Santa’s Baby (Naughtier and Naughtier Book 3)

When the alarm goes off, I can hardly be arsed to face it. I’m too comfy in Reuben’s deluxe bed with the gorgeous hulk of him lying beside me. He switches off the bleeping and I snuggle closer, hoping I can drift back into dreamland and he’ll come there with me, but of course not.

It’s another day at the grotto. For both of us.

But not just yet…

Reuben doesn’t shake me awake and announce the morning dawn like a cockerel. He leans over and places a gentle kiss on my forehead, peppering a line down to my ear, where his breath makes me tingle.

“Morning, Tiffany.”

I yawn. “Morning. Can’t believe we stayed up so late.”

“I can.”

My body moves on instinct when it’s touched. My knees part wide as Reuben coaxes them open. I’m happy as Larry to feel his horny cock on my thigh, despite the fact it had to be after two by the time we got to bed.

A selection of my clothes are now hanging in Reuben’s wardrobe, having dashed like a thief in the night over to my apartment to throw some into a suitcase. I knew Josh and Ella were working a double proposal – a mega hardcore one, over in Notting Hill. No chance of seeing me and asking questions. And no chance of spotting Reuben by my side.

I love how strong my saucy Santa is as he positions himself on top of me. My arms reach up around his shoulders.

“Hey there, Santa Claus. You got a present for me?”

“Yes, indeed. Santa’s sack needs some attention before the grotto.”

I giggle. “My elfish pussy always needs attention. Grotto or not.”

“No getting too grotto this morning. Let’s keep it nice and gentle, shall we?”

“Gentle sounds good to me for once.”

Reuben and I had such filthy fun after the clothes dash that I’m still battered and bruised to shit from it. My ass is gonna be purple from paddle blows, and my tits were bound so tight that the twine grooves are still hurting. The founder side of Reuben sure showed himself in its full glory, and I loved it.

I love his morning glory, too…

In fact, I love every single filthy, sweet side of him. My beautiful silver fox Santa. Santa, boss, founder, lover. Jealous, possessive, and selfless. All in one package. With a package that can send me sky high.

His dick glides all the way in, I’m so wet for him. He slides his thumb between my puffy pussy lips as he circles his hips, seeking out my clit. It doesn’t take long for him to find his target, and he’s a fucking pro – hitting double whammy on the sensation spots. Inside as well as out. But he takes it so fucking slow. Teasing so gently.

He lowers his head and flicks his tongue across my nipple. It’s still so fucking sore from being clamped. The tenderness is divine as he sucks, just a touch.

“You were such a good girl last night. Incredible,” he says, and I smile up at the ceiling at his praise.

My five-star reviews have always given me a massive glow of accomplishment, and I figured I’d miss that without the constant stream from my clients – but Reuben’s words are worth a ton of five starrers.

“I made you take it so fucking bad,” he says, shoving his cock deep and pressing on my clit. “And you played the game like an absolute dream.”

I arch my back as he laps at my tits, my breaths already ragged from the way he’s using my pussy.

“It wasn’t a game,” I say. “It was all real. Everything is real with you. There’s no Creamgirl here anymore. It’s just me.”

He puts his face up to mine, brushing my lips with his.

“I’m glad about that, because Tiffany is the one I want, princess. She’s the one I need.”

The contrast in him is like yin and yang. The brutal Reuben from last night, who treated me like a slut while I cried and screamed, and the loving, tender Reuben in bed with me this morning.

I’m in love with all of his flavours. Every single one of them.

“You’ll drive me mad with the teasing,” I tell him as he pulls out a little way and strokes his thumb over my clit.

“Good. I want you needing me so bad, it drives you to insanity.”

“We’re already long past the insanity point,” I say, and pull him in for a kiss.

My tongue sweeps against his so softly, it’s like a brush of wet velvet. Our kiss is delicate but desperate, both at once. A fascination that captures us like moths to a flame.

“Do it, Reuben,” I whisper against his lips. “Fuck my bruised cunt nice and hard.”

