Page 2 of Milk
I absentmindedly rub the sleigh bell on a pendant that hangs between my breasts, which, um, have been feeling a bit weirdever since I woke up this morning. Heavy, and tingly, and more sensitive than usual.
Great. I’m probably getting my period early. Just what I need today when I’m short staffed and currently Santa-less. My period coming would also explain why I’ve been ridiculously horny lately, especially when anything touches my nipples. If I play with them while using my clit sucker toy, I go off like a rocket in just a minute or two. And given that the one and only boyfriend I’ve ever had was a few years ago now, it’s been just me and my toys for quite some time.
Not that I have time for a boyfriend, what with my late aunt’s bakery to run.
I sigh, eyes bouncing around the space as I make a mental list of everything that still needs to get done. The goody bags are done, another batch of sugar cookies are in the oven. I think I still have enough royal icing left to decorate them once they’re cool. I’ll do my best to keep the displays full. Oh—I should make another batch of hot chocolate. Double check that the right playlist is cued up.
Pray that my Santa actually shows up. I’ll add that to the list, too.
I step out into the alley behind the bakery and inhale several lungfuls of cold air. It smells…good out here. There are the usual bakery smells, but also a hint of something else. Something minty and woodsy. I breathe in again, and my nipples tingle.
Pulling my phone out of the pocket of my festive apron, I dial the number Theo—my rent-a-Santa—gave me. I’m immediately met with a robotic voice telling me his number is not in service.
“Fuck,” I sigh. What am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to host “Cookies with Santa” without a freaking Santa? I start scrolling through my contacts, wondering if there’s anyone I could ask to step in, knowing I’d owe them a huge favour.
Still scrolling, I head back into the bakery, trying to figure out what I’m going to do. My steps falter when I see a man standing in the middle of my bakery, looking around with a small smirk on his face.
For half a second, I’m pissed that this stranger somehow let himself inside my bakery. But then I realize he’s dressed like Santa, and all my anger evaporates, chased away by pure relief. There’s a bit of snow on the floor around his boots, as though it followed him in. He turns toward me, and I almost drop my phone. This man is not the Santa I met with yesterday. This man towers over me by at least a foot, and he’s broad-shouldered with an unmistakably powerful body. His hair is a silvery white, and it falls in thick waves past his shoulders. His neatly groomed beard shows a hint of the black his hair used to be—the mustache portion is only about half white, while the rest of his beard is almost entirely the colour of snow. His eyes are a glacial blue, piercing and bright. I have no idea how old he is. Forty? Fifty?
I can’t get over how huge he is. From his shoulders to his hands to…well, just all of him, he’s a massive man. And yet, there’s something unmistakably gentle about him.
He’s dressed in a deep red coat trimmed in white that looks thick and expensive, with matching pants, shiny black boots, a black belt with a gleaming silver buckle, and pristine white gloves. The only thing missing is Santa’s usual belly. This man does not have a belly. At all.
I suck in a shaky breath and smell the same mint and cedar scent I’d noticed outside. Was that him? How could that be? The stress must be getting to me.
God, women are going to be lined up around the block to sit in this man’s lap. I know I would be. Just looking at him has my nipples hardening into little peaks. My breasts are aching and hot, and I have this insane urge to just whip them out, to feel the cool air on them.
Focus, Holly.
His eyes lock on me and he goes preternaturally still. Our eyes meet, and it’s like the room tilts a little. My skin feels hot, prickling, my breasts aching, the bakery spinning sickly around me. The scent of mint and cedar mingles with the sugar-dusted air, overwhelming me. I swear I hear jingle bells again, smell candy canes and gingerbread, taste eggnog. I blink, my vision swimming so badly that it looks like tiny snowflakes are falling around him. We’re indoors, so they must be spots dancing in my vision. It’s the only thing that makes sense.
His gaze moves from me to the empty mug of hot chocolate on its little stand, the sign above it reading For Santa…Just in Case. His mouth quirks in a hint of a smile, and he takes a step towards me, his massive black boots treading with surprising softness on the floor.
“I’m here for the event,” he says, and his voice is so deep and velvety that it makes me shiver. It makes me want to pinch and play with my nipples.
It’s official. I’m losing my freaking mind.
When I don’t say anything, he arches one eyebrow. “This is the Sugarplum Bakery, right? You’re hosting Cookies with Santa this morning?”
I give my head a shake, wipe my sweaty palms on my apron, and then stride toward him. “Yes, sorry. You’ve caught me off guard. I’m Holly, and you’re in the right place.” I stick my hand out toward him, and he takes it in his. I almost moan at the way his huge hand engulfs mine. I look up to find him smiling, and a trick of the lighting makes gold flash in his eyes, just for a moment. “What…um…what happened to Theo?”
“He couldn’t make it,” he says easily. “I’m happy to fill in for him.” He glances around the bakery again. “This place is amazing. Smells like Christmas in here.”
I feel my cheeks go hot at his compliment. I took over the bakery from my aunt after she died five years ago, and I’ve worked hard to make it a success.
“Well. Um.” I flap my hands uselessly at my sides. “Would you like a cookie?”
His mouth spreads in a full smile this time, and I think I might melt into a little puddle. I’ve never had fantasies about getting it on with Santa before, but that’s all changing. Big time.
“I would, very much,” he says, moving closer and tugging off his gloves. His hands are a work of art, rough and masculine, with a couple of faded scars. “Why don’t you pick something out for me?”
I nod and turn to the counter, surprised that my hands are shaking a little as I reach for a red-and-white striped plate. I’m completely unnerved by this man. He’s gotten under my skin like no one ever has, and I don’t know the first thing about him.
“What’s your name?” I ask as I step behind the counter and add three cookies to the plate: a frosted sugar cookie in the shape of a Christmas tree, a lavishly decorated gingerbread man, and a classic shortbread square dusted with red and green sprinkles.
“Nicholas Klaus,” he says matter-of-factly as he takes the plate from me. “But most people just call me Nick.” I let out a little laugh.
“Right into the role, I see,” I tease, and when he smiles, I swear his eyes twinkle.
