“Something like that,” he says, and then bites the head off the gingerbread man. The groan he makes is unholy, and I cross my arms over my throbbing, heavy breasts. “These are outstanding,” he says. “And trust me, I’ve eaten a lot of cookies in my day.”
I shoot him a skeptical look. “Sure you have.”
He pats his flat stomach. “Trust me. I may not look it, but I’m quite the cookie connoisseur.”
The way he says cookie connoisseur makes my stomach flip. There’s something in his voice, like he’s not just talking about baked goods. Like he’s talking about…well, about me. Which is ridiculous. I need to get my horny mind out of the horny gutter. He’s dressed as Santa, for crying out loud.
I lean against the counter, arms still crossed over my chest, trying to ignore the way my nipples are throbbing. “So, Nicholas Klaus,” I say with a teasing lilt, because that’s obviously not his real name. “Are you from Evergreen Valley? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you around before.”
He finishes the shortbread in one bite, chewing slowly, those blue eyes never leaving mine. “No, I’m not from around here,” he says easily. “But I’ve been looking for…a place like this for a very long time.”
Three
Holly
Nicholas pops the last of the tree cookie into his mouth, then holds the empty plate out to me. Our fingers brush as I take it, and the second they do, there’s a spark, a crackle, and the scent of peppermint and frost fills the air. A soft shimmer ripples over the backs of my hands before disappearing. Something is definitely up with the lighting in here this morning.
“You’re beautiful, Holly,” he rumbles, his voice rougher now. “Glowing, even.”
I look down.
My skin is shimmering again. Faint, like moonlight on fresh snow, but there. And…oh no. My sweater. There are now two dark, spreading spots right over my nipples. My traitorous, aching nipples.
I gasp softly, and the plate slips from my fingers as shock and embarrassment and white hot arousal all blaze through me. But Nick’s hand shoots out, and he catches it effortlessly before it can shatter on the floor.
My face is on fire. “I—I don’t know what’s wrong with…” I can’t even bring myself to finish my sentence.
His gaze drops to my chest. Stays there. The air thickens, my breath coming too fast, my body betraying me in ways I don’t understand. My bra feels wet, my breasts almost unbearably heavy, my nipples throbbing with every heartbeat.
What in the name of Christmas is happening to me?
I hurry away, flush with embarrassment, and seal myself away in the tiny back room, where I whip off my sweater. I glance down, and my boobs look…bigger? I have big boobs to begin with, but they seem even fuller and heavier than usual. I pull off my bra, too, and I frown when I see little drops of milk clinging to my nipples.
So, fun fact about me: I really, really get off on nipple play. And sometimes, very rarely, if I stimulate them enough, a little bit of milk will come out. It’s weird, but I like it, which is kinda kinky, I know. But I’ve never had this much milk before, and I haven’t been playing with my nipples lately.
I give them each a testing tug and I moan. Fuck, that feels so good. More milk drips, but I don’t have time to explore this right now. I clean myself up as best I can, pull on a fresh T-shirt emblazoned with the bakery’s logo, and throw a cardigan on over top to hide the fact that I’m going braless.
When I step back into the main part of the bakery, I freeze in the doorway between the staff area and the front.
Nick’s already unlocked the front door. A line of families snakes down the sidewalk, but inside, it’s controlled chaos. He’s perched on the oversized Santa chair I set up by the fireplace, a little boy with a mop of brown curls on his lap. The kid’s chattering about a toy dinosaur, and Nick—Santa—listens like it’s the most important thing in the world. His deep laugh rumbles through the room, rich and masculine, and the boy beams up at him like he’s just been handed the moon.
I press a hand to my chest as I watch the sweet interaction. My fingers brush over my nipple through the fabric, and a jolt of heat shoots straight between my legs. What the hell? I snatch my hand back, just in time to see my skin prickling with that same weird shimmer from before.
A mom snaps a photo, her phone flash making Nick’s silver hair glow brightly. He shifts the boy to his hip and reaches into the red velvet sack beside the chair, pulling out a wrapped gift without even looking. Where the heck did that bag come from? It’s not mine, and Nick was empty handed when he walked in here. “For you, Liam. Don’t let your sister steal it this time.” The boy cackles with glee, and the mom’s jaw drops. “How did you…?” She trails off, gaping.
Nick winks and my panties get wet. “Santa knows everything.”
Oh, he’s good. He’s got to be the best fake Santa I’ve ever met.
I watch, arms crossed tight over my aching breasts, as he moves through the line with a relaxed ease, as though he’s done this a thousand times. He calls a toddler “Mia” before her dad can introduce her. He tells a shy girl in braids that her letter about the puppy arrived at the North Pole, and that her parents already said yes. The girl shrieks with delight, and the dad looks completely bewildered. Is Nick a psychic? Is he cold reading people?
Or…is there something else going on? I can’t stop myself from glancing over at the mug, designated for the real Santa, just in case.
My nipples tighten again, the sensation almost painful now. I bite my lip to stifle a whimper. It’s like my body’s been rewired, and every laugh from Nick, every glance from him in my direction sends a pulse straight to my chest. My skin feels too tight, my breasts swollen and heavy, the weight of them both too much and kind of wonderful. I can’t stop thinking about howamazing it would feel to have someone’s mouth on them right now, sucking on my fat, puffy nipples until I come. I shift on my feet, thighs pressing together, clit swollen and throbbing.
I blink hard, forcing myself to focus. The bakery’s warm, but I’m burning up. Maybe I am getting sick. I feel like my head’s swimming, my body a riot of inexplicable sensation and arousal.
A little girl with pigtails climbs onto Nick’s lap, and he adjusts her so she’s settled against his chest. “Now, Emma,” he says, his voice low and conspiratorial. “Did you leave out those oatmeal cookies for me last year? The ones with the raisins?”
