Santa’s Baby (Naughtier and Naughtier Book 3)

I make a sleepy Tiffany a hot chocolate before I depart for the mall. Shame I don’t have any squirty cream that she requested on the top.

“I’ll rectify that with my next groceries delivery,” I tell her, “I’ll order a crate of the stuff, and we’ll use it for considerably more than hot chocolate.”

“Promises, promises,” she says, taking a sip of the hot drink.

I shrug my jacket on and grab my keys, and I can’t resist the temptation.

I take the mug from her hands, place it on the counter, take her beautiful face in my hands, and kiss her.

She rakes my hair and our tongues dance a wonderful chocolatey dance.

“If only you could stay,” she says as I break away.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” I stroke her hair, “you rest up. I’m sure you’ll need plenty of energy for later.”

Her pout is so quirky, it gives me a rush of adoration. It’s so her.

It’s so hard to say no. But I can’t let the kids down.

Still, one last kiss won’t hurt.

That one last kiss lasts all the way to the front door – a giggly dance and biting of lips that has my cock hard all over again.

“You’re incorrigible,” I say and give her ass a slap before I step outside.

“Hurry home!” she says as I get in the car.

Home.

Home is where the heart is, they say.

My home – big and empty – but not right now.

I watch her in the rearview mirror, waving as I turn out of the drive. I give a toot of the horn and a wave back.

Shit, I’m going to be late.

I’ll have to throw my Santa costume on like a madman and sprint to the grotto.

Evelyn and Jen will manage the line until I get there. They are as tireless when it comes to charity work as I am, turning up without fail whenever we have an event on. Jen is a wonder with children, having had five of her own – all grown up now and flown the nest. Her face always lights up when the festivities start, engaging with the youngsters.

If she was twenty years younger – and single, not married – she could have captured my heart when I first met her. Could have. Her curvy figure would have driven me wild, and I can’t deny I would have been fascinated by her huge tits and voluptuous ass. Still, even if she had been twenty years younger and single, not married, when I met her, our incompatibility would have been obvious when we first walked past the kink and lingerie store at the top of the mall together.

I don’t get it, she’d told me. Why would people be into all that stuff? Imagine being hit by something for fun. Weirdos.

That would have been it for us.

I could never deny the man I am – the real Reuben Sinclair. I attempted that with Jeanette, my ex-wife, for far too long, and still she left me. If I was ever lucky enough to find ‘love’ again, I’d have to be certain it would be someone who could ‘love’ and accept all sides of my nature, for better or worse. The idea of a soul that could ever match with mine has grown more and more obscure.

I’d given up on the idea of ever meeting such a woman until I found Tiffany sitting on my lap, and now…

I have no idea.

Traffic isn’t too bad through London, lucky for me. I pull up at the mall with just enough time to park up, grab my holdall from the boot and dash in through the rear entrance. I change into my Santa costume in the nearest toilet cubicle, and make sure the fake beard is in place over mine.

“Ho, ho, ho,” Evelyn says as I arrive at the grotto. “Looking good, Santa baby!”

Oh, if only she knew how much this Santa wants a baby of his own.

Playing Father Christmas is a beautiful torture – the stream of happy children passing through is like having a carrot dangling continuously at the end of Rudolph’s nose. Even the sliver of hope that Tiffany could need me the way I’ve been needing a woman like her, is a terrifying carrot to contemplate. The thought of that sliver of hope disappearing already gives me shivers.

I’m smiling at Evelyn but in my mind, the image of Tiffany standing at my door morphs into a cock-swelling beauty – she’s pregnant, almost full term, and she looks like a goddess with a baby inside her.Published by Nôv'elD/rama.Org.

“You okay, Reuben?” Evelyn asks. “You look a bit… lost?”

I laugh at that. “Yes,” I say, “supplier problems. You know how mad it gets at this time of year.”

“And yet you’re still here, doing your bit.”

