Mrs. Claus

by Amanda Lanclos

  “I can’t. My legs won’t work,” I whisper honestly, my eyes feasting on the smooth skin all the way down to her toes.

  “You’re such a man,” she says, drawing my attention back up to her face where I catch her rolling her eyes. It’s then that I really get a good look at the woman she has become. The gorgeous, flawless, beautiful woman I let go.

  “Definitely a man,” I confirm, offering her a small smile. Clearing my throat, I do everything I can not to glance back down at her sinful body. “Do you need anything?” I ask, keeping my eyes trained on her face.

  Don’t look down…don’t look down.

  “You mean besides you to leave this room? Which apparently, you’re not doing because I’ve asked you three times and you’ve acted like you didn’t hear me. So if you’re going to stay in here, at least grab the new dress from the closet,” she quips before turning and walking over to the small sink.

  And, that’s when I get a glimpse of her ass. Oh sweet mother of Christmas spirit, she’s wearing a thong. A beautiful little scrap of red lace that disappears between the globes of her amazing ass cheeks.

  “Stop looking at my ass and get me the dress, Satan,” she demands before turning on the water, and washing her hands and arms.

  Being the total guy that I am, I manage to keep my eyes glued to her ass while retrieving the other Mrs. Claus dress from the closet, and it’s a sight I’ll remember until my deathbed. If the front view was totally spank-bank material, the back view is downright deadly. Her ass is perfection.

  With the new dress in hand, I head over to the sink; towards the half-naked woman who I wouldn’t mind seeing completely nude. But I keep my eyes focused on her reflection as I step up behind her. I’m close enough to touch, and my fingers are tingling like a man who was just shocked by faulty Christmas lights.

  When her eyes meet mine in the mirror, her breathing halts and her eyes dilate. My front is so close to her back that my hard-on could reach out and touch her. And damn, does it want to do just that.

  Our gazes remain locked for what feels like an hour. I’m lost in the lustful haze clouding her eyes, staring at the only woman I’ve ever loved. The woman I lost.

  But not anymore.

  Not if I can help it.

  She turns to face me, mouth opening to speak, when I do the only thing I can think of, the one thing I’ve wanted to do for weeks. I kiss her.

  My lips practically rejoice as they connect with hers for the first time in too damn long. Noel is clearly shocked, but it only takes her a moment to catch up. Her lips start to move, following along in the gentle slow dance of the kiss. Oh, this perfectly amazing fucking kiss. She tastes exactly as I remember as her warm, soft lips move in sync with my own.

  And when my tongue slides into her mouth and tangles with her own?

  Fucking heaven.

  I wrap my hands around her waist, savoring the feel of her smooth, velvety skin. She steps closer, or I give her a little tug, I’m not sure, but when our bodies collide, I’m lost. Lost in the feel of her, the taste of her, the smell of her. I’m consumed in the best possible way.

  Noel’s hands slide from my neck up and into my hair. My body responds exactly as it used to every time she did the exact same thing. She tugs gently on the locks fisted in her hands, while our mouths duel for control. My No was always a possessive and feisty little thing, that fact very much still evident in the way she kisses.

  She pulls my hair and I can’t control the groan of pure ecstasy that slips from my mouth. My hands tighten around her waist before slowly traveling southbound to where that little scrap of red covers her sweet pussy. It’s like an electric shock to my system when my fingers slide along the top of those panties. I don’t wait long before they dip inside and come in contact with wet skin.

  “Jesus, No,” I groan, ready to drive my fingers into her wetness.

  But her body tenses, and not in the good way.

  As if a cold bucket of ice water was dumped on us, she pulls back, breaking the connection of our lips. When I open my eyes, it bothers me to find hers so wide with shock. Sure, the lust is still there, but it’s been buried alive by something ugly and hurtful.

  Anger.

  “What are you doing?” she asks breathlessly.

  My brain refuses to work. All I can think about is getting an up close and personal look at the heaven my hand is still touching. You know, the hand that’s still down the front of her red thong?

