“You have excellent taste. I’m a connoisseur of ties myself, and that one is superb.”
It’s working—she smiles. “Thank you, young man.”
“Tell you what, how about we save some time and I’ll front the extra thirty dollars so you can purchase this tie for your lucky husband, at not a penny over one hundred and fifty dollars?”
Her brow wrinkles. It was already wrinkled with age—but now it wrinkles more.
“It’s not about the cost, it’s the principle of the matter. They should stand by the price advertised.”
“I couldn’t agree more. Principles are important—which is exactly why I’m making my offer. Here it is, Christmas Eve, and I’ve been too busy to show any goodwill toward my fellow man—or woman. This gesture will make me really feel the Christmas spirit. You’d be doing me a favor, miss.”
The “miss” was just the right touch. Because her eyes sparkle, and she grins warmly. “Well, when you put it that way, how can I say no?”
I wink. “I guess you can’t.”
I smack thirty dollars on the counter and the old lady hands over her black card. While the very relieved temp places the boxed tie in a shopping bag with a ridiculous amount of useless tissue paper, Pearl Earrings glances at my left hand. Then she pulls a business card out of her purse, slides it toward me, and whispers low, “My husband and I host parties every month. Parties for . . . adventurous . . . couples.”
Oh boy.
“You’d certainly be doing me a favor if you attend.” She winks. “I would thoroughly enjoy having you. Think about it.”
I wait until she walks away before I chuckle. Just goes to show you—don’t judge a freak by their cover. The wild ones come in all shapes, sizes . . . and ages.
The holiday-hire hands me my prized shoes, and I’m finally able to head home to my wife and our terribly wonderful son.
Follow me in merry measure,
Fa la la, la la la, la la la.
While I tell of Yuletide treasure,
Fa la la la la, la la la la
I shut the door to our apartment and toss the mail down on the front hall table—mostly last-minute Christmas cards. Nothing says “you were an afterthought” like getting a Christmas card on Christmas Eve. I hang up my black wool coat and slide the shopping bag with Kate’s new shoes under the table, to be wrapped later.
Unlike me, Kate is good about waiting. She likes to be surprised, so I don’t have to put in the extra effort of hiding her gifts to keep her from sneaking a peek.
I walk into the living room—and stop dead in my tracks. I was planning on going home only for a few minutes, to let Kate know I’d be at the office the rest of the evening. But those plans get tossed out the window.
Because reclining in the chaise longue is a gift that beats the hell out of anything I’ve ever seen sitting under a tree.
My wife, Kate Brooks-Evans.
Kate Brooks-Evans in lingerie.
Kate Brooks-Evans in see-through, Christmas-themed lingerie.
Her smooth legs are crossed at the ankle, bare except for the spiky heeled, shiny black boots that end below her knees. A sheer red nightie, trimmed in fluffy white fur, covers tiny red panties—held together by two silk bows tied at her hips. A shiny black belt cinches her flat stomach, and more white fur embellishes the strapless neckline, bringing my attention to her perfect breasts and pink nipples pressing against the gauzy fabric. Kate’s luscious dark hair falls over her shoulders, curled at the ends, and a fleecy red-and-white Santa hat sits on top of her head.
She smiles mischievously. “Welcome home, Santa.”
“Mrs. Claus,” I smirk, “you’ve changed.”
“It was time for a makeover.”
I start unbuttoning my shirt. “Want to sit on my lap . . . or my face . . . and tell me if you’ve been a nice girl this year?”
Kate chuckles. Then she tucks her legs under her, rises onto all fours, and crawls down the chaise toward me.
It’s so damn sexy my cock stiffens so hard that you could hang an ornament from it.
“Well, I’ve tried to be nice, but every time I look at you, the naughty just takes over.”
Kate bites her lip—’cause she knows it drives me crazy—and watches my every move as I toss my shirt on the floor. Her eyes caress my arms, chest, and abs, then focus on my fingers as I slowly unbutton my jeans and lower the zipper.
I shrug. “I’ve always thought ‘nice’ was way fucking overrated.”
With my typical lack of shyness, I push my pants down and step out of them. My dick juts out proudly, eye level with Kate, straining for her attention. But before she touches me, I remember James—our five-year-old.
“Where’s the evil elf, by the way?”
“I dropped him off at your sister’s. He’s decorating gingerbread cookies with Mackenzie and Thomas.”
“And biting their heads off?”