Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 106041 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106041 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
"No," she sobs. "No, daddy."
I groan when she works her wide hips, helping me get her off. Fuck, we should have been doing this two months ago.
I'm an idiot. Big time.
She comes with a sharp cry of release, as if she's needed it desperately. Somehow, hearing it makes me rage and fills me with an overpowering sense of relief at the same time. I'm fucking livid I left her hurting for this long. I feel her relief so acutely it's as if it's my own.
I watch her as she rides it out, the prettiest little elf I've ever seen. She's flushed the sweetest pink, her lipstick all messed up, lips parted. My beard left little marks on her skin, branding her as mine. She's a vision, exactly what I wanted for Christmas.
Goddamn, I can't wait until this party is over.
Chapter Four
Georgia
"Oh, Santa is here," a bottle blonde says, stumbling toward the throne-like chair where Blaze lounges, scowling out at the party. He's the surliest Santa I've ever met in my life. The sexiest too. The lobby of the building is decked out like the North Pole. It's over the top Christmas perfection. He should look ridiculous sitting amongst candy canes and gayly painted wooden props in his dapper costume. He doesn't. He looks exactly as gorgeous as I knew he would. Even with his beard dyed white and a permanent scowl, there's no denying that he's one sexy Santa.
Every time his eyes meet mine, an inferno rages to life inside me. We've been at this for over an hour, and I'm still jittery and shaking, still riding an orgasm high. I've never come that easily or that hard. But hearing him call himself my daddy, teasing me about getting in trouble if we got caught…if I wake up in my bed and this is all a dream, I'm never celebrating Christmas again.
"Do I get to sit on his lap?" the blonde asks, licking her lips.
I thrust out a hand, halting her before she can plop her ass down in his lap. I have no idea who she is, but I don't like her. She doesn't work for Blaze and Alaric; I know that much. Then again, most of the people here don't. Everyone who is anyone showed up tonight. It's a good thing Blaze refused to let me leave the sewing room without putting on his overcoat because we've been taking pictures with drunk socialites and social media influencers all night. I probably look ridiculous in his coat, but at least I'm not in danger of flashing my panties at the entire party.
"No," I snap to the blonde.
"It's Christmas. I want to sit on Santa's lap," she whines like a two-year-old.
"No one sits on my lap," he growls, his eyes snapping fire at the drunk woman. "Take your picture or move the fuck along."
"Santa is a dick," she sniffs, stumbling off.
"You're paying for this later," he warns me, eyes narrowed.
"It wasn't my idea." It was totally my idea. But I'm blaming Alaric. He's not here to defend himself so it works out great for me. Besides, I'm pretty sure he lied to me today when he said Blaze knew their Santa went to jail and would be fine with taking his place.
"Alaric," he says.
I hum a noncommittal response, and then paste a bright smile on my face when a couple strolls up to ask for a photo. A menacing growl rumbles from Blaze when the man tries to throw his arm across my shoulders. He's been doing it all night. If anyone even looks like they're going to touch me, he turns into a bristling, angry beast.
We should have put him in a Grinch costume. It's more fitting. He's awful grumpy.
"Whose idea was the costume?" he asks after the photographer snaps the picture and the couple heads back into the fray.
"I'm pretty sure my costume was your idea," I remind him.
"I told them to find you an elf costume. I did not tell them to turn you into every man's wet dream version of an elf," he says.
"Men have wet dreams about elves?" I wrinkle my nose. "That's…awkward."
Even in his coat, I feel his eyes land on every part of me as his gaze slowly prowls down my body. They heat me to the nth degree. Thank God the air is running in here or I'd be a mess on the floor by now.
"We do when the elves look like you, princess," he rumbles.
I feel his words grating against my womb. God, I love his voice. I'm pretty sure he could talk me into an orgasm at this point. He wouldn't even have to lift a finger. Hell, he wouldn't even have to read the dirty parts of one of my favorite books. He could do it talking about the weather…which sucks, by the way. I grew up in New York. White Christmases are far better than stormy Christmases. It stopped storming a while ago, but it's still raining buckets.