Page 5 of Krampus Kruk
He chuckles, amused. “So, what do you think my friend and I were talking about?”
“Probably how you have no shot with me and should get home before bedtime.”
His lips twitch. “You think you’re that special?”
“I thought I wasn’t thinking?” I ask, intentionally sexy.
“Good girl,” he mouths, like it’s our secret.
I roll my eyes, although my heart is racing. I loved that. He pulls my stool closer to his.
If I go back to his … No!You are not going anywhere with a guy you know absolutely fucking nothing about—even though the vibes are there. After this drink, you’re heading straighthome to your mom’s house. No detours. No fun. Just torture, and not the sexy kind.
“Sell me on the idea … of your place,” I say after my next sip, ignoring my own internal warnings.
“I don’t beg.”
I hate that his words make me smirk. “What do you do, then?”
His eyes slowly roam down my body. “Hopefully kiss and lick what’s under that tinsel.”
I sway my head back and forth, considering.
“We can keep playing this game,” he says, so low only I can hear, “or you can get in my fucking car.”
I inhale sharply, trying to focus on the bigger picture and not what’s going on between my legs. “Is it nice?”
“Audi.”
“So suburban mom of you.”
He stares at me, clearly unamused.
“Where’s your house?” I ask, internally selling myself on the idea of a night with Santa. It’s not a hard sell. He’s hot, commanding.
“I’m staying at my cabin tonight.”
I quirk a brow. “Define cabin.”
“Ten-thousand square feet on forty acres.”
“Flexing?” Although that sounds way better than sleeping at my mom’s house.
“Flexing …” he repeats, almost like he’s mocking the word. “Flexing would be telling you about all my homes … all around the world.”
He could be full of shit and actually planning to murder me, but the fact remains—I’m turned on. I stare at my drink, weighing the possibilities. The logical side of me screamsno, but I’m done thinking.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“You don’t care.”
Do I care?The question plays on repeat as we continue our staring contest. I blink then huff, looking down at my drink. “I’ll get in yourfuckingcar, but I’m not sleeping over.”
I’m going to fuck bad Santa and then go home.
4
Jan slips back into the bar, catching my eye and distracting me from the fact that Tinsel just agreed to go back to my place. He gives a subtle nod, and my paranoia is, for now, just that. I exhale, relieved he didn’t find anything suspicious. That would be a way to go, getting taken out when I least expect it. There’s still something about her, something that doesn’t sit right—or maybe it sits too well.
