I’m not about to find out, though. Something far more lush is in my immediate future.
A strong, insistent hand circles my forearm. “Ho, ho, ho, little elf, Santa needs your help,” Declan says in a jocular voice. A bunch of kids, all of Josh’s friends, and ten women in line wave at Santa, who is now dragging me off to the employee break room, where he slams the dented metal door shut and deadbolts it. He rips the beard off, slips out of the Santa jacket, and—
Hot Santa’s hot mouth is on me. Hands roam over the slutty elf costume, soon finding their way inside the bustier, and Declan is not just readjusting my headlights. He pulls one breast out and tongues the nipple, making it rock hard.
“We can’t have sex in here!”
“You’d prefer I ravish you on Santa’s chair, in public?” He pulls my other breast out and sucks lightly. My entire body tightens and twangs like a plucked guitar string. “Kinky.” He pulls back and gives my body a visual once-over. “I like kinky.”
“I’m not having sex in the Christmas Village of a mall!” My words come out more like a moan than a protest, because his mouth feels so damn good on my caged breasts, the slick heat of his warm tongue forcing my blood to pound through me like the 1812 orchestra, cannons at the ready for the big finish.
“Then this will have to do.” He pulls the tight costume down my body, the cold, painted concrete wall behind me stinging my shoulders, back, and hips. His mouth is all over me, his chest pressed against my belly, those suspenders rubbing against just the right parts as he deliciously peels me out and I’m standing there in nothing but fishnet thigh-highs.
“Oh my God, Shannon,” he whispers, eyes eating me up. “You are so beautiful.” My red nub is beeping so loudly it sounds like Rudolph’s nose. I grab the red suspenders and slide them off each shoulder and he drops trou, then he drops trou, and oh, Santa baby—
“I’m going to explode if I can’t get in you, Shannon,” he hisses as his naked body becomes a wall of hot, silky flesh pressed into mine.
I reach between his legs and cradle him. “I can tell you’re Santa,” I murmur.
“Huh?”
“Santa’s sac.” I make a move that makes him groan and chuckle.
“What does that—”
“It’s so big because he only comes once a year.”
“You’re making Santa scrotum jokes when we’re—oh, you naughty girl.” And he pulls back and spanks me, hard the sound like a thunderclap of erotic dreams come to life. Somehow a condom appears in his hand. Perhaps it’s a little holiday magic.
“That stings!” But I open my legs, and he’s in me in seconds. Jokes fade, our bodies releasing all the pent-up lust and frustration.
“You are so hot,” he mutters in my ear, thighs tensing, his body primed for climax. We have mere minutes, and while I normally need more foreplay than one spank and a ball fondle (for him), my orgasm is at the ready, eager for Santa to empty his sac at my place.
The friction and the slick of our bodies working together, all fire and need, the clench of his hands on my hips, the slow drag of my fingernails against his back are almost enough.
“Speak Russian to me,” I beg, and he does, making my core clench instantly, his tongue on my earlobe the final touch that makes me burst into fireworks. His body tenses and I feel his heat pour into me, even through the condom, his shudder and hoarse cry caused by me. Me.
Mine.
As we slump against the wall, the snickering starts.
“Oh, Santa!” I moan.
“Oh, Slutty Elf!” he groans.
I burst out laughing so hard I push him out of me as he finishes, giggles overcoming us as we give in to the absolute absurdity of the past hour and a half.
“You’re amazing, you know that?” he whispers in my ear, fingers grazing my bare shoulder, tracing a line down to my nipple. His hot breath tickles my hair as he kisses me slowly, finally finding my mouth.
“You aren’t too bad yourself, Santa,” I whisper when we break apart, warmed through.
“Chuckles in a reindeer costume,” he laughs, reaching down to remove the condom, tie it off, and throw it in a trash can next to…another condom. Oh, gross. Who has sex in a mall employee break room—
Oh.
People like us.
“What did you say to me? In Russian?” I ask as I straighten my stockings and try to squeeze myself back into the sausage casing that masquerades as my elf costume.
He’s buttoning his Santa coat and doesn’t look up, just laughing to himself.
“Declan?”
He won’t look up. “Let’s just say Santa’s sac will be visiting you quite a bit more often than once a year, and I need to look up the Russian word for ‘slutty.’ I only know the word for ‘whore.’”
“You called me a whore while we were having sex?” I twist around to catch his eye so fast the g-string nearly gives me a colonoscopy.
“Not on purpose.” He opens the door and we walk out into the industrial hallway toward the public bathrooms.
“Not on purpose? You mean, like, ‘Whoops! I called you a whore in Russian while buried balls deep in you,’ like you might say, ‘Whoops, I forgot to pick up milk while I was at the store’?”
My words echo down the linoleum-floored hallway. And then I realize we’re not alone.
“See?” Mom says to Dad. “I told you we’re not the only ones who play The KGB Agent and the Bond Girl.”
Chapter Six
“I am going to pretend I never heard that,” Dad says, making a beeline for the men’s room. He hands a still-fuming Chuckles over to Mom, who strokes his fur and hums “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing” while Chuckles raises one paw and—if he had claws—looks like he’s imagining how he’s stroke Mom’s vocal cords and shred them while singing “Kumbaya.”