Page 80 of Santa's Baby

I watch her while she’s lost in dreamland, wondering what fantasies are rolling through her mind. Are they happy dreams, or terrifying nightmares?

I hope they aren’t like mine. Recurring sensations of loss that have my heart panging whenever I wake in the morning to realise what’s missing all over again.

Love. Companionship. The commitment of two people believing in a future together.

I resist the temptation to reach over and pull Tiffany close, or to snuggle up to her side and hold her like a treasure. I don’t want to disturb her. I don’t want her to start in shock as she wakes up in an unknown space with someone beside her.

More than anything, I don’t want her to sit up in confusion and back away – Creamgirl’s walls back up on instinct.

Dare I believe that this beauty really does need me as much as I need her? That her soul is ready to embrace mine the way mine is craving to truly let go and embrace hers?

Maybe she senses me staring at her, because the hitch of her snore morphs into a sigh, and she stretches her arms above her head. She does start in shock, but it doesn’t send her spawling to the opposite end of the bed, it sends her moving towards me, patting the covers as though she’s searching.

“I’m here,” I say and take hold of her hand.

“Phew.” She giggles. “Thought you might have gone.”

“Gone? Why?”

“Dunno. Work. Grotto. Downstairs.” She pauses. “Anywhere.”

There’s something in her voice I can’t ascertain. I pull her towards me so her head is on my chest as I wrap her in my arms.

“You’re nice and warm,” she says, and this time as her hands rove there is nothing sexual about it. She doesn’t slide her fingers down to my cock or hitch herself closer against my thigh like a horny minx. She just breathes, and relaxes. “Don’t you need to get up?”

“Soon, yes. I’ve got to get my Santa hat on for the day.”

“Do you ever take a day off?”

“From the grotto or just in general?”

“Either.”

I answer honestly. “No.”

“Nah, me neither. Not unless I can help it. Workaholics, both of us.”

Sexaholicis how the founders have referred to her before, not workaholic. She must have enough cash in her bank account to live a life of Riley – I’ve seen the value of her proposals, plus I’ve used my status to check the property register. She owns her place in Belgravia, and those apartments don’t come cheap.

There are so many questions I want to ask this beauty as I run my fingers up and down her arm.

Why?

Why is she such a workaholic?

Is it really her sex drive that keeps her busy night after night, apart from when she’s recovering?

“Why do you work so much?” she asks me. “Does the business need it? You could be living it up on a yacht somewhere, bathing in the sun.”

I have to laugh, because it’s like she can read my mind without me saying a word.

“Like you said. Workaholic. How about you? Why aren’t you on a yacht somewhere, bathing in the sun?”

“Don’t think I earn quite as much as you, Reuben. I’m pretty minted, but I’m not in millionaire territory. Not yet.”

“You’re surrounded by plenty of clients who are. I’m sure one of them would whisk you away for a trip whenever you wanted one. And you’d get paid for it.”

She strokes my chest.