Their Christmas Miracle: A collection of spicy xxx-mas tales

by Fox, Logan

  The fries are drowning in red. Her fingertips are red. She has a drop of red on the lace of her vest — I’m surprised there isn’t more of a massacre on her clothing from the way she’s shoveling food in her mouth.

  I’m tempted to sneak into the bathroom and climb out through the window.

  Why the hell did I have to suggest a place that I frequent? It’s not like I know people here, but I recognize quite a few faces — most of which quickly turn away when I glance at them.

  Regulars, like me.

  Some of the staff.

  The manager, who at this very moment has his arms crossed over his chest and is trying very hard to keep a straight face as Michael chats animatedly to him.

  They both look our way and hurriedly turn around to face the restaurant’s entrance.

  My cheeks go hot again.

  This must rank as Number One Most Embarrassing Day Ever.

  Holly finishes her fries. And most of her beer. She moves to wipe her fingertips on her skirt, catches my horrified look in her direction, and puts her elbow on her knee, dangling her messy fingers in the air as if they have the plague.

  I catch the waiter’s eye and make the universal gesture for napkins — rubbing my fingertips together — while secretly wishing he would bring a finger bowl instead because I doubt napkins are going to cut it.

  He arrives a few minutes later with a stack of napkins and another beer.

  Had she somehow asked for another one, or was he just pre-empting?

  The waiter takes away Holly’s ketchup-soaked plate and the empty glasses.

  “Uh, excuse me?”

  The waiter turns back to me, eyes sticking for a second on Holly before he can force them back to me.

  I get it, okay — she’s pretty. But really?

  “Look, we’ve been here for a while already. Is there a table opening up—”

  “You are the first on the list, Mr. Potter.” The waiter’s assurance would have gone down better if he hadn’t been concentrating on Holly’s thighs while he delivered it.

  “Fine,” I say, not bothering to adjust the irritation in my voice. “But please, we really—”

  “Relax, Josh.” Holly’s taps the side of my leg. “I know my dad. He’s going to be busy for at least another two hours.”

  I knew her dad too, but that wasn’t why I was rushing this.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” I murmur, slogging back the rest of my drink and standing without bothering to hear her reply.

  Holly

  I watch Josh walk away, a frown on my face. Fuck, this guy was touchy. Every two seconds, I’m saying something to piss him off.

  I smile. It is kinda fun. Except…

  My eyes glide over the crowds of sedately-dressed business folks and couples. This isn’t exactly one of those places where they have a ball pit for the kids and break into song if it’s someone’s birthday. I think it’s jazz playing on the sound system, and the waiters? They’re bigger snobs than my dad.

  I mean, the Golden Goose had sounded fun… but I hadn’t realized every other person in this place would have a stick up their ass.

  I fidget with the hem of my jersey, shifting on the seat. I love this little nook we’re in. It’s unfortunately not private enough to shield me from all those curious glances — seriously, does he know everyone in this fucking place? — that keep coming my way. But the fabric feels gorgeous against my skin, and the golden light streaming out around me makes me feel a little like I’ve died and gone to heaven.

  Not they’d let me past those pearly gates.

  Oh, hell no.

  I giggle and drain the rest of my beer. For a second, I get angry thinking back to Josh asking if I was old enough to drink. How old did he think I was? God, it’s not like I’m wearing a fucking training bra. Or any bra, really.

  I catch the waiter’s eye — not difficult, since he’s been staring at me the whole night — and call him over.

  Sitting forward, I lace my fingers together and slide my wrists on the table, giving him a coy glance from under my lashes.

  “Josh come here often?” I ask softly.

  The waiter leans in to hear me and then nods a few times. “At least three times a week.”

  “He ever bring anyone else?”

  Three furious shakes of the waiter’s head. “No. Never.”

  I nod. “Cool. Bring me your two most expensive shooters, will you?”

  The waiter grins, nods, and almost gets three feet away before I call him back.