“No,” he says. “I’m going to fuck your bruised cunt so slowly you’ll be begging to come.”

He stays true to his word, in complete control of every flex and every plunge. He’s a man of steel.

Only he wasn’t so calm and calculated when we first got home last night, and he dragged me through to the living room. There was no calmness in him as he shot his load into my petulant face after I talked about taking other men’s cocks.

Jealousy.

I can’t help myself wanting more. I’m moaning at the thought of that fire in his eyes.

Praise and jealousy from a man like Reuben Sinclair is enough to light up the world.

“Tell me what you’re thinking, princess,” he says, sliding his cock in slowly enough that I moan for more. “You’d be a terrible poker player. Your face is too beautifully expressive.”

I look into his gorgeous dark eyes.

“I’m thinking about how annoyingly fucking good your cock feels.”

He won’t break the stare.

“Don’t lie to me. You’re thinking about more than that.”

“I’m not.” I buck my hips. “It is annoyingly good, and you know it. You like driving me insane, don’t you?”

“I think we’re both insane. You said it yourself. It’s very clear to see.”

I wrap my legs around him, trying to spur him on. The slow builds are always the mightiest, but so infuriating when you’re a gagging bitch wanting a hit of cum.

“What are you really thinking about?” he asks again.

I wish I could tell him. I want to.

I want to share my deepest everything with him, but I’m still too scared to be that vulnerable. I want to tell him about my hurt and devastation when my relationship with Kian fell to pieces, and how I lost my head after the miscarriage that followed. How I swore I didn’t want anything serious again. No risks, no depth, nothing but dirty, filthy fucking. Carnal pleasure and a healthy bank account.

No stress.

No soul.

I look up at the man fucking me tenderly, and a part of me hates the fact that the stress is showing its face again, like roots growing back up from dead earth.

Reuben Sinclair could hurt me. Destroy me. Tear the world from under my feet.

Because I love him.This text is property of Nô/velD/rama.Org.

“What are you thinking, Tiffany?” he repeats, and his voice has more bite to it, even though the rhythm of his hips stays in line.

“I’m thinking about us,” I say. “About how fucking insane we really are.” I smile. “No, scrap that. I’m thinking about how insane I am. For letting myself be so crazy.”

“Keep going.”

He sucks at my other nipple, sending sparks down to my clit.

“Since we saw each other, it’s like we’ve lost our heads, isn’t it? And the thing is, I don’t want mine back. Not yet.” I groan. “I never thought I’d be alright with all my proposals slipping out of my calendar. I never figured I’d hack being so consumed with just one guy.”

“Monogamy? Is that what you’re referring to?”

I urge him on with my hips, his cock right on the fucking spot.

“Yeah, I guess so. Hardly a thing for a hooker, is it?”

“That depends if you want to be a hooker anymore.”

He laps at my nipple as his eyes look up at mine. I must look so unflattering from this angle, but the adoration is still obvious on his face. It makes my pussy sparks worse – or better.

“Do you want to be a hooker anymore, Tiffany?”

My heart races at the question, battling my head with all its might.

I’m torn. Split. Divided.

I love my job. I love the anonymity of my clients, and being the top of the tree. I love the income. I love being a dirty bitch, without consequences. Without having to hope for anything more.

But I love Reuben.

I crave the idea of a life with him.

If he’ll give me one…

“I don’t know,” I tell him, and run my fingers through his hair. “Do you want me to be a hooker anymore?”

“Good one-eighty.”

I grin. Soppy and stupid.

“Got a bit of time to decide yet, haven’t we? I haven’t got any more proposals booked in yet besides the founders gig. We can get that out of the way and have a jolly Christmas. Think it through in the New Year.”

He tenses up, pausing with his cock all the way inside me.

“What?” I ask, his face so close to mine. His eyes have the same fire they had when he dragged me through to the sofa.

My butterflies do a spin in my stomach.

“Go on,” I say. “Be honest. Do you want me to stop being a hooker?”

