by Olivia Noble
Mr. Claus begins kissing me and removing my clothing. It seems silly to call him that in my head after he’s shared such intimate details about his life with me. But when he begins to touch me, I remember that I am still fairly drunk on good Christmas wine, and all the warmth floods back to my body.
I am also fairly drunk on him. On his body, and his scent, and his sexy sadness. I don’t think I’ve seen a man show so much emotion in… ever. Maybe witnessing the fact that he was able to care so deeply for his wife makes me wonder if there are any scraps of that affection left for me.
I mean, that woman’s leftovers are probably more delicious than any meal I’ve ever eaten.
As my dress falls to the floor, Mr. Claus realizes that I am still wearing my boots—or rather, one boot, and he moves to unzip that and slide it off my foot. I love watching him undress me. He is so careful and elegant in the way he moves. It’s kind of a reverse Cinderella moment.
But when he goes to remove my sock, I freak out.
“Wait!” I call out, halting him. “Leave my socks on! My sock, rather. Singular.” The other foot is still heavily wrapped up in bandages.
“Are you sure?” he asks.
“Yes, please.”
“Why?” he asks.
“Well, you know I injured that one ankle… but the other one is kind of bruised up too, and I just don’t want you to see how awful my feet look,” I say with embarrassment.
“Whatever you want, Mrs. Claus,” he says, as he begins to rain kisses along my calf and thigh. “You have amazing legs. Holy crap. You must work out a lot.”
“I do,” I say, moaning as his kisses move to my sensitive inner thighs.
One look at my feet will tell my whole life story. One look at my feet, and most men go running in the other direction.
Have you ever seen the feet of a prima ballerina? Google it. I dare you. There, that’s what my feet look like. Calloused as hell, warped and covered in weird nubs and bruises. Broken, smashed toenails, bleeding under the nails, black and blue. Horrible bunions that you wouldn’t believe could be possible on feet. My toes are usually covered in bandages where the skin cracks and bleeds, but not for the moment, because I haven’t danced in a few weeks. So I guess they are slightly less awful than usual, which is still pretty awful.
I’m usually proud of my feet. But when it comes to the bedroom, I realize that they aren’t the most delicate and feminine aspect of my body. Keeping my socks on is a way to hide my insecurity.
When Mr. Claus removes my underwear, and positions me on the bed so that he can begin to pleasure me with his tongue, I gasp and moan.
“I should probably warn you,” I tell him between moans, “that I’m… really bad at this.”
“What?” he asks, with his face still buried in me. “Bad at what exactly?”
“Sex,” I say awkwardly. “I just don’t want to get your expectations up. I’ve only had negative reviews.”
He lifts his head from between my thighs for a moment, looking at me incredulously. “I don’t know who’s writing those reviews, but I highly doubt you’re bad at anything. Besides, you can’t be bad at this—it’s my job to make you feel good.”
“What do you—” My words are cut off when he returns to his task. “Ohhh…”
Mr. Claus only pauses briefly to grab a pillow off the hotel bed, and lifts my hips to slide it under my bottom, for better access. Then he plunges his hot tongue into my center, and works on my clit until I am dripping and moaning. His fingers pulse in and out of me, and my head rolls from side to side.
I am so surprised by the sensation creeping up on me that I do not even realize I am close before the orgasm is ripping through me. I stare at the ceiling in shock, blinking. What just happened? How did that happen?
Before I can even process the fact that he made me come so easily, he is grasping my hips and flipping me over, so that I am belly down, with the pillow under my hips and my butt is slightly lifted up in the air. Then he goes back to work down there, kissing and licking and sucking. It feels somehow completely different from this angle, and I find myself writhing and moaning, and grinding my body back against his face.
When his fingers begin sliding into my pussy at a quickened pace, I find my muscles clenching around him, as a small cry leaves my throat, and I climax again. I am feeling limp and spent, and breathing heavily, and unsure of how this is happening. I don’t think I’ve ever had someone pay this much attention to my body instead of just caring about his own pleasure first and foremost. It almost brings tears to my eyes.
