Santa’s Baby (Naughtier and Naughtier Book 3)

I’m in a daze through the rest of the shopping trip. I let out a cringey ho ho ho whenever Eb cracks a steamy Santa comment, trying to blank out the memory of his eyes, and the I know that you know that I know realisation that burned between us – but it’s not easy. Neither of them will shut the fuck up about him. Ella doesn’t quit it with the amazing man of charity sighs, and Eb wants to empty his sack, and I have to bite my tongue so hard it hurts as we browse glittery cards and debate tinsel colours. I’m glad we don’t opt for lunchtime cocktails, because a Sex on the Beach never helps me keep my blabbermouth shut.

I’m aching to blurt out what a filthy, powerful bastard Santa really is. His kind of fantasies are off the charts. He’s not the kind of figure I would ever have expected to bump into in everyday life. Not a chance in hell. It’s never been on my radar that I would be sitting on one of The Agency stakeholder’s laps one day with my eyes open wide – let alone in a quaint shopping mall grotto. I want to spill the truth, just to get the WTAF off my chest, but I can’t. The owners of The Agency are shielded by confidentiality to the extreme, and hardcore entertainers like us are always hooded whenever we get bookings. If we get bookings. Most entertainers haven’t got a clue the founders even exist.

Ella and Ebony are going to have to stay in the dark about him. Ha. Ironic.

We seem to circle the whole bastard grotto, store after store after store, and it’s like he’s a magnet in there. I’d love to rejoin the back of the queue for another five minutes of lap sitting, but I can’t. He’s off bounds. Period.

I can’t bring myself to look at the picture I got from the grotto. I’m hardly in a glitzy ballgown, with my arms wrapped around his neck under mistletoe. I’m in a baggy hoodie, cruddy jeans, and yesterday’s fake lashes, likely looking more like a rabbit caught in headlights than one of his star performers.

Me and the girls call it a day with the shopping at just after two, since all three of us have clients tonight. I wish I wasn’t such a bloody workaholic – or sexaholic – sometimes, because tonight’s proposal involves club dancing and twerking my butt off until I get accosted by a stalker in an alley outside. I’m knackered, wanting to curl up and binge reality TV shows with a cheesecake rather than take another pounding, but I never back out of proposals – and this client is a new one for me.

I love playing with strangers, especially when it gets rough. It keeps it interesting.

This one is sure gonna get rough tonight.

I opt for a Jessica Rabbit style dress in red sequins, with a split right the way up my thigh for easy access. Big holed fishnets, and stilettos, and elbow length black gloves that mix class with whore. I don’t wear my trademark tiara, but I do use a sparkling hair clip to sweep my long, red curls up on one side. I think my client will like it.

I read through his proposal again before I set off to Club Revelier.

User 2906. Male. 35.

I want to watch you dancing like the boldest curvy bitch in the bar. Flirt with the guys around you and act like you’re the prize queen in the room, because I’m sure you will be. I want to watch you perform like a girl after dick, and who knows? Maybe I’ll be one of the guys you’ll be flirting with. Wouldn’t that be a nice surprise? Because you’ll have fucking asked for it by the time we cross paths later in the evening.

You’ll get a notification from your client app when the time is right, so keep it close at hand. When you do, it’ll be time for you to leave, all set to go home, until you pass the alleyway on the right-hand side.

I hope you like to be grabbed and used as much as your profile claims you do, because I’m not going to be gentle. I’ll claim every bit of the bounty you’ve been touting. I want to spread those beautiful chunky thighs of yours and claim the treasure. And as for your gorgeous balloon tits. I’m going to be taking advantage of those, believe me.

I only hope that when you realise you’re a slutty bitch who is getting what you asked for, you’ll be down on your knees begging for more.

Dirty girls like you should be desperate bitches for cock, no matter how much it hurts.

Duration: 4 hours.

Proposal Fee: £6000.

