Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 56462 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 282(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 188(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56462 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 282(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 188(@300wpm)
He gave me everything I wanted, right down to the sparkly pearl necklace and the wild, crazy ride on his North Pole, but this sexy Santa has a dark secret. For years he’s been watching me while I sleep, and he knows how much I can take.
I always thought Santa was about spreading joy at Christmas, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. This filthy Santa prefers to spread something else, and as long as he’s willing to give, I’m more than happy to take.
He pushes me to my limits, fulfilling my wildest Christmas fantasies, but just how long can I do this before I break my own heart? Do I wish him back every Christmas and spend each year longing for a man I can’t truly have, or is it time to finally let him go and watch him fly away on his big red sleigh once and for all?
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
1
MILA
Okay, I know this is going to sound crazy, but when I was a little girl, only six or seven years old, I saw Santa Claus, and not just in my dreams or in a movie. It was as real as it gets. I saw the big guy in red right there in my living room, muddy boots and all. I’d gotten out of bed late on Christmas Eve to get a glass of milk, and just as I was making my way back to my bedroom, I saw him shimmy his red-suited ass out of my family’s fireplace.
Even as a little girl, I’d already heard the rumors on the playground—that the famous present bringer wasn’t real. Other kids said that the whole story about Santa and Mrs. Claus, along with their toy-making elves at the North Pole, was nothing but an elaborate ruse to get little boys and girls to fall in line, and I believed those rumors until his big ass appeared in my living room.
Sure, I was losing my tiny mind, realizing that the other kids had been wrong and that Santa was real, but what really surprised me wasn’t Santa at all. It was the young boy who followed him out of my fireplace and stood so confidently in my living room.
He was nothing at all like jolly old St. Nick. He was the polar opposite. Dark hair with even darker eyes, and though he was only a boy, there was a strange confidence about him that I will never forget.
They were only there for barely a second, and as Santa put a present under my tree, the boy simply stared at me with a smirk across his full lips, looking at me as though he was just as intrigued as I was. I stood soundlessly in a puddle of milk, barely able to believe what was happening. Then as Santa made his way back to the fireplace, the boy winked, and like a flash of lightning, they were both gone, leaving my little six-year-old mind blown.
I’ve held a torch for that little boy all my life. Even now as a grown-ass woman, I find myself wondering what he looks like now, what kind of man he turned into, and if that boyish charm grew into an intriguing manly deliciousness.
Insane, right? Yeah, that’s exactly what my mother thought too.
The moment I told her I’d seen Santa and a child appear in our living room in the middle of the night, she declared I’d lost my mind. I was clearly acting out due to my parents’ recent divorce. I barely had a chance to enjoy Christmas before Mom swept me into a therapist’s office to start talking about my hallucinations.
My mother, may she rest in peace, was a fickle woman. Scrap that, she was a cold-hearted bitch. I never got along with her, and truth be told, I think it was her immediate dismissal of what happened that night that started the rocky journey we shared.
All through my childhood and well into my teen years, we fought. I can’t remember a single day where there was peace between us, and I was eventually shipped off to live with my father. He, on the other hand, was a delight. I loved my father, and considering how well we got along, I always wished that we had been able to spend more time together. My mother had fought so hard for sole custody just to spite him, but we all would have been so much happier if I had always lived with him.
But just like Mom, my father recently passed away.
Imagine being barely twenty-six and having to bury both your parents within six months of each other. It’s been a rough year, to say the least. Mom was taken out by a plastic surgery gone wrong, and my father, the poor bastard, was allergic to healthy food and exercise. His heart attack wasn’t exactly the biggest surprise, but that didn’t make the pain of losing him any easier.