Suddenly, I didn’t mind the bells. Or the party. Or who was watching. Our elbows brushed. I could’ve told myself it was an accident, but nothing about Aaron felt accidental.

  Someone called Aaron away for a work thing, and I wandered over to a table where Marnie was holding court. She’d found the rum punch and was mid-rant about the snack thief.

  She waved me over, eyes wide and unfocused. “David! I caught two people making out in the copy room,” she said in the loudest whisper possible.

  I tried not to sound interested. “Did you get pictures?”

  She stumbled and nearly knocked over a stack of cookies. “No, but I heard slurping! It was definitely adult content.”

  I looked over at the row of closed doors. “Copy room’s seen things, I hear.”

  “Probably haunted,” she said, then giggled and followed it up with, “If you catch Aaron in a closet, call me.”

  Not a chance in hell. Hopefully I was in the closet with him. Wait…

  I raised my glass in salute. “Will do, Marnie.”

  She grinned, pleased, and wandered off in search of more drama.

  The holiday playlist changed songs. “Santa Baby.” Party games started at the next table. Carla was trying to start the White Elephant exchange, shouting rules like a referee for the mildly inebriated.

  The party rolled on. Janet toasted the entire office with a speech that included three unintentional innuendos, and an actual contest for the ugliest sweater. I made the finals, but lost to a manager whose sweater had a battery-powered fire hazard attached.

  I didn’t care. I’d seen Aaron’s face light up when he saw me in the bells. That was win enough.

  Near the end of the evening, Aaron found me beside the dessert table, eyeing a tray of cookies shaped like snowmen, their faces vaguely haunted.

  “You want to get out of here for a minute?” He smiled. “My office is less festive. But quieter.”

  Every fantasy I’d had in the last week replayed at once. I followed him through the party crowd and down the hall.

  His office was glass-walled, overlooking the city lights. Winter pressed against the windows, but inside it was just us.

  He shut the door. The instant click sent a jolt through me.

  There was a pause. Not awkward. Just full.

  Aaron crossed the space and braced his hand on the desk behind me. His body was right up against mine, no hesitating, just confident and close. I could taste the mint on his breath. Could see, up close, the little scar on his cheek.

  “I’ve been thinking about you all week,” he said.

  My brain, that treacherous bastard, decided now was a great time to flash through every possible dumb thing I could say. I went with honesty, which only required one word. “Same.”

  The sweater didn’t stand a chance. He wrenched it up, and the bells gave one last jangle before getting muffled. My shirt went next and then his tie. He dropped it on the floor, eyes never leaving mine.

  He smiled. “You were the best thing there.” He slipped a hand along my neck.

  I let him pull me close. Our mouths met, soft at first, like he was trying to learn me by taste. He was mint and a little like whiskey, and I wanted more. The drag of his hands up my sides were hungry. His tongue pressed deep, making my knees weak.

  The kiss turned wild, seeking, demanding. I grabbed his hips and yanked him closer.

  He trailed his mouth down my neck, biting and licking, not at all gentle. Every touch had purpose. He unbuttoned my jeans and pushed them down, leaving me exposed and throbbing in anticipation. His hand wrapped around my erection, stroking with just the right grip, thumb gliding over the head.

  I groaned, already so turned on it hurt.

  Aaron was hard, cock pressed up against my thigh as he ground on me, wanting more friction. He leaned in and bit my neck, not enough to mark, but enough to get my attention.

  We found the edge of his desk. He pushed my pants down further, then lowered to his knees, mouth opening around my cock, lips hot and wet and way more skilled than any CEO had a right to be. He took his time, swallowing me deeper, then pulling back so he could lick and suck, teasing just enough to make me shake.

  I leaned back, bracing myself, hips jerking forward every time he swallowed me. Just when I felt my balls draw tight to my body, he pulled off my cock.

  “Turn around,” he grunted.

  Gladly. I braced against the desk once more. His tongue worked wet circles around my hole, teasing me until I was shaking. Then he was gone, rounding his desk. He slicked himself with lube from his drawer. Man came prepared.