And in my mind, I’m doing Tiffany, getting her pregnant and stroking her growing belly.

“Always,” I say with a smile.

Fuck, I’ve fallen into the realms of insanity.

Dangerous insanity.

I attempt to pull myself together, concentrate on the queue of children and giving them Santa’s full attention as they tell me how they’re going to leave me cookies on Christmas Eve. I’m not going to be wanting cookies this year, though. I’m going to be wanting cream.

“I need you.”

Her words still sound loud in my mind, the honesty in her eyes so naked as she said them.

Once again, I’m guilty of the same crime. I need Tiffany. I need hope. I need dreams. I need aspirations beyond business and charity, and the animalistic lust of the founders’ circle.

Problem is, my heart has been captured by one of the most forbidden dreams there could be.

A little girl comes into the grotto just before lunchtime, and the sight of her takes the breath out of me. I’m practically winded.

She has red hair – auburn, not scarlet – but it’s a close enough resemblance. Her big, wide eyes and cute chubby cheeks remind me of a tiny Tiffany. Her smile is bold and bright, and she has two teeth missing on the bottom. What a cutie.

As she sits on my lap, she tells me a joke about Rudolph with a cackling laugh, and I laugh along with her, trying to banish the idea that Tiffany’s daughter could resemble a girl like this. I stare into the little angel’s eyes as she tells me about how she wants a puppy for Christmas. A Dalmatian with lots of spots. She points out how tall he would be, grinning as she says she would call him Popeye, and assuring me she would take very, very, very good care of him.

Please, Santa. Can I have Popeye for Christmas? I’ve been really good, I promise!

If she were my little girl, she could have 101 Dalmatians, just to see her so happy.

The girl’s mother winks and nods. It seems this little girl is going to be very happy on Christmas morning.

I tap my nose. “I’ll see what I can do,” I tell the grinning cherub.

I find I’m choked up when she leaves, watching her take her mother’s hand and disappear into the bustling mall. I breathe deep through the ridiculous emotions, praying nobody sees me. Luckily, Mark – the youngster in charge of the photos – doesn’t notice. He’s too busy scrolling on his phone between taking pictures.

When our ten-minute break comes, I check my own phone as I sip the coffee Jen has kindly provided. I have a whole host of emails about work, but no interest in looking at them. There’s an Agency founders’ thread running, with comments about last night’s filth with Harlot. Bry sure got all the piss play he was after. That much is clear.

Harlot must have been as soaked through as Tiffany was when I collected her.

Creamgirl next, one of the comments reads. Can’t wait to spray some over that big beauty. I’m going to get some better clamps for the next session, btw. The ones on Harlot may have cut, but I want some that will pierce Creamgirl’s chubby cunt lips straight through.

I want to retch as I see that comment.

I don’t want any of them spraying any fucking thing over Tiffany, and they can stay the fuck away from her cunt as well. The fire burns like embers in my gut. My finger hovers over the chat thread, trying to find some reason to interject and suggest another entertainer. But I can’t do it. It would arouse too much suspicion.

After my departure last night, everything I do will be scrutinised, and I’ve already taken some hefty risks with Creamgirl’s calendar. I muted her notifications of her calendar movements, so she wasn’t bombarded, and blocked them from admins’ view, so as not to draw attention. But it would be obvious under investigation. Nobody would have to be Sherlock Holmes to find out who was guilty of the interference.

Only I don’t feel guilty. Not in the slightest. Even a sliver of hope can outweigh sensibilities, and this sliver of hope has been a long time coming.

I’m going to enjoy every second of this dream I can, because the likelihood is, that this ridiculous wave of optimism will all turn to dust. Creamgirl will still be Creamgirl, and I’ll still be one of the founders, with a five-million-pound stake in the business, and my reputation on the line.

In two weeks, Tiffany will be hooded and ready for a founders’ night that will put the glory wall to shame, and there is sweet fuck all I can do about it.

Not without risking everything.