  “This isn’t going to happen,” she bites, pushing me gently on both shoulders and effectively breaking all contact I have with her body.

  “Why not?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.

  Because I hate you. Because I want to run you over with Santa’s sleigh. Because I’d rather kiss a Tyrannosaurus Rex who hasn’t eaten in days than you. Those are all the answers I expect, the ones I’m prepared for. I’m not prepared for the one she gives, nor the tears that accompany it.

  “Because it hurts too much.” The words are spoken softly, the vulnerability in them noticed. They’re like a reindeer kick to the gut, the head, and the balls…at the same time. It’s the first time I see the slip in armor. She’s been tough, with a lethal tongue, since the moment she stepped into the same courtroom.

  But what I see now isn’t toughness. It isn’t stubbornness.

  It’s fear. It’s hurt. It’s anguish.

  “Can you hand me the dress?” she asks, her eyes trained down on the floor.

  Without saying a word, I bend down and collect the red outfit that was haphazardly disregarded the moment my mouth attacked hers. Noel’s eyes remain locked on the ground as she blindly reaches for the dress. She holds it to her chest as if it’s some sort of shield. That action alone makes me feel like an even bigger pile of reindeer crap.

  When her eyes finally glance up, it’s another punch to the stomach. The tears remain in her once-bright blue eyes. They’re filled with sadness and so many layers of hurt that it steals my very breath.

  Without saying a word, I turn to give her privacy. There are so many things I want to say – no, need to say – but know that this isn’t the time nor place. Everyone out in the auditorium is waiting on us, and even though talking to Noel and apologizing for the damage I had done is a top priority, it’ll have to wait.

  At least for another hour and a half.

  So instead of saying the things I should, I exit the room to give her space. Even though my arms are begging to hold her once more, I know that there’s one thing that needs to be done before she’ll even consider allowing me to do that one more time.

  Apologize.

  And pray she’ll eventually be able to forgive me.

  Fa La La La La

  I’m shaking so badly that I’m not even sure how I get the dress on. My reaction stems from the fact that I’m completely mad at myself right now. I can’t blame Brandon. Even though I’d love to blame him for everything, including the fact that it rained on my birthday last year, but I’m more upset at myself than anyone.

  I should have known better.

  Brandon with his lethal kisses. Brandon with his sexy lips and smooth talking mouth. Brandon with arms and abs and an ass that make my panties wet and my body hum. He’s always had amazing arms. It was always one of my favorite features, and feeling them wrapped around me once more is doing a little damage to my willpower, not to mention my brain itself.

  Shaking my head, I give myself a quick once-over in the mirror. Plain black flats, modest dress with no sparkly tinsel that hits well below the knees, and flushed cheeks that have nothing to do with playing Mrs. Claus, and everything to do with the mister. This is a completely different Mrs. Claus, but that’s okay. I need to keep the lines from blurring and my lips to myself.

  With a decisive nod, I head back to the auditorium, determined to finish this shift. As soon as the clock strikes three, I’m out of here. I’m heading home where I’ll consume a bottle of wine with no food, rendering me completely drunk by five o�
��clock. Then maybe I’ll pass out and sleep. And hopefully, when the dreams come, they won’t be of a certain Santa, and the way he made my panties melt.

  When the clock strikes three, I do exactly as I say I’m going to do. I slip into the office where I’ve been changing, grab my purse and small bag, and slip out into the hallway. Sheila happens to be passing and gives me a look. I’m not exactly proud of the lies I’m about to tell, but I need to create as much space as humanly possible from Brandon, without moving to Timbuktu.

  “Everything all right?” she asks, glancing down at the costume I’m still wearing.

  “Actually, I’m not feeling so well. If it’s okay with you, I want to get home as quickly as possible. I’ll bring the outfit back on Monday.”

  “Of course, of course. Monday’s the big day! Christmas Eve! If you’re still not feeling well by then, give me a call, okay?”