Rolling over, I reach for his belt, and begin removing his clothing. “I want you,” I tell him, hungrily, groping his erection to make sure that he feels the same.
He groans at the sensation of me squeezing him.
“Do you have something?” he asks.
I nod. “In my purse.” I reach for it and retrieve the condom, and hand it to him. He has slipped off the remainder of his clothing, and he begins to slide the condom over his cock. I can barely wait for him to finish before wrapping my legs around him and pulling him down to me.
He laughs softly at my eagerness. “Your legs are so strong,” he says, nuzzling my neck and raining kisses over my chest. “Your whole body is so strong. Are you some kind of athlete, Mrs. Claus?”
“Maybe you’ll find out,” I tell him in a teasing way, as I lift my hips to press the tip of him against me.
He groans and begins to slide into my wetness. His cock is thick, and it doesn’t enter easily, so he has to rock back and forth to open me up and let me adjust to his size. The sensation of him entering me sends shivers of pleasure throughout my body. I gasp at his size as he fills me up, inch by inch, and rock my hips upward to take more of him, greedily.
“Shhh,” he says, putting a finger against my lips. “Patience, Clara.”
“I’m not a patient person,” I tell him.
He chuckles softly. “I can understand that.” He complies by moving with more vigor, in smooth, long strokes, that make my eyes roll back into my head.
“Holy shit,” I groan, tightening my legs around his body to pull him deeper.
This makes him groan. He leans forward, pressing his forehead against mine. “Damn, Clara,” he says hoarsely.
I wrap my arms around my neck to encourage him. “More,” I whisper.
He nods, and gives me what I’m seeking. He drives his cock into me, harder and deeper, again and again until I feel a thin film of sweat coat my body, and know that I am moaning wildly. He continues until I am pretty sure I have lost all my senses, and there are starburst of light in my vision. He fucks me until I am clutching his shoulders for dear life and nearly screaming with pleasure. I do not even realize that the fireworks of light in my vision are coinciding with my third orgasm in under half an hour.
Is this real life?
I didn’t know I was even capable of having so many orgasms. I always thought that there was something wrong with me, but it turns out that I’ve just never had a skillful partner.
“See?” Mr. Claus says, as he lies on top of me, also spent. I was so overwhelmed by my own pleasure that I did not even notice when he finished. “You’re pretty good at this.”
“Good at what?” I ask, panting breathlessly. “I didn’t even do anything.”
He chuckles softly. “Oh, you did more than you know.”
“You’re the one with all the skills,” I tell him, nuzzling his neck happily. “I’ve never had so many orgasms in my life.”
“What?” he responds in surprise. “That’s crazy. I’m drunk and jetlagged and operating at half-capacity here. I’m just getting started.”
“I don’t think I could survive you at full capacity,” I tell him sleepily. “I think I would just orgasm my brains out, into a pile of mushy grey matter, like a sad, melted snowman.”
He laughs softly at this, and kisses my head. “You’re silly.”
Then he wraps me up in his arms, and we fall asleep together.<
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It was a perfect night. Totally perfect.
Which is obviously why I had to run the hell away, before I could ruin things, somehow. My whole body feels like it is glowing, and I felt like I’ve been walking on air since leaving the hotel room. When I arrive at my parents’ house in the hours of the early morning, I am able to sneak in without anyone noticing that I was gone. I take a long hot shower, humming happily to myself the whole time, and change into my Christmas pajamas before heading downstairs with my crutches.
There is no way I could get any sleep after the amazing night I had. I am feeling insanely energized and hyper. But when I go downstairs, I am startled by the sound of a throat being cleared.
“Dad?” I say, turning with surprise.
“Young lady, do you realize that it is 8 AM on Christmas morning?” my father asks. “Where have you been all night?”
Oh, crap. “Just… busy,” I say awkwardly. “I drank a little too much and crashed with a friend in town.”
“What friend?” my dad asks.
“Uhhh—you know Laura?” I ask.
