by Alina Jacobs
“And a Merry Christmas to me,” I said, rubbing my hands together. “I might need two hands for this.” I reached for his cock. Owen swore as I ran my hands down the length. “Is it weird that I kind of wish you had a bow around it?”
“Yes, that’s very weird,” he said as I put the tip of his cock in my mouth, licking the slit. I slid several inches into my mouth, humming “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” around his thick shaft.
His fingers dug into my hair, and he pulled me back. I released his cock with a pop of my lips. Owen, I was pleased to see, was breathing a little erratically. His cock jutted out like the North Pole.
“I want to fuck you,” he growled.
“Have you been a good boy this year?” I teased.
“Of course,” he said in that sexy deep voice. He kissed my neck. His cock pressed against my thigh, and I whimpered, spreading my legs for him. “And that means I get to open my Christmas present early.”
He tugged me upright. Then he pulled on the ends of the bow sitting at my breasts. It tugged a little then gave. The red ribbon pooled on the bedspread.
“But then you won't have anything for Christmas,” I said. I was on my knees, hands braced on his shoulders.
Owen pressed kisses to my neck and jaw, hand sneaking between my legs to stroke me softly.
“I'll have it again several more times, in fact, before Christmas,” he replied then crushed his mouth to mine.
“You gonna let me ride your sleigh, Santa?”
“Don't call me Santa,” he growled, pushing me back on the bed. I gasped as he lightly bit my neck then my tits. He sucked on a nipple, rolling it in his mouth. He trailed kisses down to my pussy, and I moaned as he licked me, the tip of his tongue darting out to flick my clit.
“Your tits are amazing,” he said, kissing back up, nuzzling one and caressing the other with his hand.
“You're such a tease,” I moaned, reaching between his legs for his cock.
“I told you I'm taking my time. Christmas isn't just one day, it's twelve, remember.”
“If you keep me here for twelve days without making me come,” I warned, “I will make this the worst Christmas you ever had.”
Owen chuckled then flipped me over. I screeched in surprise. Owen grabbed my wrists, pinning them above me so I was half arched with my ass in the air.
“We don't want you to combust,” he said. I could hear the smirk in his voice. He stroked my pussy, and I ground back against his hand. When he ripped a condom packet, I moaned with anticipation.
“Fuck me.”
Owen rolled on the condom then teased my clit with his cock. I moaned again, my head hanging forward and my hips grinding against his cock.
“My pussy is so hot and tight for you,” I whimpered, needing his thick length in me.
“You want my cock?” he whispered in my ear, still rubbing it against my clit.
“Yes,” I choked out.
Owen turned my head to claim my mouth. Then he grabbed my hips and thrust into me. I cried out as his thick cock filled me then moaned as he slid back out. I made little whimpering, panting noises every time he fucked me. He was huge, but I was so needy and wet that I welcomed every long, hard inch of him. Owen reached up to pinch my nipple, teasing it as he fucked me with an easy rhythm.
“Faster,” I begged. He ignored me in favor of trailing his hand down to my pussy to stroke me, rubbing my clit. I ground back against his hand then back against his cock.
“Please,” I begged, “faster. I need to come.”
He grabbed my hips and fucked me for real. My fingers dug into the bedspread as he jackhammered into me, my tits bouncing and brushing the expensive fabric with every thrust. His fingers went back to my clit, rubbing me, bringing me close to the edge. My legs trembled, and my body tightened as I came, Owen drawing out the waves of pleasure. His rhythm got more erratic, then I felt him come inside me.
He collapsed next to me. I patted his thigh.
“I'd say Merry Christmas,” I slurred, “but that was better than any Christmas I've ever had.”
46
Owen
I kissed Holly, basking in the feel of being inside her. She felt decadent, like the chocolate tart she'd made during the first bake-off competition. I kissed her lazily, claiming every inch of her mouth.
“You know,” she whispered against my lips, “if you feed me, I'll probably be up for another ride in the sleigh.” She kissed along my jaw to my neck. “Also,” she continued, running her nails along the ridges of muscles on my chest, “I believe I was promised a wholesome romantic evening.”