  Before I knew it, I was perched on top of his desk, his hand sliding up my thigh. When he squeezed, I let out a sound I’d be embarrassed to repeat in mixed company.

  Slowly, he pressed his cock inside my ass. Felt good. Full, but not overwhelming, making my eyes roll back. My ass clenched around him, and Aaron swore under his breath.

  I moaned, my stomach biting into the edge of his desk, not caring who heard my sex sounds. Aaron’s hands held my hips, fingers digging tight, pulling me back onto him.

  He drove into me, relentless and rough and exactly what I wanted. I pressed my forehead to the glossy desktop, letting him control the rhythm. I wanted him harder, deeper, faster. He fucked like a man who’d been wound tight for days and finally got what he wanted.

  Every thrust sent tingles through my cock, my toes curling in my ugly socks. He pounded into me, hands gripping my hips so hard I was sure there’d be marks, but I didn’t care.

  Reaching around, he gripped my dick, stroking in time with his thrusts. It was good. Really good. All I could do was gasp his name and hang on.

  “Yeah. That’s it.” His breath was warm against my shoulder. “Gonna make you come all over my desk.”

  I laughed. “At least once.”

  He picked up the pace, driving in harder, grunting. The whole room shrank down to just his cock slamming into me, his hand pumping my shaft, and the frantic slap of skin on skin.

  I was the first to shatter, my cum shooting over his desk calendar, body shaking so hard my knees nearly gave out. The orgasm hit like a blackout, my vision sparking as I gasped for breath.

  Aaron kept pounding, moving faster, chasing his own climax. He groaned and slammed in deep, filling me with hot, pulsing spurts. He held me there, forehead resting against my spine, breathing fast and rough.

  We stayed like that for a minute. Two guys bent over an executive desk, both trying to figure out how we’d gotten here and if there was any way to top it.

  Aaron pulled out, reaching for the tissue box to clean us up, then I climbed down, legs wobbly. He tugged my pants back in place, then his own, turning me around for another kiss.

  This one was slower. Softer.

  “You look good wrecked.” He tucked a stray hair behind my ear.

  I tried to think of something clever, but my brain was too scrambled. “You should see your desk.”

  He glanced over at it and grinned. “I’d keep you here all night, but I don’t want you to miss the rest of the party.”

  “You can keep me here all you want.” It came out a whisper, but he heard it.

  Aaron kissed my neck, nipped my ear, then straightened his tie with a little “work mode” flourish.

  “Next time, I want you in just the sweater.” He said this dead serious, but I could see the smile twitching behind his lips.

  There was going to be a next time. “Careful. It sheds.”

  “I’ll risk it.”

  We cleaned up the rest of the evidence and went back down to the party, blending in with the crowd. Marnie caught me near the cheese platter and giggled, cheeks red. “Saw two people making out in an office down the hall. Scandalous! Hope the CEO doesn’t find out.”

  The CEO had been scandalous in his own office. My body still ached from it.

  Aaron stood right behind me, one hand pressed low on my back, subtle but there. I tried not to look smug.

  We married almost a year later. I still had that awful kitten sweater. He still had his. Once a year, we yanked them on, and he screwed my brains out against his desk.

  THE END

  A Candy Cane for Santa

  I nearly choked on my coffee. “You want me to what now?” My brother had clearly lost his last functioning brain cell. I collapsed onto the couch, mentally cursing caller ID and my inability to use it.

  “What am I supposed to do? They switched my shift. I can’t clone myself,” Bryce replied with the infuriating calm of someone who thought they were being reasonable.

  “Sweetie, no. Just no.” I rolled my eyes so hard I practically saw my own brain. “In case you haven't noticed, I’m five-foot-nothing and about as plump as a chopstick. What am I supposed to stuff in there, my queen-sized comforter?”

  “It's just the last week,” he added, like that made it better.

  I stomped to his bedroom where that monstrosity of red velvet lay sprawled across his bed.

  “And I am absolutely not putting my body into this petri dish of man-sweat and God-knows-what-else. That thing probably has more DNA samples than a crime lab.”

