This is an erotic story. If you are underage or if you do not enjoy eroticism, then please do not read.
Almost hypnotized by the multi-colored Christmas tree lights reflecting in the window, I watch the snow lazily drifting in the darkness. It's going to be a long, lonely night — my first Christmas Eve since my husband, Todd, left me.
Sighing, I pour myself another bourbon — my fourth — and wander over to the CD player. Having nothing else better to do, I flip through the CDs while sipping my drink, taking comfort in the liquid heat sliding down my throat, warming me from the inside out.
I come across Eartha Kitt's "Santa Baby" and load it into the player. After making sure the volume is turned down low enough not to disturb my two kids sleeping snug in their beds upstairs, I press play and shuffle over to the sofa. As the familiar music begins, I curl up on the sofa with a throw, a pillow, and my bourbon.
"Santa baby, just slip a sable under the tree, for me," I softly sing along with honey-voiced Eartha. "Been an awful good girl . . ."
Damn right, I have! And look where it's gotten me — all alone on Christmas Eve while my former husband lives it up in Hawaii with his new bimbette.
According to the clock on the mantel, it's almost midnight — almost Christmas. Starting to feel the effects of the bourbon, I put the glass on the end table and snuggle deeper into the sofa, letting my eyes drift closed.
"Santa baby, a '54 convertible too, light blue," Eartha sings, asking Santa for everything from a yacht to a platinum mine.
Wouldn't it be great if there really was a Santa Claus? And he'd grant your every wish? Your every desire?
Of course, what would I do with a yacht? I get seasick in the bathtub. And a platinum mine? Not unless it comes with some scantily-dressed studly miners.
"Think of all the fun I've missed, " Eartha croons. "Think of all the fellas that I haven't kissed."
You can say that again, sister!
In my dreamy semi-conscious state, my mind wanders and wonders. What would I ask Santa for — if there really were a Santa, that is? A decadent fantasy slowly comes to life.
"Mmmm, wouldn't that be nice," I murmur sleepily.
Suddenly, a loud scraping sound jolts me back to reality and I bolt upright on the sofa, my heart skipping a few beats before picking up again — triple time. Did I really hear that? Or was it just part of some bizarre dream? But then I hear a thud from above. And then another!
I scramble off the sofa, my mind racing almost as fast as my heart, searching for an explanation for the unusual sounds. Maybe the kids fell out of bed. Or maybe a frozen tree branch snapped and fell on the roof. But a much more frightening possibility makes me shiver with cold dread. What if it's a burglar?
I've never considered myself a skittish female, but this is one of those times I'd love to have a big, brawny male around to protect me. Okay, so protection isn't the only reason I'd love to have a man around, but now's not the time to be thinking about my libido.
I grab my son's baseball bat from the hall closet and slowly make my way upstairs, Eartha's voice dwindling to a faint murmur the further I get from the living room. It isn't until I've thoroughly searched the upstairs and found nothing amiss that I breathe a sigh of relief and my heart returns to a calmer rhythm.
Silly girl, it probably was just a tree branch hitting the house. At least it didn't cause any damage — on the inside anyway.
"You need to get a grip, Emma," I mumble to myself as I go back downstairs.
When I enter the living room, I immediately notice several things. Eartha's stopped singing, which isn't all that odd; the CD simply could've ended. The fireplace going out is much harder to explain since there were fresh logs burning before I went upstairs. But what's even more shocking and unexplainable is the rather rotund man in the middle of my living room — wearing a red suit, wide black belt, larger black boots, and a floppy red cap with white trim over his long white hair — bending over a huge black sack.
Brandishing the baseball bat still clutched in my hands, I growl, "Who the hell are you and what are you doing in my house?"
As casual as you please, he straightens and turns around to face me. His blue eyes flicker with amusement over his chubby, rosy cheeks and his red lips — barely visible beneath his long, thick, white beard — spread into a broad smile displaying a mouthful of gleaming white teeth. "Hello. I’m Kris Kringle. I'm leaving gifts for your children, of course. After all, I am Santa Claus."
"Yeah, right," I say with a disbelieving snort, "and I'm the Easter Bunny."
His loud, boisterous laugh fills the room. "I don't think so. You're much too sexy to be the Easter Bunny. A Playboy Bunny maybe."
Is this guy for real? I don't know which is more unbelievable — that he's really Santa Claus or that he really thinks I'm as sexy as a Playboy Bunny. Tod sure as hell hadn't felt that way.
Then it suddenly hits me. "Wait a minute. Did Tod send you?"
"Tod?" he asks, his smile turning into a confused frown.
With a sigh, I lower my baseball bat. "I suppose this is all some extravagant stunt he cooked up to ease his guilty conscious, because he's not here for his children on Christmas. Well, it's much too late to entertain the children, so just leave whatever expensive gifts he sent and leave."
"Oh, Tod! Your ex-husband, right? No, he didn't send me. Tod's been a very bad boy. He won't be getting anything except a big lump of coal. You, on the other hand, have been a very good girl," he adds with a wink.
Once again wary, my grip on the baseball bat tightens. "If Tod didn't send you, then why are you here?"
"I told you," he says, spreading his arms almost as wide as his grin, "I'm Santa Claus! I'm here to deliver holiday cheer!"
My brow arches skeptically. "Oh-kay . . . if you're Santa Claus, what did you bring me for Christmas?"
He snaps his fingers and — poof — suddenly, instead of a jolly fat man in my living room, there's a living, breathing — and very naked — sex God. “Well, me, of course,” he purrs.
In his mid to late thirties, tall with smooth, tanned skin covering a taut, athletic body, he is truly magnificent. He has a full head of shortly cropped snow-white hair and a handsome, clean-shaven face with laugh lines bracketing his wide, very kiss-able mouth and at the corners of his twinkling blue eyes. My eyes leisurely take in his broad shoulders, the white hair dusting his powerful chest and trailing down his flat stomach and well-defined abs to the dense thatch at his groin . . .
"Oh my," I rasp at the sight of his very impressive erection.