  “Will do,” I say as I practically sprint out the door and towards my car.

  I don’t even notice how the air is getting colder and frost is already forming on my windshield. In true Illinoisan fashion, I crank up the defrost and turn the wipers on high. As soon as there’s the slightest little hole in the frost, I go ahead and back out. No, not the safest way to drive, but I’m in desperate need of a few miles between me and the devil.

  By the time I make it back to my apartment, my windshield is completely clean and the wine is calling me. I’m two minutes away from being able to drink myself stupid, complete with crying fits and man-hating. It’s been a long time since Brandon Frost has brought out this sort of reaction from me, but after that kiss (you know the one where his big hand slipped into my panties), I’m due.

  So bring on the wine.

  And the Brandon hating.

  And the crying.

  Because if I know anything about myself, it’s that I don’t hate him. Not even a little. I’m still in love with him. And even though he hurt me and changed the course of my life, I still feel everything good and wonderful when I’m around him. My anger is a mask. It’s camouflage to keep the real reason at bay.

  Steph is right.

  I don’t really hate him at all.

  He’s everything to me.

  But I’m not to him.

  And that’s what hurts the most.

  The loud pounding on the door pulls my attention from the full glass of wine I just poured and was about to consume. Who in the world could that be? I’ve only been home for five seconds, and there’s no reason for a neighbor to knock so aggressively.

  Setting my glass down, I mute the upbeat Christmas song I turned on as soon as I got home and head over to the door. I gasp when I see the face staring back at me from the peephole.

  “Open up, No. I can hear you breathing.”

  “What are you doing here?” I ask, making no move to unlock the door.

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “There’s nothing to say.”

  Oh, yes there is.

  “Oh, yes there is,” he demands.

  “Fine,” I say, unlocking the deadbolt and twisting the knob. “You have five minutes. I have a date with a bottle of wine,” I add, opening the door. I don’t hang around to greet him properly. Instead, I walk away and return to my glass.

  I already know he has joined me in the kitchen. Not only could I hear his heavy footfall on my cheap linoleum floor, but I could smell him. Not in a weird he smells sweaty way, but in that pheromone producing, I want to jump your bones and ride you like a rodeo bull kind of way.

  “No.” I cringe at the way the old nickname rolls off his tongue like a beckon, but more so, it almost physically hurts the way my body sways in the direction of his voice. “Please turn around. I have something to say.”

  My hand is shaking so badly that I almost slosh the wine all over my hand, so I opt to set my glass down before turning. When I finally come face-to-face with Brandon, I’m surprised to see him still in full Santa garb. The jacket is open, revealing a tight white tee underneath, and the hat is gone, but otherwise, he still looks the part.

  “No,” he starts, those hazel eyes focused completely on me. It’s what I see within them that makes my heart drop to my toes. They’re filled with so much remorse and hurt, nothing like I remember them looking like five years ago. “I owe you an apology.” He glances up and laughs without humor. “No, I take that back. I owe you a hell of a lot more than an apology. I owe you an explanation.”

  I’m unable to speak. My heart is practically breakdancing in my chest, and I’m not sure that I’m actually breathing.

  “Five years ago, I had everything. I was almost finished with school, I was being scouted by several law firms with offers that promised me the world, I had the woman I loved and wanted to spend the rest of my life with.”

  I’m not sure when the tears started to fall, but I noticed when they landed on my shaking hands.

  “That night,” he starts, struggling to find the right words, “that Christmas Eve, I was blindsided. I was scared. No, terrified. When you came to me and told me you might be pregnant, all I saw was everything I was working for – we were working for – slip away. I said things I never should have said, that I didn’t mean. God, I didn’t mean one fucking word of them, but for some reason, I pushed. I forced you away from me when all you wanted was my love and assurance. I knew that my words had hurt you, yet I couldn’t take them back and I didn’t even try. My childhood wasn’t easy, even with my mom working her ass off to support me, and I just kept thinking that our child deserved better.”

