“Maybe.” I push the door open and let the warm amber light spill across the floor. “But it’s Christmas. You can’t say no to me on Christmas.”
Damien leans close as he passes, his breath skimming my ear. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
They file into the room one by one, and I try to keep my stomach from doing backflips, a feeling I can’t help but feel whenever I’m around them. There’s something about the way they move, trailing behind me like I’m a siren dragging them happily to their doom that makes the air feel thicker, warmer. I can feel the heat crawling up the back of my neck, my breath just slightly uneven.
I close the door behind us, the sound soft but final, and rest my back against it for a heartbeat before meeting their eyes. “Now,” I say, letting my smile deepen, “wait here. No peeking. Just sit back and relax. I’ll be right back.”
Cast folds his arms, feigning impatience. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”
“Of course I am,” I reply, stepping past him toward the adjoining hall. My voice trails lighter, playful, as I glance back at them. “You taught me to love torture.”
I slip into the ensuite, closing the door behind me before my resolve can falter. The soft light spilling from the sconces paintsthe marble in gold, catching on the small box waiting by the sink. My fingers work at the ribbon, and the lace inside unfurls like a secret—red and soft, whisper-thin against my skin as I pull it on. The fabric hugs close, tracing every line of me, and for a moment I just stand there, watching the reflection in the mirror. My pulse beats in my throat, my hands steadying against the counter as I breathe in.
I smooth the sheer robe over the lingerie, leaving it untied, and let my hair fall loose around my shoulders. One last glance in the mirror, one steady breath, and then I reach for the handle. The faint hum of anticipation follows me as I step back toward the room where three men are waiting, unaware of just what kind of Christmas surprise they’re about to unwrap.
I poke my head out pointing to Cast. “Turn onSanta Baby, please!”
Damien whistles low, and Cast chuckles crossing the room, as he slides out his phone and turns on the song.Thank God, for sound proofing and the baby monitors we have in every single room.
“Work it baby,” Vincent chuckles.
I take a deep breath, the scent of Cast’s expensive sandalwood soap clinging to the air.Mypulse is a frantic drum against my ribs, a stark contrast to the slow, sultry jazz standard now whispering from the bedroom speakers.Santa Baby. Perfect.
I push the door open.
My heart hammers a frantic rhythm against my ribs, a wild drum solo only I can hear. I take a slow, deliberate step into the center of the room, the plush carpet soft under my bare feet.
“My only rule is that you don’t get to touch,” I say, to a chorus of boos, but I hold up my hand. “Until the dance is done!”
A slow, wicked smile spreads across my lips as my body begins to move. It’s just a sway of the hips at first, a subtleshift of weight from one foot to the other. The sheer robe floats around me, a crimson cloud offering fleeting glimpses of the lace beneath.
I catch Damien’s gaze first. His usual cool composure is cracking, a muscle in his jaw ticking as his eyes darken, tracking the path of my hands as they slide down my own sides. He’s always the quiet one, the one who watches everything. I make a point of holding his stare, my fingers teasing the tie of the robe. I want to see him break first.
“Santa baby, slip a sable under the tree, for me…”
I hum along, my voice a soft whisper as I turn my attention to Vincent. He’s leaning forward, elbows on his knees, his drink dangling from his fingers. There’s a raw, hungry appreciation in his look that sends a fresh wave of heat through me. My hands travel up, fingers threading through my own hair, arching my back just so. The robe gapes open, and I see his breath catch. A low, appreciative groan rumbles in his chest, and the sound is better than any applause.
“Maybe I should say no noises either,” I tease, my tone sugar-coated and sharp.
“You wouldn’t dare,” he responds, narrowing his eyes at me.
I point a finger at him, then bring it to my lips in a shushing motion. His eyes flash with a promise of delicious retribution, but he stays silent, obedient.
Finally, I turn to Cast. My tutor in torture. His arms are still crossed, but the impatience is no longer feigned. It’s real, a live wire of tension in the set of his shoulders. His gaze is intense, analytical, missing nothing. He’s not just watching the show; he’s studying it, cataloging every reaction, every hitch in my breath.
I dance for him.
I move closer, until the scent of him—spice and smoke—fills my senses. I trail a single fingertip along the arm of his chair, myhips swaying in time with the music, so close he could reach out and grab me.But he won’t.I taught him the rules of this game, and he’s too competitive to forfeit now.
“Think of all the fun I’ve missed,”I purr the lyrics directly to him, leaning down so my hair brushes his knee.“Think of all the fellas that I haven’t kissed.”
His eyes drop to my mouth, and his knuckles are white where he grips his own biceps. The control he wears like a second skin is straining, fraying at the edges. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
I push away, spinning slowly, letting the robe flutter open completely. The red lace corset gleams in the low light, a stark contrast against my skin. I run my hands over the curves it creates, a performance of self-appreciation meant to wound them with want.
The song is building, climbing toward its climax. I slowly roll my shoulders, dipping my head back, a glance over my shoulder that holds a challenge for all three of them. The air is electric, charged with a hunger so palpable I can taste it—metallic and sweet.
I back up toward the large four-poster bed, the music swelling. With one last, lingering hip circle, I slowly, so slowly, lower myself onto the edge of the mattress. I recline back on my elbows, one leg stretching out, the other bending, my foot planted on the floor.