“Mike’s wife?” my dad asks with disappointment. “Darn. And here I was hoping that you’d find yourself a nice boy and have some fun for once in your life.”
“Dad!” I say in surprise. “I have fun. I have lots… of fun.”
“Clara, don’t lie to an old man. I’ve known you since you were born, and you’ve been dancing before you could walk. The only reason we signed you up for ballet classes when you were five was so you wouldn’t smash every lamp in the whole damn house, practicing your spins and whatever.”
“Pirouettes,” I explain.
“Yeah, whatever,” he says, waving his hand. “But the point is, honey, you have been working your ass off toward being a ballerina since you were in diapers, and you barely had a childhood. You’ve worked harder than all my other children, even Jack. The stress you put your body under for so many years has taken a toll on you. And now, if your career’s over, you’re going to have to find a way to start living your life. You’re going to have to actually be a real person, and experience real emotions, outside of the dance floor.”
“I know, Dad,” I tell him softly. “But I’m no good at any of that stuff.”
“You’ll learn, Clara. But you have to promise me that you won’t run away from life, and run away from love. Even if you can heal up and get back to dancing—you can’t keep hiding behind that tutu. Okay?”
I sigh. My father is full of surprises. Even if everyone thinks he’s losing his mind, he’s still the wisest man I know. “I promise, Dad. I’ll try to stop running away.”
“Good,” he responds. “Now head on over to the kitchen, your sisters are already awake and cooking Christmas treats.”
Chapter Eight
Adam and Eve are in the kitchen, making the cutest little cake pops together. Yesterday, it would have made me jealous to see them all lovey dovey and adorable like that, but today, I’m able to smile and introduce myself to Adam without crying about the fact that he stole my sister and ruined my cat café dreams.
Mary and Sven are also in the kitchen, making egg nog protein shakes. Sven swears that getting proper protein intake will help my ankle heal, so I obediently eat and drink everything that everyone hands me to eat and drink, with no complaints.
“Clara seems to be in a strangely good mood today,” Eve says suspiciously.
I just smile and shrug. “It’s Christmas Day. I guess I’m feeling the holiday spirit.”
“It’s definitely a good Christmas,” Adam says, smiling at my sister like he’s obsessed with her.
Okay. Maybe I’m a teensy, eensy, weensy bit jealous.
I had one great night with a stranger. But these two couples get to have endless amazing nights together… and all the emotional, domestic, trusting stuff that comes with a real relationship. I wonder if I’ll ever be ready for that.
“Oh!” Sven exclaims, checking his phone. “He’s here! Let’s go meet him.”
“Finally,” Mary says, clapping her hands in excitement. “Clara, you have to come with me,” she says, grabbing my arm and leading me out of the kitchen.
“Okay, fine,” I grumble, limping on my crutches—but I manage to grab one of Adam’s cake pops first. They are significantly better than Eve’s, but I’ll never tell her that.
As we move out into the family room, I munch on the cake pop intently, focused on the adorable decorations and the sublime taste.
“Cousin! You made it,” Sven is saying happily.
“What’s going on, Sven? You said you needed me to hop on a plane to Minnesota, no questions asked, so I came as soon as I could.” The voice sounds vaguely familiar, but I am enjoying my cake pop so much that I do not notice. “Is it your knee? Did you push yourself too hard at the gym and get injured again? Because I warned you to take it easy.”
“No, no, I’m fine,” Sven says. “Weren’t you supposed to arrive last night? I thought your flight got in yesterday. I was waiting to hear from you.”
“I was feeling kind of jetlagged, so I decided to crash at a hotel before coming to see you.”
Wait.
Jetlagged. Hotel. Visiting family. I stop chewing my cake pop, and look up at our visitor with wide eyes. Oh my god. It’s my handsome stranger. It’s Mr. Claus. In my house.
Dammit! That’s where I knew his accent from. He has the same accent as Sven. He’s Swedish.
“That’s fine, Cousin,” Sven says, clapping the man on the back affectionately. “I just wanted you to come help out with another family emergency. It’s Clara’s ankle.”
