Naughty Santa

Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

Joe turned back to the pot of spaghetti, pouring it into a strainer, her question hovering in the air, unanswered.

She was a pretty forthright person, the type to go for what she wanted, and the truth was…she wanted Joe. It hadn’t taken her long to decide, but sometimes things were just obvious.

Like Indiana being fucking cold in December. Like Fendi boots being impractical in the snow. Like tomato, garlic, and basil being one of the most perfect smells in the world.

Wanting Joe was just obvious. He was big, gorgeous, solid.

Nice.

That was the part that made her just a little hesitant.

Joe was super nice. That had been obvious from the moment she opened her eyes in that back room. He played Santa for the little kids in a tiny Indiana town, helped his mom raise his nephew, and was able and willing to literally pick a city girl up and carry her over the ice when she wore ridiculous footwear for the weather.

Paris had dated a nice guy before. For way too long, as a matter of fact. Her almost fiancé—her stomach clenched a little remembering that horrible night when he’d proposed—had been nice.

Romantic. Sweet.

He was the send roses, candlelight dinner, speak French kind of guy. Of course, he’d been French, so that had just been icing on the handsome, suave, European cake, but yeah, it had swept her off her feet a little. Or a lot.

The thing was…candlelight wasn’t the same thing as fire. Heat. Sparks. The passionate chemistry stuff she really wanted.

But it was really hard to break up with a nice guy, so she’d let the relationship run way longer than it should have.

Joe, however, was different. He wasn’t going to propose to her over a white tablecloth with a three-carat diamond ring and three dozen roses. He wasn’t going to propose at all. Period.

And if North Pole had a white-tablecloth restaurant—or a jewelry store for that matter—Paris would walk Main Street in her favorite red teddy with no coat or shoes on.

God, he’d spanked her butt. Her panties had been wet ever since. Then, she’d told him to spank it harder, and he had. Heat shot through her again just thinking about it. Joe’s big, calloused palm against her butt had been the hottest thing she’d felt in months. No. Years.

Because Victor, her French boyfriend, would never have done that.

Had he hit her with a dominant, take charge, sexy attitude, even just once, Paris might not have given him the shrill, horrified, “No!” at Patina, one of the most expensive restaurants in L.A. when he asked her to marry him. And she certainly wouldn’t have puked.

It was the most awful memory of her life. She loved that restaurant and now she could never go back.

Damn Victor.

She shoved thoughts of her ex away and let her thoughts drift back to the hot, blue-collar, small-town guy with the big hands he was willing to spank her with.

Paris watched him plate the spaghetti, as she lifted the bottle of wine to her lips again. She probably should have used a glass and offered him some too, but Joe didn’t strike her as a wine drinker. Beer. He was a beer guy for sure, she decided, watching the muscles of his back bunch as he lifted the plates from the counter. Then she let her gaze drift down to the tight ass behind the worn denim of his jeans and even farther down to the powerful thighs and long legs until she got to his feet. In boots. Common-sense, winter-weather-appropriate boots.

That were very big.

She might have wondered if that big hands, big feet, big dick thing was accurate, but she’d already had visual confirmation, thanks to Louis waking her up in the back room of the store…just in time.

A warm shiver went through her as she took another swallow of wine. She should probably slow down on the alcohol. With the lack of food and sleep, the wine was going to her head very quickly. Because she wanted him to spank her again and again and again.

Finally, he turned with a plate of spaghetti and sauce. He stood holding it, just looking at her.

She tipped her head, waiting for him to say something.

“I can’t.”

Paris frowned, confused. “You can’t spank me?”

His eyebrows rose, clearly surprised by her response. Not to mention perplexed.

Oh, right. They hadn’t been talking about that. She’d just been thinking about it.

“Oops. Um, sorry. Tired.” She looked down at the wine bottle and wiggled it. “Maybe tipsy.”

Was that plausible at all?

