Elves in Heat,Santa Claus is Cumming to Town, orRudolf the Horny Reindeer.
Or maybe simplyThe Nutcracker.
I smirk.
“What wicked thoughts are you having?” Icarus says from where he is leaning against the corridor wall outside the ballroom. He sounds harried. I don’t blame him. He has worked for weeks to make sure that tonight runs smoothly. “You look like you’re plotting to rob or fuck someone.”
I turn to look at Icarus. “You.”
“Fantasize away then. Never let it be said that I get in the way of my staffs’ dreams.”
I snort, running my gaze up and down his costume.
Yep, it’s definitelySanta Claus is Cumming to Town.
Icarus isn’t dressed as a jolly 1920s Santa with a large red suit and long white beard.
Instead, he is more like a stripper in a velvet crimson, white fur-lined waistcoat that falls open to reveal his muscled chest, a tight pair of satin shorts that show off his ass, and a hat that falls over his eyes.
Paired with his dominant expression, he looks like the least likely Santa I have ever seen, and also the most awkwardly adorable, as if he’d be more likely to complain about the state of your chimney than laugh heartily.
Or possibly, most likely to rut you over the Christmas tree.
I can’t help giggling.
Icarus narrows his eyes, attempting and failing to pull his top shut over his chest like he’s still wearing his managerial suit. “Laugh it up, Sweet Sin. I haven’t forgotten who was the one that encouraged me to?—”
“Support the rest of the staff?”
He sighs. “I’ll never live this down. I can’t dance.”
“You’ll be with me. You only need to sweep onto the stage and then wiggle your ass around a bit. Then I’ll do the rest.”
“You’re the star,” Icarus praises, and it does something funny to me that I’m not expecting to hear him say that. “You’ll shine so brightly out there that nobody will even be looking at me anyway.”
I doubt that, although somehow it makes Icarus even more beautiful to me that he can never see how desirable he is.
Nerves grip me, however, and I peer through the archway onto the stage.
The jaunty “Santa Claus Blues” washes over me.
A band of Beta staff on piano, banjo, cornet, saxophone, and trombone are playing at the base of the stage.
Bird, dressed in the sexy elf version of my costume (skin-tight green top and shorts, with candy cane knee high stockings), is singing the 1920’s jazz song. He is bathed in a spotlight, as other Omega elves and Betas in reindeer onesies with adorable antlers on their heads back him up. His voice is rich and soulful, and when I glance out at the sea of guests in the rest of the ballroom, they are entranced.
Bird is an amazing singer, but then, Maya insisted that we both had vocal coaches. She didn’t want any of her Omegas to show her up, when we put on performances after dinner.
The hotel guests are dressed in glamorous evening suits and designer ballgowns that glitter with diamonds. Beta servers weave between them with silver trays of champagne and canapes.
The opulent ballroom with marble columns and arched windows glitter with lights and Christmas garlands around a giant fir tree, as if the entire room is the inside of a bauble.
“You’ve out done yourself with the decorations,” I say. “Maya won’t be able to complain about tonight. It looks beautiful. The band are incredible. The staff are putting on an amazing performance.”
“You know your stepmom. She can complain about anything. She’ll probably claim that it wastooperfect,” Icarus mutters.
“She won’t be able to claim that Santa doesn’t look hot enough. Mrs Claus should be careful. There are a lot of elves around here who are after your knot.”
He leans close enough for his lips to ghost across mine. “There is no Mrs Claus…yet.”