I smile at his words, hoping that tonight is going to be a fun one. I love being a degraded, cheap bitch who takes it rough – always walking away with a grin on my face and a decent chunk of cash in my bank account. The 6k is a tad low for my taste, but I can’t help trying out new clients. Variety is the spice of sluts and I’m getting way too bored lately.

I leave the apartment and send my regular message to Josh. We check in and out of our proposals, finishing them up with D&S texts – done and safe. Clients are always checked out and vetted by The Agency, down to every last detail. We are obliged to have STI checks every month, and so do they, and what’s set out in the proposals is always to be adhered to, but still. A D&S message is always a good thing to have in the background. Josh would come running if I needed him, whenever I needed him.

We used to be 24/7 kind of friends, and he was the person I’d call on for everything, even to unload my gossip while he was on his treadmill, but I’ve been giving him some space now he’s shacked up with Ella. I’ve taken the inevitable sidelining of a best friend – my choice, not his, since I’m always welcomed – but regardless of stepping back, Josh is still my number one. The person I’d run to in a storm, and shelter with my life in return.

Cool, the reply says. Me and Ells are heading out now. Double booking. D&S at 3 a.m.

I give him lucky bastard, have fun and a thumbs up.

Josh and Ella only live a few floors up from me in the West Belgravia tower, but the gap feels bigger as the months move on. It’s only natural that they are building more and more of a life without me. They radiate soulmates from every angle. I never had to feel this lonely before, because Josh was my constant wingman, and I was getting sex from other places, constantly, but now…

I look in the mirror.

I’m approaching twenty-seven years old. The time I always figured I’d be settled down myself. I dunno, but it seems to be a nearly thirty, let’s get serious kind of benchmark. I can fob it off with a pah all I like, but it’s still there, like an alarm bell ringing louder every day.

I don’t want to get a pathetic pang of wanting someone, so I shove it back in the depths. It’s all about User 2906 tonight.

I get a cab to Club Revelier over in Tottenham. I’ve been here once or twice before and it’s alright. Decent, and a bit of a rave spot with drum n’bass. It’s a big enough venue that I can get lost amidst the partygoers without anyone twigging I’m a girl downing prosecco and dancing alone… and flirting with every guy who looks my way.

I scope it out when I get inside, scanning the main dancefloor. If User 2906 is planning on flirting with me, he’s bound to be nearby. I open The Agency app and click on arrived, and I wait for the acknowledgement response before I go any further.

Yes. I can see you, the reply says.

I suspected as much. Knowing he’s got his eyes on me brings me out in a flush. There are so many men around… so many potentials…

I stride to the bar with a smile on my face to order my first prosecco. I’ve barely taken a sip when a guy steps up beside me and gives me a cocky smirk.

“You alright?”

He’s staring at my tits, like most blokes do. It makes flirting so easy as I turn to face him. Piece of piss. I hope my client has his beady eyes on me, watching the way I flutter my lashes.

“I’m great, thanks. How about you?”

I talk quietly on purpose, so the guy has to lean in close, he’s got to be barely twenty-one. Not my taste, but oh well.

“I’m cool,” he says. “Want a drink?”

Poor guy needs to work on his chat, because he’s hardly original. Still, I down my prosecco in one and put the empty glass on the bar top.

“Sure.”

I give him the eye as he gets me another glass, biting my lip when he hands it over with a cheers. He’s got a beer and chugs some back before he goes in for the usual round of questions.

What’s your name, where are you from, who are you here with? Dull as fuck. What I want him to ask is whether he can fuck the tits he’s staring at, screw the niceties. I want him to ask if I like being throat jammed like a slut when I’m on my knees, and how much of a pounding I can take in my asshole.

He’s midway through another boring question when I finish up my second glass of fizz and walk away with a thanks for the drink. My flirting is done with him, no explanation necessary.

I weave my way onto the dancefloor, finding the beat as I sway my hips and lose myself in the groove. The people around me make it hot in here. The stickiness of drunk sweat is welcome as I shimmy my dress up, then pump my hands in the air. I dance, I spin, I jump and groove, and people notice me. Of course they do. I’m not exactly a shrinking violet or one of the bland brigade.

