Page 22 of The Santa Situation
Into her life.
And—finally—into her body.
I followed Jemma up the stairs, the soft creak of each step loud in the otherwise silent house. She didn’t look back, but her pace was unhurried, like she knew I’d follow.
The glow from the tree faded as we climbed, replaced by the faint amber light spilling from the bedroom at the end of the hall. I’d been up here before—once, when we were twelve years old working on a school project in the attic; then, recently, to fix a leaky faucet in the guest bath—but never in her bedroom.
Never like this.
At the threshold, she hesitated for just a moment. Soft lamplight spilled from inside, and the air between us crackled with tension.
I moved without thinking, closing the distance between us until I stopped just behind her. The scent of her shampoo, the warmth of her body, the faint hitch in her breathing—they all hit me at once.
My hand found the small of her back, my thumb tracing a slow arc across the fabric of her sweater. Every inch of me wanted every inch of her.
She leaned back into my touch and exhaled. “Charlie.”
My name on her lips nearly undid me. “I’m right here, honey.”
Her head tilted back, her eyes meeting mine. “Good.”
And then she stepped into her bedroom, and I crossed the threshold behind her, closing the door behind us with a quiet click.
eight
. . .
Charlie
For a beat,we just stood there, both of us staring at the bed on the far side of the room.
Eventually, she turned to face me, light from the bedside lamp striking warm highlights in her hair, and I saw Jemma as I never had before—not as a memory or a half-formed wish, but as a woman who was finally, truly mine.
“You’re beautiful, Jemma.”
Her laugh came out soft and warm. “This doing it for you?” she teased, gesturing up and down her body to showcase the last pieces of her Mrs. Claus get-up—like Vanna White revealing blank letter boxes.
“Oh, yeah,” I said, stepping closer. “I like it so much I fear you’ve unlocked a heretofore unknown kink. I’ll never be able to look at Mrs. Claus the same way again.”
“Same with me and Santa,” she said, her lips tilting up into a smirk as she walked backward until her knees hit the edge of her bed, her eyes fixed on me the entire time.
Wordlessly, her hands found the hem of her sweater. She hesitated, just for a second, and then tugged it upwards in a single, decisive sweep, leaving her standing there in leggings, a heavy wool skirt, and a surprisingly lacy black bra.
For a moment, I simply took in the sight before following her lead, peeling off my red jacket and the black shirt beneath it, surprised by the absence of the shyness I’d expected when baring my middle-aged body.
It was only when my hands moved to undo my belt that self-consciousness surfaced. The evidence of what had happened in the car was still there, damp and sticky, and clinging to my skin in a way that was fucking uncomfortable. “Uh, I might want to wash up first.”
Her smile was soft, understanding. “Washcloths and towels are in the linen cabinet by the sink,” she said, nodding toward the adjoining bathroom.
“Thanks.”
I stepped inside, flicking on the light. I cleaned up quickly, running warm water over a washcloth and scrubbing away the tacky traces of my earlier orgasm. When I was done, I tossed the cloth into the hamper and braced both hands on the edge of the sink. For a long moment, I just stared at my reflection—at the flushed cheeks, the grin tugging at the corner of my mouth.
“You’re the luckiest son of a bitch in Mistletoe Bay,” I muttered, pushing up and turning back toward the door.
At the last second, I grabbed a towel and wrapped it around my hips. Even though I was about to get naked with Jemma, it seemed awfully presumptuous to just walk back in with my dick swinging free.
When I opened the door, she stood near the bed, the leggings and skirt she’d been wearing before neatly folded on the chair by the window. My mouth went dry. The black lace that covered her was both simple and elegant, and somehow the sexiest damn thing I’d ever seen.