“Actually, I can spank you,” he said after a moment, the corner of his mouth curling up in a very sexy way that made her stomach flip. “That would be very easy, as a matter of fact.”

“Oh.”

Oh.

Well, then.

That was a fabulous answer. “Give me a few bites of spaghetti and a couple minutes for the carbs to hit my bloodstream, and I’m all in,” she joked, reaching for the plate.

Joe shook his head and let her take the plate. “Wow. Are all the women in California so...out there?”

Moving around the kitchen, looking for a fork, she laughed. “Spanking is so not out there in California. You should see some of the stuff people are into.” Paris opened and slammed shut three drawers before Joe shifted to the side, opened the drawer by his hip, and extracted a fork, handing it over.

With a huge grin, she twirled it in the pile of noodles, twisting several around the tines and taking a big bite.

“I meant the way you’re so open about sex and what you like and what you want and everything,” he said.

Paris looked up, chewing. His eyes were on her mouth, and she instinctively swiped her tongue over her lower lip, wondering if she had sauce there. His pupils dilated. So she did it again.

“Most of the women I hang out with are pretty open about sex and what they like,” she told him. “You can’t expect people to read your mind. If you want something, you have to say it.”

Paris took another bite and studied him as she ate. Seriously, for sauce from a jar, this was really good. Of course, that was probably because she’d never been hungrier in her life. Or because she’d never had a guy dressed in flannel and denim cook for her before. Or maybe it always tasted this good when there was testosterone dripping all over everything.

“Did your Indiana girlfriends not talk about sex?” she asked.

Joe’s eyes crinkled at the edges, his grin not just restricted to his mouth. When Joe smiled, it was evident on his entire face. “They did. But not within the first hour of knowing me.”

She giggled. “They were just better at keeping their thoughts to themselves. I have to admit, that’s not something I’m particularly good at.”

“You’re saying they were thinking about sex within an hour of meeting me?” Joe’s expression was a mix of amusement and confusion, like he couldn’t quite figure her out.

He was leaning against the counter across from her with his hands braced on either side of his hips. The position pulled his shirt across his wide chest and flat abs and kind of put everything below his waist on full display.

Paris took another bite and let her gaze travel down him from head to toe. Slowly. “Hell yeah, they were.”

She took her time bringing her gaze back up to his.

Brawny.

That was the best word for him. He was like a superhot lumberjack or mountain man. Not that she knew a lot about lumberjacks or mountain men. But there was flannel. And a beard. And boots. And big, rough hands. She very much doubted Joe had ever eaten, or even heard of, Matelote de Poissons . Which put him a few points ahead of Victor.

She hated Matelote de Poissons . Seafood stew. Gag. Even more, she hated that Victor used to make it for her without even asking if she liked it, simply because it was his favorite.

As soon as she got back to the general area of Joe’s fly, Paris noticed that there was a much more noticeable prominence there now. She also noted that his hands were gripping the edge of the counter a little harder now, evidenced by the white knuckles. When she got to his face, his jaw was clenched, and his cheeks were a little flushed.

“Are you okay?” Paris asked.

“Not really.”

She swallowed hard. “Oh. Sorry.”

He looked at her for a long moment. “When I said I can’t, I meant that I can’t get naughty with you.”

“Oh.” Paris frowned, then shook her head. “No. Actually saying ‘I can’t’ in response to my question means you can’t give me a good reason why we can’t get naughty.”

He nodded. “You’re right. Wrong answer. I can give you a reason.”

“And?” she prompted.

“I can’t go there. I have this problem.”

Her eyes flew back to his fly, and she gave him a cheeky grin. “Not as far as I can tell.”

Joe coughed and shifted while she met his gaze again.

Was she embarrassing him?

God, he really was a nice guy. Most of the men she’d met in L.A. wouldn’t have blinked twice at the things she was saying, this kind of flirty exchange of sexual innuendoes fairly normal.

