Christmas Came Early 3

Veronica stuck the pen in the inkwell, blotting the last line with the corner of her thumb. She lifted the paper, read it again, once, twice. It was filthy. Her cheeks burned as she shoved the envelope at the blackened hearth and slid it up the flue. A gust of cold air rushed down, made her nipples prick hard under the silk nightdress that still clung damp between her thighs. He isn’t mad. Of course he isn’t. His answer comes with the soot on her knees—broad shoulders hunching under the mantel, pine scent cut with sweat, red coat dragged open, white beard brushing the flushed swell of her tits. Santa’s eyes gleam dark when he reads the list aloud in a low, smoke-cracked voice, each depraved wish thickening in his throat. His gloved hand pins her wrist above her head against the brick; the other parts the warm folds she’d already fingered raw. Two leather fingers slide in, slow as a promise. He chuckles at her gasp, teeth grazing her earlobe, the tip of his tongue tasting the shame there. She hears the belt loosen, hears the heavy buckle clink once against the floorboards, and the pressure shifts from gloved to bare, thick, brutal heat nudging between soaking lips. “Naughty girls get exactly what they wrote down,” he growls, and pushes inside. The Christmas tree lights blink across her half-closed eyes while the rhythm climbs—short strokes, grinding strokes, hips slamming her open wider until every sentence she penned tonight rides the length of him back out of her throat. He won’t stop until the list is done. He never does.