Total pages in book: 41
Estimated words: 38786 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 194(@200wpm)___ 155(@250wpm)___ 129(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38786 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 194(@200wpm)___ 155(@250wpm)___ 129(@300wpm)
Don’t hang me out to dry just yet. I’m not a shrink, or one of those weirdos who watch couples have sex before pointing out where they’re going wrong—though I’ve been offered many times to do that. I’m a—
A jolly fat man in a velvety red suit cuts off my inner monologue. “Ho, ho, ho.”
With each ‘ho’ he thrusts his charity tin closer to my chest. He wants a donation, and since he’s covered head to toe in a body-hugging Santa suit on an unseasonably humid Florida evening, I dig my wallet out of my pocket for the second time tonight.
“Any chance of a receipt?” I ask when I fail to find a single denomination under triple digits. Donations are tax-deductible, and I need to do everything possible to bring down my IRS bill.
“No.” Stealing my ability to announce his donations would skyrocket if he popped down to Walmart for a receipt book, Santa snatches the freshly printed Benjamin Franklins from my wallet and squashes them into his locked charity box.
I’m about to berate him, but his promise puts me on the back foot. “Now your every wish will be my command.” After a saucy wink, he returns to haggling the patrons outside my sister’s restaurant. “Ho, ho, ho.”
My pissy attitude swings toward favorable when a flirty voice replies, “Don’t worry, Santa. I’m planning to do exactly that.”
A gorgeous brunette with legs that go for miles playfully tickles Santa’s beard before she skips by him minus a donation. I cut Santa some slack. The beauty’s little black dress reveals she’s carrying nothing but dick-pumping curves. There isn’t even a cell phone imprint like some women get when they use their bra as a purse. Every beautiful curve she owns is on display for the world to see, and I’m suddenly wishing I had a beard as thick as Santa’s to mop up the mess. I’ve got drool everywhere.
My cab can’t merge with the flow of traffic until I move, but try as I may, I can’t get my feet to budge. The only part of my body functioning are my eyes while I watch the striking Spaniard’s weave as she darts through the crowd like a woman on a mission.
Whoever she’s racing for is a lucky bastard. My cock has been trained to respond on cue, but even it went off script tonight.
The springy bounce of her steps.
Her playful tease with Santa.
The quickest connection of our eyes when she twirled around the man who robbed me of a three-hundred-dollar tax deduction.
They’re not usually points that rile a response out of me, but I’d be a liar if I said my cock’s head wasn’t nudging at the zipper on my pants, begging for some space.
I’m hard in the middle of a bustling metropolis, even with Santa eyeballing me like he can see the imprint of my cock in my jeans.
I realize that is the case when he taps on his nose before telling me my secret is safe with him.
“There’s no secret for you to share,” I mumble under my breath before my body finally answers the pleas of my head and steps toward my sister’s restaurant.
“Everyone has secrets,” Santa replies, unwilling to back down. “Even you, Zane.”
I almost fall for his trick. ‘How do you know my name?’ is on the tip of my tongue. But then I recall my name is on over a dozen cards in my wallet, so he would have spotted them while forcing a donation I can’t claim as a tax deduction.
“Nice try, Santa. You almost had me.”
I turn away from his grin, which is brighter than his fake white beard, when he says, “Next time, then?”
“There won’t be a next time.” The last half of my reply makes my throat uncomfortable since I don’t wholly express it. As I turn back to face the jolly man, my mouth falls open. Santa is gone. His red cheeks and shiny black boots are nowhere to be seen, and a guy in a red velvet coat should stand out among Floridians.
After shaking off my unease as the side effect of a long flight, I enter my sister’s restaurant while replying to Emma’s text.
Me: Double of nothing is still nothing. I don’t work on my home turf. You know this.
As the hostess searches for the chef, ellipsis trickles across my phone screen.
Emma: He’s one of those deep-pocketed, most likely asshole stockbrokers. This could open up a ton of referrals. Things have been quiet of late. I’m not sure this is an opportunity you should give up.
Me: My calendar is full until October.
The swiftness of her reply announces she preempted mine.
Emma: By single desperate housewives who want to pretend they’re not paying to have their undercarriages serviced.
Me: Em…
I’m interrupted by the hostess before I can complete my reply.
Well, I assume it is the hostess until my cock responds to the floral fragrance in the air long before my senses.