“I never intended it to be wholesome,” I said, trailing my fingers along her curves, cupping her soft breasts. Holly was mine now. I was never giving her up.
She swung out of bed. I admired the arc of her ass as she bent down, picked up my shirt, then snapped back up.
“What in the world?” I exclaimed, propping myself up on my arm.
“You never saw Legally Blonde?” she said. “It's a great Christmas movie.”
“I thought that was about a lawyer?” I frowned.
“Yes, but,” she said as she put on the shirt, “it has a Christmas scene in it, which makes it a Christmas movie.”
“Is that really how it works?”
“Absolutely! Anything is a Christmas movie if you try hard enough.”
“You're just going to do that and then not come back to bed?” I called out as she walked out of the room. I stared at the doorway in mild disbelief. Then I jumped out of bed and pulled on pants to run down the stairs after her.
“You said there was Italian food,” she called back to me. “You better have ordered garlic bread and tiramisu. Otherwise I'll just be like the Ghost of Christmas Past, never to grace your bed again.”
I grabbed her.
“If you're that easily bought, I'll have tiramisu brought to you every single day,” I growled, grabbing her and kissing her, my hands roaming over her back and down to her ass.
“I’m starving,” she murmured against my mouth. “I had sex and alcohol. Now my brain wants food. Though if you're really antsy, I can definitely eat and fuck.”
“That sound like a choking hazard,” I said, following her through the condo.
“I don't know, a cupcake piled high with extra frosting? I could totally ride your dick and eat that,” she said cheerfully.
My dick thought that was a very good idea and was actually committing to literally bake a cupcake and frost it just to try that out.
“I think the food might be cold now, though,” I said. “I should have put it in the oven before we…”
“You were distracted,” Holly said, turning around and pressing kisses against my bare chest. “But hey, you’ve been distracting me a lot lately, so fair's fair. So what did you get? Chicken parmesan? Fettuccini alfredo? Orrr,” she said when we stared at the scene in the kitchen. “Husky à la Italiene.”
Instead of the neat paper sack of Italian food, there was a small husky covered in tomato sauce. He was lying on the ground, belly round. He wagged his tale and burped when he saw us.
“What are you doing? You're ruining my evening!” I scolded him.
“Fortunately, he only stole one container,” Holly said, giggling as she set the empty vessel on the counter and picked up the bag holding the rest of the food.
“There were supposed to be five meatballs plus pasta. That dog ate all of them.” I shook my head at Rudolph. “Geez, you need a bath.”
Holly pulled a bucket out from under the sink and set it in the basin. She poured soap in it and ran the hot water. I stuck the puppy in the soapy water, and he howled while I cleaned the tomato sauce from the floor.
“At least he licked most of it up,” Holly said and laughed as she rinsed Rudolph. “Though watching a man clean is very sexy!”
She wrapped Rudolph in a towel, and I reheated the food. The candles had burned down, but Holly seemed pleased as we sat at the table.
“Oh my
God, I didn't even realize you had a Christmas-themed tablecloth!”
“I aim to please.”
“Yes, you do,” she said, scooping a pile of pasta onto her plate. “Dinner. Sex. Alcohol.” She toasted me. “Merry Christmas to us!”
“I really need to stop fucking you on a weekday,” I told Holly the next morning in between kisses. She was about to leave. “I want you all to myself for at least a weekend.”
Actually, for my whole life.
“I'm going Christmas food shopping,” she said. “The holiday baking party is tomorrow. You know, I should buy you a red suit with snowflakes all over it,” she teased.
“Please don't.”
“You know you want it!”
“I really don't. I'd rather have you in a red suit.”
47
Holly
As much as I wanted to play Mr. and Mrs. Claus in Owen's condo, I had to leave early the next morning. It was the day of the Quantum Cyber company holiday party. And The Great Christmas Bake-Off was providing the desserts.