  “Better than you?” I whisper, trying to understand his ramblings.

  “Yes. That baby deserved better than me. You deserved better than me.”

  My throat closes tightly, cutting off my air, but I push through to say the words. “There was no baby.”

  His eyes are filled with sadness. “I know.”

  “I started my period on Christmas.” He nods. “I was grieving, and suddenly, I went from not having you to not having you and the baby I thought I was pregnant with. I hurt so bad. You hurt me so bad.”

  “I know.”

  “You walked away. You broke up with me when I needed you the most. You were a coward and were going to leave me alone to raise that baby. You told me you didn’t want to be a dad,” I fire off, heaving those painful words back in his face.

  “I know what I said. Hell, I’ve relived that night so many times it’s unhealthy. But here’s the thing, No,” he says, stepping forward and standing directly in front of me. “If I could take it all back, redo that entire night, I would have wrapped my arms around you and smiled along with you when you shared the news. I stripped you of that joy, but I stole it from myself too.

  “When I got home that night, I picked up my phone a million times. I knew I had made the biggest mistake of my life, and by the next day, when I went to see you to try to make it right, you had left for your parents’.”

  I’m transported back to that night where everything went so very bad. The breakup, him walking out the door, me crying all over Stephanie’s lap until I needed to get out of the apartment. I drove to my parents’ house that night instead of Christmas morning, and stayed for two days.

  “I called Stephanie.”

  “What?” I ask, his words shocking me. Stephanie? She never said a word.

  “Christmas night. I was looking for you, so that I could tell you how big of a dumbass I was, how much I loved you, and how much I wanted to be that baby’s father.”

  The tears are falling hard now, and he blurs before me.

  “She told me. She told me there was no baby and I just felt…lost. Sad. But most of all, I felt angry. Angry at myself for freaking out and walking away from the best thing that ever happened to me when she needed me the most. That’s when I decided that I didn’t deserve you. I didn’t deserve your love if I could so easily throw it back in your face as if you and a possible baby meant nothing.

  “But the truth, No? You. Meant. Everything. Everything.
And you always will. There is no one else, because it’s always been you. I just realized it too late.”

  “What?”

  “I was afraid to turn out like the father I didn’t even know, but by walking away, I did exactly that. I’m sorry, Noel. I’m sorry for the shitty way I treated you when I was a young, stupid kid. I’m sorry for the pain I’ve caused, and the hurt you’ve carried with you. I’m sorry for ever letting you go, for walking away, when all I’ve ever really wanted was you.”

  I don’t recall if he moves or if I do, but I know the moment I’m in his arms. I cry as I absorb everything he’s just confessed. His fear of turning out like the man who fathered him, his reasoning for breaking up with me when I told him I thought I was pregnant. I cry for the lost time and the lost love that we could have shared. And most of all, I cry because I know that I’ve already forgiven him. His confession, his words, was like the balm that my broken heart needed to help mend the shattered pieces.

  So much time was lost when it wasn’t necessary. All of the hurt and anger that built for years just crumbled at my feet. Hearing those words, words of love and adoration.

  “God, how I’ve missed you,” he whispers moments before his lips claim mine in a bruising kiss, filled with passion and longing.

  The kiss is fierce and escalates from zero to ho-ho-ohhhhh in less than a second. My hands are in his hair, gripping and tugging on handfuls of thick locks, my tongue is practically shoved down his throat, and my legs are wrapped around his waist. He steps forward and presses me against the counter. His hands are everywhere, my hair, my face, my ass, while his mouth claims and possesses me.

  Brandon growls and rips his lips from my own. We’re both breathing erratically as he rests his forehead against mine. “I’ve had dirty visions of you in a Mrs. Claus outfit from the first moment I saw you.”

  “Really? So the Santa Claus fantasy is really a thing?”

  “Well, I don’t know about Santa, but the Mrs. Claus one is definitely real. All I can think about right now is bending you over the kitchen table and having my wicked way with you,” he pants, nipping at the corner of my mouth.