Santa's Lust part 1 of 2

Santa's Lust part 1 of 2

Almost hypnotized by the multi-colored Christmas tree lights reflecting in the window, I watch the snow lazily drifting in the darkness. It is going to be a long, lonely night — my first Christmas Eve since her husband, Todd, left her.

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 snugly 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 has 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 is midnight — 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 would 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.

"Mumm, 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 as fast as my heart, searching for an explanation for the unusual sounds. The kids fell out of bed. Or 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 is a burglar?

I have never considered myself a skittish female, but this is one of those times I would love to have a big, brawny male around to protect me. Okay, so protection is not the only reason I would 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 is not until I have thoroughly searched upstairs and found nothing amiss that I breathe a sigh of relief and my heart returns to a calmer rhythm.

Silly girl, it was just a tree branch hitting the house. At least it did not 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 stopped singing, which is not all that odd; the CD simply could have ended. The fireplace going out is much harder to explain since there were fresh logs burning before I went upstairs. But what is even more shocking and unexplainable is the 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 casually 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 am Kris Kringle. I am 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 are much too sexy to be the Easter Bunny. A Playboy Bunny maybe."
Is this guy for real? I do not know which is more unbelievable — that he is really Santa Claus or that he really thinks I am as sexy as a Playboy Bunny. Tod had not 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 conscience 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 did not send me. Tod's been a bad boy. He will not be getting anything except a big lump of coal. You, on the other hand, have been an incredibly good girl," he adds with a wink.

Once again wary, my grip on the baseball bat tightens. "If God 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 am 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 is 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 kissable 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.

"Do you like what you see?"

"Who-h-o are you?"

"I thought you'd like this form better, but I'm still Santa," he says walking towards me.

Nervously, I retreat backward. "W-w-what do you want?"

Still walking towards me, he says, "To grant your Christmas wish."

"What wish?" Running into the sofa, I stumble backward and land in a tumble on the sofa cushions.

I struggle into a sitting position, but before I can get up again, he leans over me and braces his arms on the back of the sofa, caging me between them. "The wish you made just as you were falling asleep earlier," he says, his warm breath fanning my face, his intense blue gaze never leaving mine. "While you were listening to that song."

My muddled brain finally realizes what he is talking about, and I cannot stop myself from blushing furiously. Could he really know what I wished for? No, he could not! Even though I saw his magical transformation with my own eyes, I still could not — would not — believe he was Santa Claus.

He smiles as if he had read my mind and sensed my lingering doubt.

"None of those materialistic wishes appeals to you, did they?"
Swallowing my surprise, I fight to maintain my grip on reason and common sense. Dammit, there is no such person as Santa Claus!

"No, not you," he continues, brushing a long lock of my auburn hair from my face with his finger and carefully tucking it behind my ear.

"You want something much more precious. Something you should have received years ago. Something your idiot ex-husband should've given you."

Shaking my head stupidly, I tell myself it cannot be true. That it is impossible.

"More than anything, you want to know what it feels like to be a desirable woman. Isn't that right, Emma?"

"Yes," I admit breathlessly, unable to tear my gaze away from his.

"Emma, " he says quietly, leaning even closer, "you are an incredibly desirable woman and it's long past time someone showed you how much."

Then his mouth captures mine in a mind-searing kiss, obliterating any protest I might have offered. A sensible woman would have been scared by a strange naked man invading her house and making lustful advances. Obviously, I am not sensible, because in no time my body's quivering and my heart's slamming in my chest with excitement and anticipation — not fear. He thoroughly seduces my mouth with his lips and tongue as surely as he is seducing my entire being.

When he finally lifts his mouth from mine and I slowly open my eyes, he says, "You’re so gorgeous . . . from those whiskey-brown eyes to your exquisitely sexy body."

Hit with a sudden wave of self-consciousness, I look away from him.

"Todd always said I was too fat."

He gently urges me to face him again. "Emma, you're lush and curvy, not fat. Real men would fall on their knees for a chance to explore a voluptuous, womanly figure like yours. Not those walking toothpicks with tits." I cannot help laughing at that and he grins at me wickedly.

"That's more like it."

Kneeling at my feet, he promises, "I'm going to make you feel so good you’re going to have trouble remembering your own name, let alone Tod's."

To be continued