I love the heat of the eyes on me, a blur of people staring as I dance in my own filthy world – knowing full well the dark game lying ahead of me. A stinking alleyway and a dirty fucker who’s going to treat me like a piece of trash. That’s what I want. I want to be trash tonight.

I hitch my dress higher, twerking my bouncy butt like I’m desperate for action. I’ve been in this game long enough to send out the right signals, and it works. I feel people shifting. Grooving men getting closer, so thinly veiled, it’s ridiculous.

I back into one of them to make it easy for him, grinding my ass against his crotch as his hands come around for some action, but he’s shit. This guy isn’t my client, I can tell by the way his friends are cheering him on, but he’s an easy target for my slut show. I turn to face him and pull him against me, pressing my tits to his chest. He grabs my ass, and some half decent grinding starts. I spread my legs wide enough that his thigh finds my pussy, but it’s too early to be getting serious, and nah, he’s crap at it. Average, tops.

I pull away and leave him behind, sashaying through the revellers until I get some wolf whistles off to the right. Two guys wanting a piece of me. These two are idiots, dancing with the kind of laid-back groove reserved for Z-listers, but I milk it for all it’s worth. Maybe they were on some reality TV show a decade ago and still think they’re in it to win it. I act like a girl who thinks they’re superstars, fawning as I dance along with them, one after the other.

One of them kisses me, and he’s like a wet fish with his tongue, but I don’t give a toss. I eat his face like I’m as keen as he is, running my hand down to the bulge in his pants to scope out his hard-on.

Hardly a donkey.

Again. Boring.

Boring, boring, boring.

The idiots protest when I leave them behind, but I carry on regardless, grooving my way into another crowd. This little cluster is hotter. A couple of the guys are tall and imposing. Some girls grip their boyfriends tighter, staking claim, but one of the tall guys is blatantly on the lookout for pussy. His eyes are on my tits from the off, and he knows he’s fit. I like that kind of confidence.

I dance closer, giving him the eye as I twist and twirl, and he’s straight on it. Coming in close.

This guy has more heat than the others. His moves are more mature. His stature more demanding.

His hands are firm, fingers harsh as they squeeze my ass.

I’d be happy to spread my legs and have him explore my juicy cunt right here on the dancefloor. I’d tug down my dress and set my tits free to let him slaver. But no. Not yet.

More kisses, but these aren’t sloppy – just fierce. He wraps a hand around the back of my neck to pull me close, and I figure that this could maybe be User 2906 getting me ready. I’d like that. But no.

“Want to leave, get a cab back to mine?” he asks. “I don’t live too far from here. We could… hang out.”

I keep up my flirting game.

“That depends…” I smile, my mouth close to his ear. “What would you want to do to me when we got there?”

“Nothing crazy. I’m no psycho, don’t worry.”

I laugh at that. “Shame.”

“Shame?”

“Yeah, shame. Girls like me like it filthy.”

He’s a decent looking guy. Tall and muscular, with a neat beard and dark eyes. He’s in a shirt that fits nicely, and looks like he’s packing a hulky dick in his pants.

“How filthy do you like it?” he asks.

“As filthy as it gets.”

His smirk is alright. Not an award winner. He’s confident, but not a super-ego.

“Shall I at least get you a drink first?”

“Sure. Prosecco, thanks. I’ll wait here.”

I’m lying. My eyes are already roving around for the next person of interest, but I don’t get all that long to mingle. Someone presses up against me from behind, and his hands on my waist put the last guy’s confidence to shame. He roves them up to grope my tits through my dress, and grinds his cock against my ass. I work him right back, spurring him on, and I get tingles when his breath lands on my neck.

I can only just hear his words above the music.

“Better get back to loverboy and his prosecco. He wants a piece.”

“He’s not going to fuck me hard enough.”

“He doesn’t know that. Be a good slut and appreciate his efforts.”Copyright by Nôv/elDrama.Org.