Joe was undeterred, however, in giving her his reason. “I have this problem where I fall in love and then get my heart broken when the woman realizes she doesn’t want to be here long-term. And I’m not leaving North Pole. So getting involved with a California girl who’s already planning her exit seems like a really bad idea.”

Okay. Well, that was ridiculously sweet and…God…hot.

Paris kept her gaze on his as she set her plate to one side. “Actually, that is what’s perfect about this.”

“It is?”

“You already know I’m leaving,” she said.

“Which makes it really stupid to ignore that and get all wrapped up in you, doesn’t it?” Joe persisted.

Paris smiled and took a step closer to him. “Haven’t you ever had sex just for sex? A casual fling? A one-night stand?”

She glanced down to see his hands gripping the counter again, as she stopped right in front of him. They weren’t quite touching, but she was definitely in his personal space.

He smelled as good as the sauce.

Like Guy. That’s what the cologne would be named if it smelled like Joe.

Wood and fresh air and snow. Did snow have a scent?

Joe shook his head slowly, his gaze on her mouth again. “No one-night stands. Like you said, just girlfriends.”

She reached out and put her hand on his chest. It was hard. Hot. His heart was pounding.

“So you’ve never just had hot, sweaty, rock-your-world sex because it would feel good and be fun? Without worrying about things like introducing her to your parents and if you both like kids and dogs and finding out what her ring size is?”

Again, he shook his head.

“Oh, Joe.” Paris stepped even closer, that very nice bulge behind his zipper pressed against her stomach. She slid her hand to the back of his head, tangling her fingers into his hair. “You really need to. At least once. And I’m the perfect choice. I can tell you exactly what I want sexually. Plus, I’m leaving soon and can buy my own rings. Really, when is a chance like this going to come up for you again?” With her heels on and him leaning a little, she only had to go up on tiptoe to put her lips next to his. “You really should take advantage.”

Then, she kissed him.

Maybe it was the wine. The lack of sleep. The low blood sugar.

But the more Joe talked, the more sweet things he said, the more she wanted him. He was honest and genuine and real. Three things that were hard to find in L.A.

Oh, and the big hands thing. Those were pretty fucking awesome too.

Especially when he settled those huge paws on her ass. She gave a little moan and opened her mouth, taking the kiss from chaste to wanton in record time.

Joe moaned too and then he took over.

When she said, “took over,” she didn’t mean he used his tongue first or something.

She meant He. Took. Over.

Before she knew it, she was backed up against the center island of the kitchen, and one of his hands was in her hair, holding her head right where he wanted it, the other gripping her ass. He stroked his tongue against hers and pressed his hard cock into her. That firmness and the seam of her jeans hit her clit perfectly, and she arched into the pressure, gripping his shoulders, trying to get even closer. Paris wasn’t a bit intimidated by him or the fact that she didn’t know him or that she was alone with him. She was damned grateful to be alone with him. It was going to make getting naked a whole lot easier.

Paris ran her hands down his sides and under his shirt, desperate to get her hands on his hot bare skin and on those hard muscles she’d ogled earlier.

He gave a deep groan that shot bolts of lust through her.

He dragged his mouth from her lips to her ear. “You are so fucking hot.”

“God, I want you,” she told him, nearly panting.

“Just like this? Right here? Now?”

“Yes. Yes. Yes.”

Joe half chuckled, half groaned.

Paris started unbuttoning his shirt. When she got it halfway undone, she leaned in, putting her mouth against his chest. She kissed, then licked, then nipped.

“Fuck,” he muttered.

He pulled her head back with his hand in her hair, and the tug sent electric shocks to her clit.

“Damn,” she breathed, staring up at him.

“You just want me to fuck you right here on the kitchen island?” His eyes were dark with lust.

“Yes.” Paris wanted that so, so much. Victor had never even said the word fuck. Not even in French.

Joe studied her face as if trying to decide if she was being truthful. “We barely know each other.”

