Maybe she was trying to keep her job. I can’t fault the woman for that. I’m not exactly ready to give up my Santa gig either. It’s been a weird job to come back to after NYC, but it pays well for the region. Plus, I do enjoy it.
Can I take you out on a date? I type fast before I think too much about it and chicken out. I reassure myself with the knowledge that my buddy Frank would approve.
Bethany replies with a massive block of heart-eye emojis.
Warmth floods my chest and I’m wearing that happy puppy dog look again.
Can I take that as a yes? After the turbulence of the last twenty-four hours, I’ve got to make sure.
I’d love nothing more, she texts. When and where?
Is tomorrow evening too soon? I don’t work tomorrow, but she might.
Not even a little. :)
I can’t believe how well this is going. My mind races over the nice restaurants I know the area offers.
How about the Interlake Inn at sixty-thirty? It’s a century-old Victorian mansion turned into a restaurant and hotel, set between Mirror and Placid Lakes. It’s fancy, but with a pub to escape to should we crave something more informal.
Seriously? I love that place!!!
Score. I reply, Then it’s meant to be. ;)
I want to add “just like us,” but I don’t dare press my luck.
But then Bethany’s next text comes through and my heart all but explodes.
Just like us, I read.
Mother Mary at the manger, this woman is meant to be mine. She’s got to be.
I’ve got to make her mine.
Another text comes through. I love staying at the Inn too. ;)
My stomach flip-flops. Is Bethany propositioning me, saying we should rent a room for after dinner tomorrow night? Because I am here for it.
Noted. ;) I reply. You know, just to keep the mystery alive. Or something.
I love talking to you, she texts.
I feel the same, I quickly type back, nodding my head fervently even though she obviously can’t see.
There’s a pause. I wonder if I should try to keep the conversation alive or let us simmer in the pleasant anticipation of tomorrow.
Bethany decides for me.
Do you know what I’m thinking about right now? she says.
Something about her words makes me swallow hard and my cock turn harder. Tell me.
I’m thinking about how good it will feel when you touch me for the first time. My heart feels so safe with you . . . I bet my body will too.
My cock is all ears now. Or eyes? Hell, this metaphor is as wrong as Bethany’s words are right.
I’m counting down the minutes until I can touch and taste you for the first time. I want to make you feel good in every way, Bethany Nave.
Like . . . here? Her text comes with a photo of her tender neck, a mischievous eye just visible at the top of the frame.
My fingers fly over the digital keyboard. I’d lay little kisses down your throat.
And . . . here? Now there’s a photo of a single ivory breast with a dark nipple standing as proud as my dick is.
Your breasts deserve all the attention I have to give. Which is a lot. A small groan escapes my lips at the thought of taking her nipple in my mouth.
How about here? The message is accompanied by a shot of the smooth expanse of her belly.
My hands are made for holding you there. Even to me, my words feel weighty with promise, a vow.
And . . .
I hold my breath after this standalone text, having a good idea of what’s to follow. My length pulses angrily against the confines of my pants, begging me to free it.
. . . here? ;) she writes at last.
And there it is. A shot from between her thighs, camera lens pointed straight into the golden thatch of her mound. The soft curls are slick with wetness. She’s as aroused as I am.
At the peak of the mound, I can just see her pink bud emerging, begging to be swirled and suckled and kissed and loved until Bethany’s body is engulfed by ecstasy.
Especially there. There most of all. I can’t wait to dive between those exquisite thighs and make love to you with my mouth. And then, when you can’t stand it a second longer, I’m going to fuck you so tender and sweet, so rough and intense. Because I want you any and every way, Bethany, as long as you’re mine.
Show me how much you want me. Her reply is a demand.
I don’t hesitate to obey.
A second later, my cock is in my hand, freed from its prison, throbbing with fire. I stroke it once, twice, feeling how ready I am — how ready she’s made me.
To hell with it, I decide.
I turn my phone’s camera to the video setting and start recording. Under the lens’s watchful eye, I jack myself off to the thought of everything I’m going to do to Bethany.
I don’t last long.
My groans loud in the living room, I come harder than I have in recent memory. Milky ropes of seed spill out of me, all over my pants.
I don’t care.
All I care about is Bethany.
Finishing the recording, I upload the video into the messenger app and hit send.
There’s a pause. She must be watching the video. God, the mere idea of it makes my spent cock stir with fresh arousal.
That was so hot, she writes at last.
It’s happy puppy face time again, even covered in my own cum. I could get used to this.
Then another text comes through.
My whole world falls to pieces.
You’ve got me fingering myself, Sexton, Bethany writes. I can’t wait until we do this in person.
I read the name again.
Sexton.
Sexton fucking Kail.
I know him. Hell, everybody at the theme park knows him. He’s the model-esque man who works with the reindeer.
I have no idea what he’s at Santa’s Workshop. He’s got the face for a career on the fashion runway, and the self-absorption to go with it.
I bet he’d do better in the city than I ever did.
And Bethany thinks she’s been texting him this whole time, not me.
The puzzle pieces of the day finally fall together. Of course she had no idea what I was talking about this morning. In her mind, our only meaningful contact outside the photo shop was when I told her about the staff directory.
Which, I realize with a not at all sexy groan, penis shriveling up faster than fingers and toes turn pruny in water, is how she got my number.
My last name is King.
Sexton’s is Kail.
I’m listed right beneath him in the directory.
Bethany, in her hurry, must have thought she was putting his number in her phone.
She really got me.
The drop-out.
The failure.
The loser currently masquerading as Santa.
I punch a couch pillow. I should have known. This was all too perfect to be real. Didn’t my disappointment in New York City teach me anything?
I feel like an idiot.
My phone buzzes.
I open it to see another text from Bethany.
Sexton? I read. Is everything okay?
Limbs feeling like lead and vision suddenly swimming, I lock my phone and set it on the coffee table.
Because no, nothing is okay.
Then, hoisting my ruined pants so I’m decent, I make my way from the couch to my bedroom, every movement painful, too much.
I didn’t know I could get this hurt by a girl for whom I’ve had feelings for such a short while.
But Bethany is special.
And she wants someone else.
Someone who is not me.
I fall onto my bed like a Santa sack heavy with undelivered toys, not caring that I’m making a mess. Staring without seeing at the blank ceiling, I lay for long hours until, mercifully, sleep carries me away.