Sometime in the night, the Romance Creative crew had moved all our baking stations down to the main lobby. Now all the contestants were assembled with their baking equipment. Hundreds of Owen’s employees were downstairs to witness the filming.
“Welcome to another episode of The Great Christmas Bake-Off,” Anastasia announced. “What's Christmas without a holiday party? The company holiday party is practically a meme at this point—drunken shenanigans, people making silly faces on the copier, awkward games. But for the Quantum Cyber employees, our bake-off contestants are here to turn up the volume on your holiday party! While the savory food is being catered, our bakers are bringing the desserts. The contestants have to make enough so that each employee can sample their sweets. The employees will vote on their favorites using the company app. The judges will give their feedback for the camera, then we'll announce the winners. Bakers, start your ovens.”
I was a little thrown off by my baking station being laid out differently from usual, but soon I was back in the groove. I'd done catering in my early days of food service. Usually for dessert, we'd made cake and cut it up with scoops of ice cream. But I wanted something to impress. From dealing with the crowd a few days ago for the tree trimming, I knew my dessert ought to include alcohol. It also had to be something I could make to feed almost a thousand people.
The answer? Christmas cookie shots. As much as I loved my special sugar cookie recipe, I needed something to hold up to the Christmas cocktail I was going to pour into each cookie. I decided to make a couple of flavors. Otherwise it would be boring, and I was not boring!
The first cookie shot was a bourbon hot chocolate in a more robust sugar cookie that was crunchier and denser. The second was gingerbread cookie shot glasses holding a dirty gingerbread martini. And for the third option, because things are better in threes, I was going to make a fruity vodka pomegranate-rosemary cocktail in a fruitcake cookie cup, which was a modified oatmeal-cranberry cookie.
I did a quick calculation. That was a lot of cookies and a lot of alcohol. I wanted people to be able to have one of each; I didn't want people to have to choose. It was part of being a good hostess—and I couldn’t forget that I needed to win this competition. When I had looked at my phone after my very pleasant evening with Owen, I’d found a ton of messages from the bank and credit card companies about missed payments.
I could not afford to lose.
“Game face, Holly,” I told myself, striking a power pose. I was wearing another fun outfit. I had on fur-lined ankle boots and a short red coatdress like Christine Baranski in How the Grinch Stole Christmas. I had even put my hair in a shellacked updo like hers and glued a snowflake beauty spot on my cheek.
I was feeling the holiday spirit as I mixed up the sugar cookie dough. To make it dense, I used more flour and eggs. I put that dough in the fridge then started on the gingerbread cookie dough, zipping along on my baking high.
The only problem? My outfit was starting to get in the way. My sleeves had fur cuffs, and I was afraid they were going to shed and contaminate the food. I was in mid strip when Owen walked up with Rudolph.
“I don't know whether I should be worried or turned on,” he said in that deep voice that gave me a flashback of last night.
“I have a bright-red romper on underneath it,” I said, sticking my tongue out at him and handing him the coat to hang up somewhere away from my dough.
“I like your outfit,” Owen said. “Come upstairs and let me take it off of you.”
“I am making three thousand cookies,” I told him. “I don't have time to christen your office.”
“Three thousand? That seems excessive.”
“You have a ton of employees,” I said, measuring out flour.
Owen hovered next to me. “You smell like sugar cookies,” he murmured. “You should skip this contest and come upstairs.”
“I have baking to do!” I said and sent him away.
I took a deep breath and went back to my gingerbread cookies. I had to mix up several batches of the dough. Fortunately, I was used to making large batches of cookies. Hello, failing subscription baking service!
The gingerbread was spicy and slightly sweet with a hint of bitterness from the molasses. I stuffed it into the fridge next to the sugar cookie dough then started on the last set of cookies. I mixed bags of dried cranberries, macadamia nuts, and some oatmeal into the cookie dough, turning it caramel colored. It, too, went into the fridge. Then I strategized. I was going to bake the cookies into cups, line them with chocolate to create a moisture barrier, then fill them with booze.