  I pinched the fabric between two fingers like it was roadkill. No amount of dry cleaning could convince me otherwise.

  Bryce’s voice dropped to that guilt-inducing octave. He was desperate. Not manipulative. Made resistance futile. “We need the extra money. Every penny counts.”

  He was right, but why couldn’t his side hustle be something dignified, like a yoga instructor? I would rock those tight. Or a barista? I would be the queen of foam art while scoring free lattes instead of hemorrhaging my paycheck at Starbucks.

  My gaze slid to the suit just lying there mocking me. Just looking at it made me want to bathe in industrial-strength sanitizer.

  “You seriously can’t find anyone else? Like, literally nobody?” I’d personally track down his kindergarten nemesis if it kept my body out of that suit. If Benny and Cameron knew about this, they’d be horrified. My best friends would demand an immediate psychiatric evaluation.

  “If I knew anyone else”—Bryce’s voice competed with what sounded like a chainsaw massacre in the background—“I would've asked them. I gotta go. We need that last paycheck, Alex. Noon. Sharp.”

  “You can’t possibly—”

  Click.

  “Fabulous. Just fabulous.” I tossed my phone onto the bed. “Santa better hook a bitch up for this.” A groan slipped out. I was Santa.

  * * * *

  Thirty-five minutes of cruising the mall parking lot, like I was casing the sea of cars for loot, only to find a space three light years from the door.

  Which, to be fair, was probably the only exercise I’d get for the rest of December. If Santa Claus ever suffered a fatal heart attack in front of a Cinnabon, you’d know who to blame.

  No one had prepared me for the unique flavor of humiliation that comes with waddling your polyester-clad ass across an icy parking lot with slush seeping into both shoes. The sky had that classic mall-gray haze, solid and featureless, the kind that promised more snow just as soon as you stopped pretending it was fall.

  Getting the suit from the passenger seat required a wrestling match that stripped what remained of my dignity, plus a full minute of swearing at my own car door for trying to eat the beard. The thing smelled like a thrift store after a rainstorm and could probably be used as a murder weapon in at least three states. Dragging it on over my jeans and thermal wore me out.

  I’d given up on the pillow-in-the-front idea, but Bryce insisted. “It needs to look authentic, Alex,” he’d said. Authentic for what, a geriatric Santa with a midlife crisis and gluten intolerance? I found an old belt in his backseat and went to work strapping the pillow onto my body. Every time I cinched it, the damn thing slipped sideways, so Santa’s belly swing-danced with every step.

  The beard was another adventure. There was no way I’d let this abomination touch my lips, or really any part of my face, so I speed-solved with half a roll of cloth tape, both under the beard and anywhere the elastic threatened to irritate my skin. The hat was as oversized as the pants, which puddled at my ankles. All of this made me delightfully aerodynamic in the thirty-degree wind.

  I did what any self-respecting gay man would do. I put on sunglasses and tried to act invisible. Then I realized, sunglasses plus Santa suit equals “Florida Man robs mall,” so I ditched the shades and prepared to meet my fate.

  The mall looked just as bleak as I felt. Fake garlands drooped from the rafters. Bing Crosby crooned from the speakers like he, too, had been forced into this hell for minimum wage and was singing his way out. A couple of bored-looking moms glared into their iPhones as their kids nose-dived into the decorative snow. At least someone was enjoying themself.

  I didn’t make a beeline for Santa HQ. I used every trash can, mall directory, and fake plant on my route as tactical cover, ducking behind one of those enormous planters every twenty feet. If I’d had a trench coat and fedora, I could’ve starred in a holiday noir titled Santa, P.I.

  Somewhere around JCPenney, I realized the pillow had migrated to my hip, so now it looked like Santa was pregnant. Fixing it required three tries and a minor public spectacle in front of an elderly couple coming out of Wetzel’s Pretzels. I saluted them with the empty beard package. They didn’t salute back.

  And then? The kid sighting.