The man’s face displays recognition. “What?” he asks with surprise, looking around the room. When his eyes connect with mine, he freezes.
“This is a very special ankle,” Sven is explaining to his cousin, as he gestures to me. “Clara is a prima ballerina with a company in New York, and she dances in performances all over the world.”
“I was,” I correct, “and I did. Until this happened.”
“I see,” my stranger says, with the ghost of a smile on his features. “That looks like a bad injury. Not your average Christmas shopping accident, if specialists are being flown in from Europe to help.”
Damn.
“Clara, this is the orthopedic surgeon I was telling you about,” Sven is saying. “I want you to meet Dr. Klaus Andersson. Trust me, he can work magic with your bones and ligaments. He is a genius.”
I have been standing here with a half-eaten cake pop in my hand, and my eyes wide as I stare at Klaus. Dr. Andersson. Are we on a first name basis? What do I call him? Also, why would he use the fake moniker of Mr. Claus when it’s so close to his actual name?
I am vastly annoyed.
Mary nudges me forward. “Introduce yourself,” she whispers eagerly.
I stumble forward, still staring awkwardly at Klaus. “Uh, hi, Dr. Andersson. I’m Clara Frost.” I shove the cake pop into the pocket of my Christmas pajamas, so that I can shake his hand.
He takes my hand gently, and shakes it with a look of amusement on his face. I swear that there is electricity in his touch. “You can call me Klaus. The pleasure is mine. Have you had any surgeries on the ankle, yet?”
“No, because all the doctors said it wouldn’t help anyway. And my life has kind of been ruined by this injury… so… yeah.”
“You should show him your x-ray and MRI, sweetie,” my mother encourages me. I didn’t even notice her walk into the room. “See if the nice doctor can help.”
“Ugh,” I say, shifting around uncomfortably, like I’ve been asked to send nudes. “I don’t want him to see all that. It’s personal.”
Klaus laughs. “Don’t worry, I’ve seen a lot more than your x-ray images, Clara.”
My face blushes red and hot. Oh my god. Is he announcing to my whole family that he’s seen me naked?
“I mean, I’ve seen worse,” he clarifies when he sees my facial expression. “I’ve seen hips and knees and all sorts of
joints that have been way more smashed up than your ankle. I promise.”
“Oh, okay,” I say awkwardly. “That makes me feel better. I think.” But it still feels weird to be showing him my x-rays. It’s like a step way deeper than nudes. Lots of people get to see you naked, but not everyone gets your insides, right? Especially when your insides are totally destroyed. It’s embarrassing.
“Klaus will be staying in the guest house,” Mary explains. “He’ll spend Christmas with us.”
“The guest house?” I ask with surprise. “That’s above the barn with the horses. Wouldn’t he prefer to stay in his nice hotel room?” Then I clear my throat. “I mean, I’m assuming his hotel room is nice. With him being a doctor and all, and dressed so… fancy.” Kill me now.
“Hey!” Eve calls out to us, saving me from embarrassment. She bursts into the room with her laptop, with Adam on her heels. “You guys have to see what we found online. Regarding Clara’s understudy and The Nutcracker performances.”
“I don’t want to see it,” I say, turning away and plugging my ears. “Please don’t, Eve. I can’t handle any bad news.”
“Don’t worry! I promise, it’s awesome,” she says, grabbing my hands out of my ears. “Just watch!” Eve hits play on video footage of a story that shows Amy Sanders causing me to get injured in slow motion. My jaw nearly drops when I see how obvious it was that she pushed me, and my mother exclaims in horror.
“The police are investigating her,” Eve says with excitement. “But wait, it gets better.”
“Did you do any blood work after the injury?” Klaus asks softly, moving to my side.
I nod.
“That’s good. I know a personal injury attorney for athletes who can really help,” he whispers.
“Help me sue her?” I ask him. “I don’t care about the money. I just want to be able to dance again.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” he promises, with that sincere look in his eyes. This time, it also has a certain gravity, and seriousness. Maybe a flash of protective anger, as he watches the video of me getting injured.