The stranger shoves me forwards, and he’s already blurred into the bodies on the dancefloor by the time I spin around. Damnit, I have no idea who that was, and the strobes don’t make it easy to track anyone. He’s long gone, no doubt eyeing me from a distance.

I do what I’m told, dancing back through the throng towards the guy returning from the bar. He has my drink in his hand, what a sweetie. I thank him and raise it in toast, my eyes locked on his like a siren. He’s my target. My minx trap. My job accessory. I want to get him so worked up he’s set to ravage me on the dancefloor, and make that plain. The watcher in the shadows is the one who matters.

“Come on, let’s stop playing coy,” I tell the guy I’m up against. “Show me what you can do, and we’ll see about getting that cab.”

I guide his hand down between my legs, and it’s clear the people around us are too engrossed in their own beat to notice. The lights and noise have ramped up, the club getting headier and heavier.

I’ve passed off this guy as a half-assed nobody too easily. He’s got more dirty substance than I banked on, and if circumstances were different, if he was the guy paying… but he’s not.

He’s slender against my curves, but he’s strong. He hands me his beer, then reaches down to tear the crotch of my fishnets open like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He hooks his fingers inside my lacy thong, and damn, he’s good… he knows where my clit is, sliding a nice path up and down my slit through my slick, puffy pussy lips.

“I had you down as a hairy girl,” he shouts in my ear, and I laugh.

“Nah. Clean shaven. Always.” I hand him back his beer.

“Nice and smooth. And wet.”

“Sure am.” I give him a cheeky grin. “Check it out.”

I squat a touch on my stilettos, swinging my hips in disguise, because I want his fingers inside me on the dancefloor. I want him to fuck me to the knuckles, so my teasing means something. I wrap my arms around his neck, being careful with my prosecco, since I wouldn’t want to waste any.

“I want filthy, remember?” I say, my mouth on his ear.

His fingers slide to my pussy, scissoring my clit. “Is this not filthy enough?”

“Nah, not even close.”

“Fine, let’s ramp it up.”

He kisses a path from my lips to my throat, and pushes three fingers inside me, hard.

It’s easy to use his hand for my pleasure since his rhythm matches the thump of the bass. Good work on his part.

I think about the guy watching from the sidelines somewhere. Through the throng of bodies I can sense him. Watching. Waiting. Viewing me as a slut getting fingered while people dance around me. My scarlet hair must be an obvious spot, no matter where he is in the club. The way I moan like a whore against a random guy’s mouth speaks wordlessly above the bass.

But still, amongst it all, I’ve got my clutch bag held tight to my side, barely anything in there besides my phone – set to vibrate at maximum when my notification comes through. The one that will instruct me to leave this place and head outside.

I wonder if I can come before then. To be fresh from a climax when I get assaulted in the darkness would really make my day.

“More fingers,” I say. “Fuck me like you mean it.”

I groan as he pushes in a fourth, loving the stretch, even though I’m still sore as fuck from last night’s action.

“I’m gonna do you so hard when we get out of here,” he says, and I’d get a pang of guilt if it meant anything, but it doesn’t. There will be plenty of horny bitches looking for a hookup before home time. He’ll strike lucky.

“Show me how hard you can play,” I tell him, working myself deeper onto his fingers. “Give me a filthy taster.”

I’ve always loved public playtime, especially when other people are blind to the filthy bitch I’m being, right in front of them. I ride his fingers as I dance, and if the music wasn’t so loud, the squelches from my sopping wet pussy would be clear from a mile off. He feels my excitement rising, twisting his fucking fingers as I groan, and then he searches out my clit with his thumb, digging between my pussy lips for the target.

I can come like this, and I know it. I’m on my way quicker than I’d expect, all thoughts of prosecco and beer forgotten as we groove and moan. His pace picks up so it’s faster than the bass, and I’m so turned on I’m hardly dancing anymore, just squatting on my stilettos as he gets me off. Fuck, I’m almost there. My breaths are heaving, and my mind is turning blank, and I’m over the fucking moon at the achievement of coming on a packed dancefloor as my client stares on.