  At the central atrium, a swarm—a literal swarm—of children had already gathered with their parental units. Some were hopping in place. Others were sobbing into their sleeves. A few were just staring at me like I was a fragment of their most disturbing hallucination.

  Wonderful. Apparently, I was going to spend my Saturday traumatizing kids.

  I tried to breathe. It was unclear why, since the beard now acted as a sort of biological air filter. The beard kept riding up, sticking to my taped chin. I suppressed a gag when I inhaled a few of the hairs into my mouth.

  Just don’t think about it. What’s the worst thing that can happen from inhaling synthetic hair? I refused to let my imagination answer.

  Santa’s throne loomed in the center of the chaos, upholstered in bright red plastic with suspicious stains on the armrests. The helper elf was already there, towering at least ten inches above me. There was a name tag. “Pineflame,” it said in Comic Sans.

  At least they were trying to make the experience as authentic as possible.

  Pineflame glared at me, arms crossed. He might’ve come off more intimidating if he hadn’t been dressed like an elf. “Where’s Bryce?”

  I didn’t appreciate the snatchy tone. I’d eaten beard hairs and parts of my body I didn’t want to think about itched like I needed a flea dip. None of them wanted to be there.

  “Family emergency,” I deadpanned. “I’m a sub.” My brows shot up. “I mean the sub.” Jesus.

  Pineflame’s left eyebrow arched so high I worried it might separate from his face altogether.

  The pillow now creaked under my belt, determined to migrate south toward my knees. I tried to adjust it discreetly, but the elastic snagged my thermal shirt, and I nearly punched myself in the gut.

  “It’s almost noon.” Pineflame checked his phone, then glanced down at me like I was the most inauthentic Santa to grace the plastic chair. “The children are ready.”

  I peeked at the line, which had grown exponentially. Most of the kids were at least my size, if not larger. One boy in a puffer jacket looked like he could dislocate several bones if he sat on my knee. Another was busy squishing his whole face into the glass barrier between himself and a display of Christmas ornaments. I was so underqualified for this.

  Through the crowd, I spotted my worst nightmare. Benny and Cameron, my best friends, window shopping. My heart nearly quit. If they saw me like this... I tried to shrink back, to hide, but I was literally the guest of honor with a front row seat.

  Then, to my horror, Pineflame marched me over to the chair. The “throne” was clearly designed for regular-sized men, like Bryce, and mall elves who clearly stood taller than Santa.

  My feet barely touched the floor, even with the pillow. I tried not to look like a toddler on their first day at preschool.

  The smaller kids were probably having the worst cognitive dissonance of their short little lives.

  Pineflame waved the first mom and kid over. The mom gave me an expression somewhere between confusion and questioning if she’d eaten one too many pot brownies. She handed me her toddler like it was a sack of groceries, then took a photo so fast I worried the flash might blind us both. The toddler immediately tried to wriggle free.

  I held the child as far from my body as possible, both to prevent beard contamination and I had no clue what to do with him. And why were his hands so sticky when he lifted them and uncurled his fingers? I was waiting for him to start shooting webs.

  “Say hi to Santa!” the mom said in a hopeful tone. A thick line of drool slid from his mouth, followed by a lip quiver, then it let out a sound that would terrify any local wildlife. My eardrums should’ve shattered from that sonic boom.

  The mom pulled him from my hands, scowling at me like I’d been the one to push his detonation button.

  “We’re off to a great start,” I muttered, staring at the puddle of drool on my leg the boy had left behind as a parting gift. I had no idea what to do with it. Did I give it to the next kid or the petri-dish suit?

  I had no frame of reference for sticky, drooling babies with lungs that could level a building.

  “Try to be festive,” Pineflame said between pressed lips, adjusting the photo backdrop, which consisted mostly of printouts of snowflakes and something that might have once been a reindeer if you squinted hard enough.

  “Bring me a mojito and some sugar cookies and I’ll be so festive you’ll have to peel me off the Christmas tree,” I hissed back. I was doing the best I could under circumstances I never signed up for. I really was trying. But for some reason, the moment I showed up to the disaster, this oversized elf took one look at me and decided I wasn’t worth common decency.