I had mini muffin tins to form the cookie shot glasses. The oatmeal cookies and the gingerbread cookies I wasn't too worried about; they were hardy. Sugar cookies could be finicky, however. I didn't want them to taste raw. I made balls of dough, careful not to overwork them, and put each one into the mini muffin pan, slid them into the oven, and crossed my fingers.
My gamble paid off. I took them out halfway through the cooking time and smashed them in the cups, creating little bowls. Then I put them back in the oven, and when the timer went off, I had perfect little sugar cookie shot glasses.
Romance Creative had given us three ovens each since we had to bake for a crowd. I was grateful, though it was a lot to juggle. I was quickly running out of counter space.
“Coming through!” Amber shouted, practically running as she carried a huge sheet cake. I grabbed my cookie pans before she could accidentally knock them off the table. I hissed; they were still hot.
“Stop trying to sabotage me,” I snapped at my stepsister.
“I'm not trying to sabotage you,” she retorted. “Stop being so full of yourself. Just because you're sleeping with Owen—and yes, everyone knows—doesn't mean people are out to get you. Get over yourself!”
“I'm not full of myself,” I countered hotly. “This is the third time you've tried to ruin my dessert!”
“I don't care about a winning the Christmas bake-off,” Amber said. “I'm here to snag a billionaire boyfriend.”
“I don’t see how,” I said, taking the cookie cups out of the pans to cool.
“He's going to get tired of you soon enough. Besides, I know his habits. I know what he likes,” Amber insisted.
“No you don't.”
“I've been following him,” she said. “I have a lot more material for my scrapbook. See?” she said, taking out her phone and swiping through several pictures of Owen.
“You are a lunatic.”
“I'm doing what has to be done,” she said, tossing her head with a tinkling of the bells on her costume. “Just like how Meghan Markle went after her prince, I'm going after my winter prince. He and I are going to have a beautiful wedding. I have my dress all picked out. My dad said he was going to pay for my dream wedding to my dream man. And Owen is the man I want.”
“Whatever.”
I stewed as I finished making the next thousand cookie cups. As much as I lov
ed Christmas baking, this holiday party bake-off was becoming a little tedious. Especially since Amber was crisscrossing the room being obnoxious. She was wearing her elf-on-the-shelf outfit, and it jangled with every step she took. Between that and the ticking clock, I was starting to feel slightly frazzled. Maybe I had been too ambitious.
I had the last set of cookies to go—the oatmeal cookies. I babysat them while they baked. As they cooled, I started mixing the cocktails.
First was the syrup. I could have bought ginger syrup, but I wanted a nice kick, so I was making it from scratch. I chopped up several pounds of ginger and set it to simmer in a pot, where it burbled happily.
Then I started with the bourbon hot chocolate. Using two huge soup stock pots, I slowly brought milk up to temperature, whisking in the chocolate powder. Since the cookie was very sweet, I only added a scant amount of sugar. I wanted these to be boozy. What was the point of an alcoholic dessert if you didn't get a buzz? So I took the hot chocolate off the heat to cool before I added the bourbon.
Next was the fruity cocktail. The onlookers, many of them taking an extended lunch break that was turning into an early holiday party break, cheered as I poured bottle after bottle of vodka into a big tub. I glugged in gallons of pomegranate and cranberry juice then smoked sprigs of rosemary, rolling them in my hands to release the oils before throwing them in.
“It's beautiful!” someone called out. More cheering.
Last was the dirty gingerbread martini. I wheeled over a crate of Kahlúa and another of Baileys Irish Cream. That went into the tub first then the vodka. This cocktail was just alcohol, alcohol, and more alcohol with some flavored syrup. I tasted it.
“Man,” I said, the back of my throat burning, “that is strong.”
I checked the clock. I needed to coat my cookies. I set white and dark chocolate to melt on the stove as I mixed the bourbon with the now-room-temperature hot chocolate. The lobby was getting crowded. Dana was telling everyone to start lining up.
