Page 14 of Slaying for Santa
“In that case…” I peer up at him through the fan of my lashes. “Since you have a Santa Dom kink, why don’t you go and slip on that Santa costume hanging in your wardrobe. May as well get right into the role of it.”
His lips part in shock, and it takes him a moment to clear his throat enough to speak.
“You saw the suit?”
I nod. “I might have snooped in there first,” I admit, standing from the bed and letting my dress slip off my shoulders to pool at my feet.
His eyes are searing as they peruse down, taking in every part of exposed skin he can see.
“I wear it so the security cameras pick up Santa in the feed, and I show Libi…” he trails off, clearly distracted by my near nakedness.
Snapping my fingers before his eyes, he flinches back, and a low growl rumbles in his chest like he wants nothing more than to shove me down and fuck me raw right here, right now, and hell… I want to let him.
“Santa suit,” I order, and he grins this time, turning and walking into the room that is set up like a fancy designer store dressing room. Only this one isn’t in a store. It’s right here in his home.
Sitting back on the bed, I unlace my boots and kick them off to the side, before standing and checking myself over in the ceiling to floor mirrors.
The red in my tattoo stands out especially well in this light, and the black looks darker. More sinister.
I love my ink. Pretty isn’t a word I use to associate with myself, but since getting it done, and covering up all the scars, I really do feel pretty.
After getting my ink I started to dress differently. No more clothes right up to my neck. No more lacy long sleeves to hide the deliberate imperfections. Some done by me. Others done by my father.
In certain light, if someone is looking closely enough, I know they can see indents from some of the cigarette burns in my skin, but mostly they go unnoticed until someone tries to touch me where the tattoos are.
“Please tell me I don’t have to wear the fucking beard too. It’s too fucking hot for that shit.”
My eyes flick to Kit’s reflection in the mirror as he comes to stand behind me, the thin red pants hanging low on his hips, the cheap fabric not doing anything to hide the bulge underneath. The red jacket is more like a shirt, which he’s left open with the sleeves rolled up, revealing those rippling abs again, and the hat is nowhere in sight.
“Is it bad that I want to get a knife and mark-up those washboard abs?” I ask, and his brows hitch, but he doesn’t panic like most guys would.
“Is it bad that I’d let you, as long as you promised to lick up the blood?”
My lips part as air whooshes from me, and I spin to face him as heat pools between my legs.
Shit. I’mfeeling… likeactuallyfeeling.
I’m hot, yet goosebumps ripple over my skin. My blood is molten, rushing through my veins to get to my pussy. My heart is thudding in my chest like a drum, so loud I can hear it in my ears. And there’s something else. Something that feels like more than arousal, yet I can’t place it, because I’ve never felt it before.
My chest is rising and falling so quickly that he notices, his eyes jumping to the way my tits strain towards him like they are desperate for his touch.
“You like the sound of that? Licking up my blood?” His blue gaze flicks back to lock with mine.
“Yes,” I breathe, and he steps closer, his hand reaching out, and a second later, he’s fisting my hair, jerking my head back.
“Tell me again how rough you like it.”
“As rough as you can handle, and probably more.” I pant as he hovers over me, his lips mere inches from mine.
“Open your mouth,” he demands, and yes, his dominance has me melting, my lips parting for him instantly.
“Tongue out,” he snaps, and I do it, making sure to stretch it as I go, curling the tip so it’s more inviting.
Then he spits on my tongue.
A moan escapes me, his warm spit slapping my tongue, and I drag it in and swallow it down, accepting his filthy gift.
“Mmmm. You taste good, Santa.”
