Page 3 of A Secret Baby for Christmas
Frank Sinatra plays quietly from the old-fashioned record player in the corner of the living room. The tree lights fade between green and red, with the only other light coming from the embers of the fire in the grate and the Christmas candles burning on the coffee table giving off a scent of gingerbread and cinnamon.
My heart pounds as my stockinged feet sink into the plush carpet. I don’t make a sound as I approach the figure sitting in the armchair, but somehow he knows I’m here.
“Shouldn’t you be in bed next to my daughter?” Mr. Porter says without turning around.
The deep voice made gravelly from the bourbon he’s drinking reverberates through my bones and makes my core pull up tight.
“She had too much wine, and she’s snoring.”
Mr. Porter chuckles. “My graceful daughter, snoring? Don’t tell her mother.”
It’s no secret that Allie’s mom wishes her daughter was petite and graceful, but Allie takes after her father. She’s a big girl like me, and graceful isn’t a word I’d use to describe either of us.
Allie’s mom went on a cruise for Christmas. She hates the holidays as much as my family, which is why Allie invited me to spend Christmas with her and her dad like she does every year. It makes it easier for her not having to choose which parent to spend the holidays with. They’ve been divorced for years, and I can’t imagine why they were ever married. Mr. Porter is kind and supportive as opposed to Allie’s mom who’s manipulative and disapproving.
But it’s not Allie’s mom I’m thinking about as I stand in front of Mr. Porter in my stockinged feet and slinky Christmas dress. His gaze pulls away from the fire to land on me.
I’m wearing a sparkling golden dress with a thigh-high slit up the side, and when I came out in it earlier this evening, Mr. Porter almost dropped his glass.
I’ve felt his eyes on me all evening, throughout the Christmas dinner and the board games we played afterwards. Every time I looked up, Mr. Porter was looking at me, and not just any look. A hungry look, like I’m the final piece of Christmas pudding and he wants to eat me all up.
It’s a look that’s had my skin heated all day and my imagination taking me to all the darkest places of my Mr. Porter fantasies, of which there are many.
I’ve been crushing on my best friend’s dad for as long as I can remember. Ever since he stood up to my father when I was twelve years old. My papa never hit me again after Mr. Porter threatened him. He’s still an angry man and disapproving of everything I ever do, but he hasn’t laid a hand on me since that day.
And this is the man I have to thank for that.
My girlish crush hasn’t gone away. I tried to repress it. I tried to date boys my own age, but they’re so immature. All they want to do is drink beer, try to score weed, and compare the cars that their daddies bought them.
I hid my crush, thinking I’d never stand a chance with the hot older man, and knowing Allie would kill me if she suspected the dirty thoughts I was having about her dad. It’s not right, is it, an eighteen-year-old wanting her best friend’s father? People would talk, and I couldn’t do that to Allie.
But this Christmas changed all that.
As Mr. Porter’s eyes travel up my dress, taking their time on every curve and lingering on my breasts, my already heated body prickles with need.
I’m not a child anymore, and the glass of wine I had at dinner has made me bold. I’m a woman with womanly needs, and I refuse to suppress my need any longer, no matter what society might think of us.
I’m supposed to be sharing a room with Allie, but she crashed after the big meal and the drinks. I’ve tried dating other men, and no one compares to Mr. Porter. He’s permanently in my brain. He clouds my thoughts and fills my body with an ache that only he can relieve. This is my chance to get the relief that I need, and I’m going to take it.
“What are you doing here, Chloe?”
His voice is croaky, and his eyes are hooded. I’m emboldened by wine as I take a step closer, my leg brushing against his thigh.
“I think you know what I’m doing here.”
My heart hammers in my chest as I slide my leg over his and climb onto his lap, straddling him and causing the split in my skirt to ride right up my thigh. I’m wearing a black garter belt underneath and the lace pokes out, making him suck his breath in as he spies it. I dressed for seduction, and he doesn’t stand a chance.
Mr. Porter goes completely still, his gaze locked on my thigh. I panic, thinking I’ve made a huge mistake.
Then he groans as his hand slides up my leg, pressing roughly against the soft skin.
“You should leave, Chloe?”
His husky voice is at odds with the way his hands glide over my legs, as if he already owns me.
He does own me.
Mr. Porter groans, and his face is tortured. There’s a battle going on inside of him.