“That makes it even hotter,” she reassured him. She reached for his fly and got him unbuttoned and unzipped, then she slid her hand between the denim and his underwear.

Cotton.

Paris would bet her Prada handbag that they were white briefs. And suddenly, those seemed extremely sexy.

She ran her hand down his hard length, but before she could curl her fingers around him, he pulled her hand away. “Um, no.”

Paris blinked up at him. “No?”

“I have a feeling you’re going to have me by the balls soon enough.” Joe’s mouth curled in a sexy smile, and his voice was husky, but he was not letting her touch him. “How about I get you firmly in hand first?”

“What do you me?—”

Before she could finish the question, he spun her so she was facing the island. Then, he put her hands on the cool granite top.

“Don’t move them,” he ordered, his gruff voice right by her ear.

“But—”

Suddenly she felt a sharp sting against her right butt cheek.

Paris gasped. He’d spanked her. Sure, she’d asked him to, but she hadn’t really expected him to follow through.

Then he did it again.

Heat settled low and intense in her pussy, but before she could say anything—most likely to beg for more—he spanked her even harder.

“Don’t move your hands,” he repeated firmly, as he ran his hand over her ass, almost as if he was relishing the feel. “Making sure you know who the boss is here seems like it might be a good idea to make the next few weeks easier.”

Paris wiggled her ass. “I own the Holly Jolly,” she reminded him, perfectly aware that wasn’t what he meant at all.

“I don’t work for the Holly Jolly.”

He moved in right behind her, his cock now pressing into her ass. He ran his hands around her midsection to her lower stomach and then up. He cupped her breasts, giving them a squeeze. Paris’s head fell forward, and she took a deep breath. It had been a long time since someone other than herself had touched her breasts. He started unbuttoning her shirt.

“Well, I don’t work for you either,” she said, trying to keep her thoughts straight.

She watched his thick fingers undo the tiny buttons on her blouse. God, they were the same thick fingers she desperately wanted to pinch her nipples and rub her clit and thrust into her pussy.

She really should just shut up. She was willing to be good. Dammit, submissive even. Paris figured she could pull that off. Not that she’d had any practice with Victor. Or Stephen. Or Dario. They’d all been CEO, suit-and-tie guys. Sophisticated. Smooth. Stephen had been sexy. Dario had been a little bossy… Okay, he’d been an arrogant prick, which was not the same thing. But none of them had been dominant.

Not in the “I’m going to make you come just like this, and you’re not going to do a thing but say my name, nice and loud” way. Which was exactly what Joe said just then.

Holy hot small-town construction worker.

What was Paris’s problem with Indiana again?

“I will do whatever you say,” she managed to tell him. Meaning every word.

“Good girl.”

Her inner muscles clenched hard. Wow. Coming right here like this was not going to be a problem, as she was almost there already.

Her shirt was unbuttoned, and the silk spread open as he ran his work-roughened palms back and forth over her bare stomach and then up to cup her breasts through the Jean Yu bra. Not that she thought Joe would care at all about the designer of her expensive bra and panty set. He didn’t seem like the type to care about lingerie. Instead, he seemed like the type to care about ripping off said lingerie.

He reached behind her, unhooked the bra, and flipped the cups up, replacing them with his hands.

Yep. Just like she thought. He was in a hurry to get rid of it. She moaned as he played with her nipples. “Joe.”

“I like the sound of that. I’m going to need more of it,” he said gruffly.

“Then I’m going to need more,” Paris said. Somehow it didn’t come off flirtatious. It came off as desperate.

He didn’t care.

He slid a hand down and undid the button on her jeans. “More, huh?”

“Yes. More. Lots more.”

He unzipped her, pressing his erection against her from behind. He was hot and hard and huge.

“I can help you with that,” she said, pressing back.

“Nah. I’m fine.”

She ground against him a little and he groaned.

Then she felt him rummaging around, but she didn’t bother to turn around, too intent on rubbing her ass against him, so ready to take this to the next level.

