Page 87 of Santa's Baby
I’ve got a couple of missed calls from Josh as per. Another message saying we need to meet up soon, which I give a thumbs up to. Then I’m on to social media. Aimless scrolling.
“Tiffany,” Reuben says. “What’s going on with you? Why does the switch flick from hot to cold so suddenly?”
I call on Creamgirl’s swagger.
“I was trying to set the switch to hot actually, but you were more interested in the fridge. No prob. My pussy can dry up while I’m waiting.”
“I wasn’t proposing a three-course extravaganza from the Firenzo menu, I was thinking pasta.”
“Pasta’s cool, thanks. Yummy.”
I know I sound like a petulant kid, but it’s easy with Reuben in Santa mode. He’s the ultimatedaddyfigure like this. So kind and generous and fucking lovely. But I don’t want a daddy formyself.I want a daddy for –
My scrolling finger catches me off guard.
I’ve been barely paying attention to my social media feed until a post shows up that both Josh and Ella are tagged in. Caroline always likes to tag everyone in the world, the attention seeking cow. She’s tagged them, along with the rest of Josh’s family.
Her baby bump is on proud display and she’s holding up a blurry scan image.
Can’t wait for our little bean to meet her family! You’re going to love her, guyssssss!
Her post has a massive chain of hearts and happy emojis in the comments. It sucker punches me right in the guts.
I don’t want to see Caroline’s baby. I don’t want to hear about how happy she is, and how blessed she is with such a sweet little soul soon to be calling herMummy.
The memories of the day around kids rise up along with the bile. Smiling happy families. Laughter. Singing. Innocent little cuties with parents who love them to bits. And then me.
A hooker in elf tights, praying that my boss is in love with me.
In love with me enough to have a fucking kid with me. How fucking ridiculous.
I’m glad I’m on a breakfast stool, or my dizziness might send me tumbling.
“Tiffany!” Reuben barks, and I realise I’ve been blanking him. “I’m suggesting pasta for dinner, not committing a criminal offence. Show some respect will you, please?”
His tone is another punch that throws me, and I have to retreat. I need to be Creamgirl, back in my safe zone. I want my mind blanked out with the fun of sex and nothing else.
“My pussy could do with a bit of respect first, don’t you think? I’m a horny bitch, if you hadn’t noticed already.”
My cackle laugh is forced, and I feel like a dumb bitch. I drop my phone to the side and rest my chin on my hands.
“Come on, Reuben. Show me what Santa’s got, and then I’ll help you cook pasta. Fair deal?”
He doesn’t answer, just stares. Trying to read me.
I don’t like it.
“Fair deal, yeah?” I push, and he tips his head to the side. I feel uneasy at how well his stare is digging. Probing.
“You’re trying to provoke me,” he says finally, and turns back to the fridge. “Remember, patience is a virtue, and I have the patience of a saint. You can eat your dinner first, and you can apologise later when you’re taking my cock on the back of it.”
He gets out some tomatoes, and takes some spice jars from the rack. He’s really going to blank my pussy. He’s going to keep me hanging, as though he needs dinner more than he needs to get his dick wet.
But I don’t want him to be patient, or sensible, or kind. Not when my insides are churning and eating me up. Because if I’m this needy and desperate for him… this invested, and twisted up with stupid dreams that might never come to anything… where the fuck will I be if it all goes wrong?
Hurt.
That’s where I’ll be.