  “Actually, make that four.”

  Joshua

  I run a hand over my hair, settling the strands that have become dislodged. Against the gaudy backdrop of the gold and bronze mosaic tiles behind me, my suit does look a bit dour. But I don’t work in a restaurant priding itself in faux-gold finishes, do I? I work at a corporation, where people are expected to dress professionally and conduct themselves with some modicum of reserve.

  Which is exactly why I feel so damn flustered.

  I can’t get the image of Holly, naked and twisting on my bed, out of my blasted head.

  Look, if I have to be honest, I’ve always had a tendency to… you know, imagine things. Nothing sick or strange, just… erotic. I don’t know why it happens. I can’t remember when it started. It might’ve been at my first job. More specifically, my first presentation. You know when you’re nervous and someone — unhelpfully — suggests you imagine the audience not wearing any clothes?

  Well, turns out, not only am I a brilliant analyst… I’m also pretty damn good at imagining people without their damn clothes on.

  Sometimes I can turn it off, of course. I mean, who wants to see broad-shouldered, blunt-waisted Mr. Hill in a onesie?

  No one.

  Trust me, it’s not a pretty picture.

  Okay, so maybe I can’t quite control it as well as I thought. But still, usually after that first jarring moment, I can block out further pornographic shots with no trouble.

  Not with Holly.

  And with her, my imagination’s decided naked stills aren’t enough. Oh no, my mind’s gone all American Beauty on my ass, with me imagining doing all kinds of debaucherous things to that slip of a girl.

  Maybe I’m just burned out.

  I put my palms on the basin and lean close to the mirror, studying my reflection. I don’t have shadows under my eyes, but that’s because I force myself to get eight hours of sleep a night.

  It means I don’t ever have time for anything more ‘social’ than catching a meal at the Golden Goose before heading home, but at least I always wake up looking rested. Even if I don’t feel it. And God, I’m not feeling it right now. My brain’s fizzing. My body feels shiver-tight, and every nerve ending on my skin is prickling.

  And this Holly girl isn’t helping. I’ve never felt so awkward, so out-of-place, and this helpless before.

  Or this damned horny.

  I push my way into a toilet stall, one hand already on my zipper.

  No time for the belt. This has to be quick. Clean. Last thing I want is her thinking I’m… well, jacking off in here.

  Even the thought of what I’m about to do has my dick hard. Well, harder. I wedge it out of my pants, slam the toilet seat down with my shoe, and lean against the closest wall with one hand, the other wrapped around my cock.

  It responds instantly.

  I’ve been a little too busy to rub one out these past few days, okay?

  But I start tensing, thoughts of someone walking in, perhaps hearing that repetitive sound. I start stroking my dick faster, but that just ends up hurting.

  So I hold my dick out and spit on it.

  I close my eyes.

  And I picture Holly sliding her skirt up her legs.

  Holly, spreading her legs open for me, her pussy still draped with folds of fabric.

  Holly, one hand by her mouth, teeth teasing the edge of her fingernail. The other, sliding up the inside of her thigh.

  My muscles start to tense — t
his time, not from anxiety. I lean my forehead against the back of my hand and move my fingers down my shaft so I have more of my cock to work with.

  Holly slides her hand into that pit of darkness, her nail tugging at her bottom lip. She hikes her legs up, flashing me a devilish grin as this exposes her shaved, pink slit to me. I reel, feeling a climax approach out of nowhere like a jet plane.

  For a moment, I pause, hand on my cock, as I revel in the fantasy playing out in 3D in my head.

  Holly runs her pastel-blue fingertips over her entrance — God, but that color contrast is exceptional — before sliding a finger inside herself. She makes a noise, a soft groan in the back of her throat, and starts pumping that finger in and out.

  I vaguely realize I’m the one making that sound, but I’m too transfixed in my reverie to stop. I begin sliding my hand up and down my shaft, teasing my climax into a halt, letting it build up.