I run my nails down his back. Part of me wanting him to admit it, part of me not.

“Fuck waiting until New Year until you make the decision. I want you to cancel the founders’ proposal in the meantime.”

My eyes widen in shock, because he can’t be for real. Him tampering with my bookings and me blagging to Orla that I’ve got some personal shit going down is one thing… but to cancel the founders, with their reputation, and status and the huge sum of money involved. That’s a whole other ballgame. A serious one.

I stiffen underneath him.

“Are you being serious?”

“Deadly.”

“But that’s–”

“Insane, yes. I know. It won’t please them. But people get flu, Tiffany. People get unwell.”

I have to laugh. “I’d have to be pretty fucking unwell to cancel a founders’ gig. Hardly a gold star on my agency resume.”

Reuben slams me deep. Harder.

“I don’t want other men to give you gold stars, Tiff. I don’t want other men to give you anything, especially not while I’m in the same fucking room as them.”

So much for slow and sensual. He angles his cock into me so sharply that I’m wriggling, groaning like a bitch as he works me up.

“I want you to cancel the founders’ proposal,” he says. “I can’t do it for you. Not without raising suspicions, so it would have to come from you. You’d have to be the one to feign illness and hit the cancel button.”

I don’t want to answer him yet, because the idea of cancelling the founders gives me serious heebies. It’s not anything I ever thought I’d be doing. Most of the hardcore team of entertainers would give anything for a night of that value. For the recognition in the Agency that brings. I’ve relished it, time after time, like a status symbol.

What I do want right now is for Reuben to make me come, and unload into me before we leave for the grotto today. I let out a grunt and urge him on.

“Make me come, please. I need to fucking come, Reuben. Take my insanity and use it. You drive me fucking wild.”

The kisses come back, deep and all consuming. We’re a sweaty mess of flesh and lust as he unleashes the pent-up want that he’s been stoking. I don’t give a fuck when I gush and soak the sheets underneath us. I keep pushing down on his dick, spraying like a hose until he curses against my lips and comes inside me. Deep inside me. Thrusting hard with every spasm of his rock-hard cock.

My sex god Santa.

Mine.

Anyone would be lucky to have him, even for a few days. Christmas is being kind to me for once, but will my good fortune last?

It feels like for ever, our panting breaths as one as he holds me, his dick still inside me.

“That was amazing,” I tell him.

He drops a kiss on my nose and eases his cock free.

“We need to make a move,” he says. “Don’t want to be late,” and heads off to the ensuite.

I feel so awkward as we shower together. There is no soaping each other up. No languorous kisses. Santa is in a hurry, that much is obvious. It’s also obvious that Santa is stewing over the fact that I didn’t grant his Christmas wish.

Fuck.

“Jam? Marmalade? Butter?” he asks when we hit the kitchen. “I’m still unsure of your breakfast favourites.”

“Just butter, thanks.”

I watch him making my toast, sitting at the breakfast bar and kicking my heel against the leg of the stool.

Can I do what he wants of me? Really? Is it worth the risk of pissing off the Agency, and leaving a black mark on my scorecard, AND missing out on nearly one hundred grand?

It’s one hell of a fucking decision for 7.30 a.m. after a few hours’ sleep.

I’m supposed to be acting like an elf today, not a headcase. So, I should leave it. Think things through when I’m not high on Santa vibes and waiting for the toast to pop from the toaster.

Shame that the word impulsive might as well be my middle name. I hate hanging in no man’s land.

I take my phone from my pocket, and Reuben does a double take when he reaches for the butter – catching sight of it in my hand. He knows what app I’m scrolling through. The look between us says it all.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Upstairs earlier, I got jealous, and possessive, and that isn’t fair on you. It’s your career, and your accomplishments at stake, not mine to impose upon. I need to keep myself in line.”

“Nah, you don’t,” I say, and turn the screen around. I rub some fake snot on my sleeve with a sniffle. “Had to message Orla and break the news to her. Seems I am coming down with flu after all.”