle name. I hate hanging in no man’s land.
I take my phone from my pocket, and Reuben does a double take when he reaches for the butter – catching sight of it in my hand. He knows what app I’m scrolling through. The look between us says it all.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “Upstairs earlier, I got jealous, and possessive, and that isn’t fair on you. It’s your career, and your accomplishments at stake, not mine to impose upon. I need to keep myself in line.”
“Nah, you don’t,” I say, and turn the screen around. I rub some fake snot on my sleeve with a sniffle. “Had to message Orla and break the news to her. Seems I am coming down with flu after all.”
24
REUBEN
I’ve always loved the grotto – that’s no secret – relishing the Christmas spirit of the families enjoying the run up to their festivities, but watching Tiffany as an elf, singing along with the children in the queue is raising things to a whole new level with every passing moment. It also reminds me of the true needs I’ve been masking for years.
It’s just gone ten when a toddler enters the room with her father. She’s barely able to walk yet, gripping her daddy’s finger as she toddles along. She has a bright smile and a twinkle in her eyes, and so does her father. He’s so obviously proud as she lets go of him and toddles on over to me. I pick her up with a ho, ho, ho and she giggles as she pulls at my fluffy beard.
Her humour and enthusiasm pain me today as well as bring me joy. I wish that I was her father, with her tiny hand gripping my fingers.
“This is Santa Claus,” her dad tells her, then looks at me with a grin. “She’s been such a treasure this year, even through the teething.”
“I’m sure she has.” I bounce the little tyke on my lap, with another ho, ho, ho and she giggles as though she’s on a fair ride. I see Tiffany in her eyes. I see the joy and the amusement. The life and soul.
I want a child like this one of my own, birthed by the woman handing out candy canes in the queue outside.
Tiffany cancelling the founders’ proposal was a huge statement this morning, spawned by an impulsive move of jealousy that I should never have allowed myself to make. I feel disgusted at myself for it.
Tiffany is a woman with an impressive career, who has built up her reputation over four years. She may be an elf volunteering at a mall grotto right now, with her stripy tights and bobble hat, but she is a sex goddess. A hardcorer. One of the Agency’s finest.