I’m sure he can see me. I’m sure he can see I’m serious. This orgasm isn’t going to be some bullshit fakery – it never is – and I’m ready, I’m so fucking ready.

Until I feel the buzz of my phone in my clutch.

I could fucking scream. So close. So fucking close. But I know the rules. I know how this story goes.

I stop grinding, stop humping, stop moving. I take hold of my finger fucker’s wrist and push him away.

“I need to get this, sorry.”

He knocks back the rest of his beer as I grope inside my clutch, ready to resume the action, but there isn’t going to be any further action. The notification on my phone speaks loud and clear.

User 2906. Leave the club right now.

I could give the man in the shadows a middle finger.

I shove my phone back in my clutch and down the rest of my prosecco. Hell only knows how there’s still any left in the glass after being finger screwed to the crest. My finger fucker looks mortified as I shove my empty glass into the hand that’s still wet from doing me.

“I’ve got to go.”

“Go?”

“Yeah, see you around.”

I don’t wait for the but and the awkward questions. I’m out of there on a mission, shoving my way through the other dancers until I get to the edge of the room. I don’t bother composing myself. It’s going to be straight out of the flames and into the fire, so I march towards the exit, barely bothering to smooth my dress down.

I’m nearly at the doorway when a figure catches my eye, leaning off to the side against the wall. I have to do a double take – a slamming shiver of recognition zipping up my spine.

I get prickles upon prickles. Tingles up my arms.

No. Fucking. Way. It can’t be.

I stop dead in my tracks.

My instincts know this man, even though I don’t.

He’s in a tailored jet-black suit with a glass of red in his hand – and he’s staring right at me as the lights flash through his silver fox hair. It’s his eyes… his gaze.

I step closer to check him out at close quarters, rationality still doubting my intuition, but I already know what I’m going to see when I get there. I already know they are the same eyes I was gazing into in the grotto. Instincts never lie.

Santa doesn’t look anything like Santa tonight. His clipped grey beard is a perfect complement to his easy smile, and he tips his head as I give him another round of open mouthed WTAF. What do I call him? What the fuck do I even say?

He speaks before I do, gesturing to the exit.

“Got somewhere to be, haven’t you, Tiffany? Someone waiting out there?”

“I, um…”

My thoughts are scattered. I stare at him, my brain a tumble.

“You’d better go,” he says with a smirk. “You wouldn’t want a bad rating to tarnish your record.”

Santa isn’t User 2906, of course he isn’t. But he knows where I’m going, he knows where I’ve been. He knows everything, since he’s one of the owners of the whole damn Agency.

He’s also well aware what I’ve been doing on the dancefloor, I see it in his stare.

He’s likely seen just as much as my client outside…

I don’t know why it gives me another zip of a shudder up my spine. I feel more self-conscious than I’ve felt in years.

“What are you doing here?” I ask him.

He raises his glass. “Enjoying a drink. Nothing more.”

Nothing more. Yeah, right.

There is no malice in him, nothing sinister. His smile isn’t dark or foreboding, it’s just surreal – and it gives me the kind of butterflies I like to crush under my shoe, but they won’t fuck off. They’re stronger than I’ve known in a long, long time.

There’s a twist of bizarre humour in Santa’s voice that screws with my insides. It’s just the kind of magnetism that makes my stomach tumble along with my brain.

“Have fun in the alleyway,” he says. “The clock is ticking.”

Yes, it is. I look at the doorway.

My client is out there now, expecting me any second, and as much as I’m loath to tear myself away, I have to go. Creamgirl always comes first.

I smile at Santa before I leave, but say nothing, because for once my big, bold mouth is stumped. I rely on my legs and work ethic to force myself on by.

I daren’t look back to see if he’s still watching me, because one more flash of his smile would have me crumpling at his feet, and it’s not Santa’s feet I need to be crumpling at.

I have business to attend to.