  My thumb flashes over my crown. Got my own lube now, don’t need any more spit. I work that liquid into my skin, slowing down even more until I’m shuddering for release.

  Holly still has a finger inside herself. She uses her thumb to draw a languid circle around her clit, watching me with that curious expectation on her face.

  “God,” I murmur, my shoulders hunching.

  I know this was supposed to be quick, but damn, it feels so good. My hand slides down, and then I tug up, hard. That jar of pain snaps me out of the fantasy.

  I’m so close I hardly needed to give my dick the extra few tugs it needs, but I want to draw out what feels like a blazing orgasm. Who cares if the janitor finds me laying in a sodden heap on the bathroom floor three hours from now?

  I flash my thumb over my crown again. My lips part and my jaw draws back.

  Holly flickers into my mind, unbidden. I groan — too loudly, but it can’t be helped — as she brings that finger up to her lips and licks it.

  The bathroom door crashes open.

  “—telling me he hasn’t read it yet?”

  I manage — barely — to stifle a yell of surprise.

  “I meant what I said about keeping that shit private, man.”

  The stall beside me opens, and the man slams the door shut behind him. I stare down at my engorged, shivering cock, feeling every pulse of adrenalin flickering through those blood vessels.

  Maybe he was the kind of guy that peed sitting down. If he took less than a minute, I should be able to—

  A loud fart cuts off that thought. I grimace, manhandling my cock back into my pants.

  My zipper refuses to close.

  Again, I’m struck with the overwhelming urge to slam a fist into my dick and beat it into submission.

  “Yeah, well, just delete the fucking thing before anyone sees it. I mean, shit. You two have to share a brain cell?”

  Another fart takes care of enough of my erection to allow me to pull my zipper up. I don’t even bother to flush, hurrying out of the stall and washing my hands in record time. I pause just long enough to splash water on my face, fix my hair, and force a smile on my face.

  I do look better when I smile, I guess.

  You can do this, Josh.

  My dick throbs as if to spur me on and I laugh. The guy in the stall stops talking, and I laugh again, shaking my head as I jerk open the bathroom door and step outside.

  No one’s ever called me Josh before, and now I’m doing it.

  Holy hell.

  Holly

  The look on Josh’s face when he sees the drinks stacked in front of me is priceless. He’d had this stiff smile on his face when he came back from the bathroom — perhaps relief at emptying his bladder — but that slides away like a glacier.

  “And this?” he asks.

  I take one of the shooters — one with lots of pretty layers — and bring it to my lips. “Come on.”

  “Holly, I—”

  “What, do you drive?”

  “Well, no, but—”

  “Then what’s your problem?” I tip back the glass, grimacing when it burns the back of my throat. It tastes a bit like strawberries and pennies, but hey — it costs forty-five dollars a pop, so who’m I to complain, right?

  Josh picks up a glass — sniffs it, I’m not even fucking with you — and then tosses it back.

  “God, that’s awful.”

  “Right?”

  Well, that’s a first: we agree on something. I pick up the next, already expecting the limp-wristed wave he sends my way. My two beers and the tequila are already making merry in my brain — I giggle at him and sit forward, our knees bumping again. He glances down, lifting his head back up so fast I’m surprised he doesn’t have whiplash.

  “It’s just a shooter.”

  “I have a project to work on tomorrow, Holly.”

  I shiver.

  I can’t help it — it comes and goes so fast there’s no time to stop it.

  He notices, and his eyes crinkle with concern. “Are you getting cold?”

  “No.” I put the shooter glass to my lips, but I don’t drink.

  I’m not about to tell him that it was him saying my name that did that to me. Fuck, that wasn’t weird at all.

  “You’re sure? I can ask them to—” He’s turning away from me, searching the restaurant for our waiter.

  But I want his eyes on me. I like the way he looks at me — like I’m a puzzle box he’s trying to open. I tap his knee with mine, my smile widening when he turns back to me, startled.

