Page 37 of Make You Mine This Christmas
Austin lets go of our hands and holds his out for Dad, who walks over and gathers him up in his arms. “Thanks, guys, you were great with him. If you all ever get lost delivering presents on Christmas Eve, you can always crash at our place.” With his voice full of innuendo, he gives us a wink, and thank goodness little Austin is too busy straining for his cookie to overhear. I wouldn’t want to have to explain to a three-year-old Santa won’t actually be coming by for a sleepover.
Brody blinks at me, not quite sure how to react, and I laugh, putting my head down on top his arm where it rests on the arm of the chair. “Not into the group thing, then?” I ask him.
He shakes his head. “No, I’ve never... wait, have you?” I shrug, this not even being close to the place to get into it. His head shakes again. “Never mind, I don’t want to know. But no, Idon’tshare.”
The possessiveness in his voice, added with watching people want what’s mine all day, snaps something in me. I don’t want to wait,can’twait until we get home. A memory of something we did ten years ago—and the somewhere we did it—flashes through my mind. I know what to do next.
“Follow my lead, okay?” I say quietly, and Brody sends me a questioning look.
“Hey everyone, y’all can head out early. Blaire needs to take some promo photos of Brody and wants the space clear to do it. We’ll clean everything up.” No one needs to be told twice to pack up and head home, and most rush out like I might take it back if they stay behind.
“Liar, liar, tights on fire,” Jimmy says as he saunters past me. “Just remember, this place will be crawling with kids again in the morning.”
“Night, Jimmy,” I say. That kid doesn’t miss anything.
I lock the back door behind him, and come out to find Brody standing in front of his chair.
“Sit,” I say when I walk past. He drops back into the chair. “Blaire wants to do promo photos tonight? Wouldn’t it be better with some natural light?” The lock on the front door clicks into place as I turn and walk back toward him with intent.
“Oh,” he says, and I watch his throat bob as he swallows hard. “Blaire’s not taking any pictures, is she?”
“Nope,” I say, enunciating the “P” as I come to a stop in front of him. With an arm braced on each side of his chair, I lean down. “So, why don’t you tell me again about how Santa’s basically a sexless figure?”
“What? He is. No one wants to have sex with Santa.”
I scoff. “Please. Tell that to all the parents who hit on you today. I think some people without kids came along with friends to get a look.”
His eyes roll. “That’s a bit much. Some people are committed aunties and uncles.” He inhales sharply when I trail my nose from the base of his neck up to his ear.
“You don’t see what I see,” I say into his ear, my voice low and serious.
“What do you see?” he asks, tipping his head back, easing my path back down his cheek, under his chin, and up to the other ear. Once there, I answer him. “A sexy man who doesn’t realize the spell he casts on people. Who cares so fucking much it drives me insane. Who can make me feel paternal one second and then horny as hell as soon as the child walks away.” I bite down on his earlobe and he groans. His hands come in to grip my hips, tugging me back slightly so he can see my face.
“Well, how about what I see?”
I raise my eyebrow, feeling cocky, until he stretches to place a kiss where it’s arched. My breath stutters when he starts to speak. “I see a man tempting me to get coal in my stocking for the rest of my life. The thoughts he puts into my head with his ass in those tights.” His lips move across my forehead, then trail down to the side of my mouth. “Who stands up for what’s right, for those he cares about. Who helped a little boy feel comfortable with a stranger. Who is the only one this Santa wants.” He says those last words against my mouth, and I crash into him.
His back hits the back of his chair, and I thank whoever designs Santa thrones for their roomy nature as I straddle his legs. My hand seeks his hair to tangle in, knocking his red cap askew. My tight grip on the strands lets me angle his head how I want it to ravage his mouth. I bear down all my weight onto his lap, and his groan fills my mouth when I grind on his dick. A slow, firm circle of my hips has me swallowing that noise over and over.
He yanks his mouth away from mine. “Austin, I cannot take these pants to the dry cleaner to get cum out of them.”
“Buy new ones,” I say, diving back in for a kiss. A grip on my hair pulls me back again.
“They’re custom made.” His eyes are playful, a wanting as strong as mine behind the mirth. It wouldn’t be fun if it were easy.
“Aren’t you supposed to be rich?” I ask, already removing my weight from his lap, leaning back to get a better look at him. His lips are as red as his suit, and his hair is absolutely wrecked. The swells of his cheeks are deliciously rosy, both from the kisses and the heat of our bodies in his velvet suit.
“But not wasteful,” he says, even as he tries to pull my face back down to his. He whines in response to me climbing off him.
“Hold your reindeer, Santa,” I say, spreading his legs wide so I can kneel between them. “If we can’t ruin the pants, then we’re just going to have to lose them.” My fingers undo the knot on his jacket, opening it enough so I can undo the suspenders holding the pants up. I pause with my fingers in his waistband, looking up at him.
“What?” he asks, his chest heaving in anticipation. He glances around then in a panic. “Did you hear something?”
“No. But I need to...” I reach next to him for the Santa hat I knocked off his head earlier and hand it to him to put it back on before curling my finger in the waistband of his red pants again. This time I snag the elastic of his boxer briefs too.
Brody lifts his hips up, helping me work them down below his knees, saying, “Do you have a Santa kink I should know about?”
I lean back to admire my handiwork. Brody’s cock is hard against his thigh, a bead of pre-cum at the tip. His white undershirt has ridden up so a bit of his belly peeks out, while his coat is splayed open. I’ve never considered if a Santa hat could pull off a “freshly fucked” angle, but we’ve somehow achieved it. And then there’s the face between the hat and coat, pupils dilated, mouth open and panting slightly, breaking up the grey-white beard.