“Fuck. No condom,” he admitted, his voice a little ragged.

“Oh.” Dammit. She didn’t have one either. Who would have thought she needed to pack condoms for her trip to Indiana. She was using the shot for birth control, but they should use a condom. Seriously. They barely knew one another. That was the smart thing to do.

Sometimes Paris really hated being smart.

“Does—”

His hand slid into the front of her jeans, cupping her through her dark purple silk panties with his big, hot hand.

“You’re wet.”

She really was. So much so, it probably should have been embarrassing. But she really didn’t care about anything but him moving his fingers about an inch to the left.

“Please, Joe.”

He slipped his finger under the elastic edge of her panties and against her clit.

It was like the guy had GPS helping him find just the spot. Not only had he located it, he pressed against it like it was what he had been born to do.

“Please tell me that someplace in this town sells condoms,” Paris said breathlessly.

He laughed against her ear, a deep, rumbling sound. “Yeah. We’ll be able to find condoms, Paris. Lots of them.”

“Oh, thank?—”

Then he slid his finger deep. His big, thick finger. Very deep. Her knees went a little weak. She gripped the counter and gave a moan that made him groan in response. He tipped her head back, settling his hand against the base of her throat in a surprisingly hot gesture, and kissed her. He stroked his tongue into her mouth in unison with his finger as it pumped in and out of her pussy. Then he added a second finger, and his thumb found her clit.

That was it. She was done for. Everything deep clenched hard, and she came fast, clamping onto his fingers, and gasping his name into his mouth as he continued to kiss her.

“God, that’s so fucking hot,” he told her gruffly when their lips parted.

It really, really was.

Paris slumped back against him, and he held her with an arm around her ribs until she caught her breath. Then he pulled his hand out of her pants.

She braced her hands on the counter again, as she felt his hands on her hips and his lips on the back of her neck. That was a very sweet gesture, especially considering what he’d just done to her. Which, while maybe not sweet, had been very nice.

Joe was definitely a nice guy.

She took a deep breath and pulled her shirt together as she turned in his arms. Paris smiled up at him. “I?—”

Suddenly there was a thumping out in the foyer, followed by a hiss, a screech, a bark, and what sounded like nails on wood. Specifically, doggie toenails on a hardwood floor.

Louis came skidding into the kitchen, and right on his heels was Roscoe. Looking very pissed off.

“Oh my God!” Paris literally pushed Joe back and scooted around him, sweeping Louis up just as Roscoe got to him and took a swipe. Louis whined, and she frowned down at the cat. “What the hell?”

Joe moved to pick the cat up. The thing hissed at him, but Joe looked unimpressed. “I think he misses Lydia. He wasn’t like this before.”

“Aw.” That melted her heart. “The poor thing.”

Louis seemed to sense that her sympathies had switched because he whimpered and licked her chin. “Oh, yes, you’re a poor thing too,” she assured him. “But Roscoe is lonely.” Paris looked at the cat again. The animal looked like he wanted to scratch her eyes out. She wasn’t a cat person, but Roscoe had lost his person. He was alone now. He had to be scared and sad.

She could become a cat person.

Probably.

Maybe.

Roscoe gave her a little hiss. “Yeah, yeah, tough guy,” she told him. “I know you don’t need anyone. But we’re here whether you like it or not. At least for a little while.”

Suddenly Joe coughed. He shifted and put the cat down. “So, um...I know this sounds bad, but I need to go.”

“Oh.” Right. He wasn’t going to stay. Hot sex was all they were doing, and they didn’t have any condoms. “Sure. Of course.”

“I’ll...uh…” He started toward the front of the house. “See you.”

She heard the front door shut and looked down at Louis, then at the plate of half-eaten spaghetti, then at the fuzzy orange backside of the cat who was now crouched at his food bowl on the other side of the island, growling even as he ate.

Paris blew out a breath.

Wow. So this was North Pole, Indiana.