  “Fine, I’ll up the ante.”

  I pick up his glass, holding it out to him. He stares at it, but his eyes flash to mine a second later. He doesn’t take it, caution in his eyes.

  “What do you—”

  “Take this shot with me and I won’t send that pic to my dad.”

  His face remains frozen for a moment. And then, ever so slowly, his expression slides into blank shock.

  “You wouldn’t,” he breathes.

  I cock an eyebrow at him and lift the glass a few inches higher. He doesn’t take his eyes off me. Instead, they flicker over my face. I manage to suppress another shiver.

  God, maybe I am cold.

  “Doesn’t matter,” he says, voice thick. “It was perfectly innocent.”

  In that moment, I realize it isn’t. The roughness of his voice, the wariness in his eyes…

  He’s fucking hot for me.

  That boner of before wasn’t for his stuffy forms or thoughts of spreadsheets and long-distance phonecalls with China.

  It was for me.

  Me.

  “Sure.” I manage to sound glib, despite the blood roaring in my ears. “But not if I crop it just right.”

  He frowns. Then he gives me a confused smile and shifts back a few inches in the seat.

  I put our glasses down, find my phone after a few seconds of searching, and open the pic. I manipulate it in my photo app for a few seconds, glancing up at him through my lashes. He’s watching me, but like a zombie trying to figure out if my brains are worth the effort of getting to them.

  “See?” I twist the phone’s screen to him.

  He looks down. That frown deepens. And then his face slips into abject horror.

  “Holly, no.”

  “Oh, Josh, yes,” I say, giggling at the sight of that horrified expression. “Cool, huh?” I look at my masterpiece. “Kinda looks like we’re naked, right?”

  And it did. I’d cropped the photo just right — my vest and cardigan had slipped off my shoulder, like they tended to, and at the angle I’d been holding the phone, the shot ended just above Josh’s neckline.

  In the picture, Josh didn’t look shocked or confused or awkward. He had a small, secretive smile on his face. I guess I just took the photo at the exact right time.

  The phone goes back into my pocket, and I hoist up the glasses.

  “Bottoms up,” I say.

  He takes his with unsteady fingers, eyes unfocused and lips parted. I clink the glasses, tapping my finger against the bottom of his until he tips it b
ack.

  Grimacing, Josh puts his glass down and gives me a nod. “Now delete it.”

  I snort at him, leaning into the seat’s plush cushion as I lace my fingers over my stomach.

  “You kidding?” My eyes run down him, and I flash him a deep smile when I’ve finally made my way back to those wide eyes of his. “This shit’s gold. I could get you to do anything.”

  I let the word out slowly, lifting my hand and bringing it to my mouth. I end off biting at the tip of my nail.

  For some reason, Josh looks like he’s about to pass out.

  Joshua

  Anything? Dammit, anything? Why don’t I have a drink, something to do, something to distract me while I try to think?

  My aching cock isn’t helping matters, either. I can’t seem to look in Holly’s direction without it pulsing in my pants like it’s turned into a snake that’s more than eager to get out and hunt down some prey.

  Dear God, I just called my dick a snake.

  I’m losing my mind, aren’t I?

  I’ve been working too hard. Or maybe Holly slipped something in my drink; it would be just like her to roofie me.

  “It’s innocent,” I say again, like it’s going to change how incriminating that goddamn photo looks.

  I turn back to her, trying to force confidence on my face. At least she’s stopped biting her nail — God, that almost had me coming in my goddamn pants — but now she’s toying with the laces on her vest like she’s planning to tug them loose right here, right now.

  I almost wish she would.

  “Send it to him, I don’t care. Your father knows me. I’ve worked for his company for almost four years now. He knows I’m not a, not a—”

  “Lecher?” she — unhelpfully — supplies.

  “I didn’t—”

  “The guy who’s planning on boning his little pumpkin?”