Page 18 of There's Only One Sleigh
I nod, making the bell on the Santa hat’s pompom ring. “He’s thin, but he’s very strong. Wiry as hell, according to him. But anyway, is there anything else in the tote? Where’s the belt?”
“There’s no point in putting on the belt,” she mutters as she digs through the plastic tote. “We’d have to wrap it around you four times. There’s a?—”
Her mouth snaps shut when she pulls out a short, green minidress with candy cane buttons. I’d forgotten the sexy elf dress was still around.
She turns to face me, holding up the dress. “I amnotwearing this.”
I try not to picture her wearing it because it feels wrong to have an erection while dressed as Santa. “Oh, come on. Every Santa needs an elf, Whitney.”
“No.”
I sigh dramatically. “Fine, but if you’re not going to be an elf, then you have to wear the sweater.”
She’s fighting to keep her expression blank while avoiding direct eye contact. “What sweater?”
“You know I bought that ugly Christmas sweater for you. You donotoverlook details, Ms. Forrester.”
“I prefer pretending it doesn’t exist.”
“If you don’t wear the sweater for the fair as one of the official organizers, then I bought it for no reason.” I shrug, holding up my hands. “That means you’ll be aiding and abetting me in my misappropriation of Santa Fund money.”
“Fine, Rob. I’ll wear the ugly sweater.” She tosses the elf dress aside and pulls a black belt with a huge silver buckle out of the tote. “I own shirts longer than that dress. Hell, I think there’s more fabric in this belt.”
“Full disclosure—that elf costume was retired at least thirty years ago because one, it’s undeniably inappropriate. But also, it’s not exactly warm. We keep it, though, because they were made as a set.”
“So you tricked me into agreeing to wear that sweater?”
“I can’t hear you with this Santa hat sliding down over my ears. Jerry must have a bigger head than I do.”
“That seems unlikely.” But she’s smiling when she says it, so I know she’s not mad about the sweater. “Okay, let’s look and see if you’re coming unraveled anywhere.”
It doesn’t take long to realize I’ve made a mistake. Making an examination of the Santa suit into a fun game of dress-up with Whitney had sounded fun. But I seriously underestimated how much havoc her being so close to me would wreak on my senses.
Because the suit is baggy, she isn’t actually running her hands over my body as she checks each seam. Instead, it’s all tantalizing hints of contact and the teasing pressure of her touch through the thick fabric.
Whitney checks all the seams in the jacket, seemingly oblivious to the fact she’s slowly killing me.
It’s my own fault. I could have done this by myself, by taking the suit out of the tote and hanging it up to air out before the parade. It would have been simple enough to look it over on a hanger. But I wanted to spend as much time as I could with Whitney—best accomplished by stretching out the fair preparations—so I brought this torture down on myself.
She’s getting it done with her usual brisk efficiency until she crouches to check the seam down the outside of my right leg. My instinct is to step away, but I’m afraid she’ll fall over.
Luckily, she stands and gives a hard shake of her head. Her cheeks are flushed and she’s not meeting my gaze, so maybe she’s not as unaffected by the close contact as I thought.
“You don’t actually have to be wearing the suit for me to do this,” she says. “I’ll check the pants after you take them off.”
Since it feels as if the temperature in the room has risen about twenty degrees in the last few minutes, it’ll be a relief to get out of the heavy costume.
Unfortunately, that’s easier said than done. “Whitney, the zipper’s stuck.”
“Don’t force it! We don’t want to rip the coat this close to the parade.” She pushes my hands away. “Let me see it.”
Whitney fiddles with the zipper while I stare at a spot on the wall over the top of her head and try not to smell her hair. She’s so intent on the zipper, I don’t think she realizes a person would be hard-pressed to slide a piece of cardboard between our bodies.
I realize it, though. It’s taking every ounce of self-control I can muster to keep my dick from popping up and joining the conversation. I’m afraid we’re close enough so she’d be able to feel it.
“Whoever cleaned and fluffed the fake fur trim did such a good job it’s all caught up in the zipper,” she tells me. “You need to sit down so I can see it better.”
I’m relieved for the all of thirty seconds it takes for her to step away and for me to sit in a chair. Then she’s standing between my knees and the hint of cleavage in the vee of her blouse is the only thing in my line of vision.
