"Santa," I moan, tipping my head back. His strong fingers expertly massaging my right foot is heaven. I melt into the couch, releasing all the tension in my body.
“Close your eyes,” he rumbles.
Yes, sir. I laugh internally. Enjoying the pampering, I blink open one eye to confirm this is real, that I’m not dreaming. A smoldering man in a Santa suit is giving me a Christmas Eve foot rub. This is so scandalous and so hot.
“You have the cutest toes,” he says, breaking the silence.
I furrow my brows, not agreeing with him, but silently praise myself for getting a pedicure last week. Otherwise, this scene would be unsightly.
“Don’t be nervous. I want to spoil you.”
Could I record that? Can I replay his deep, sexy voice saying that over and over and again and again?
Santa. Fucking Santa. I reach for the wine and take a long sip to calm my nerves while admiring his gorgeous face. With the hat off, I recognize him from around town. I don’t know his name. I don’t know anything about him, but I have seen this sexy, bearded man before.
He moves his attention to my other foot, and damn if I am not wet right now. His attention to detail and slow strokes give me every kind of clue about what type of lover he is. A good one. Probably a great one.
Am I really going to sleep with Santa? I ponder. The satin and what’s underneath were a bold choice. Choices that say I am open to what the night has to offer, and it looks like it’s going to be Santa.