Baby, It's Cold Outside Page 9

  Because reclining in the chaise longue is a gift that beats the hell out of anything I’ve ever seen sitting under a tree.

  My wife, Kate Brooks-Evans.

  Kate Brooks-Evans in lingerie.

  Kate Brooks-Evans in see-through, Christmas-themed lingerie.

  Her smooth legs are crossed at the ankle, bare except for the spiky heeled, shiny black boots that end below her knees. A sheer red nightie, trimmed in fluffy white fur, covers tiny red panties—held together by two silk bows tied at her hips. A shiny black belt cinches her flat stomach, and more white fur embellishes the strapless neckline, bringing my attention to her perfect breasts and pink nipples pressing against the gauzy fabric. Kate’s luscious dark hair falls over her shoulders, curled at the ends, and a fleecy red-and-white Santa hat sits on top of her head.

  She smiles mischievously. “Welcome home, Santa.”

  “Mrs. Claus,” I smirk, “you’ve changed.”

  “It was time for a makeover.”

  I start unbuttoning my shirt. “Want to sit on my lap . . . or my face . . . and tell me if you’ve been a nice girl this year?”

  Kate chuckles. Then she tucks her legs under her, rises onto all fours, and crawls down the chaise toward me.

  It’s so damn sexy my cock stiffens so hard that you could hang an ornament from it.

  “Well, I’ve tried to be nice, but every time I look at you, the naughty just takes over.”

  Kate bites her lip—’cause she knows it drives me crazy—and watches my every move as I toss my shirt on the floor. Her eyes caress my arms, chest, and abs, then focus on my fingers as I slowly unbutton my jeans and lower the zipper.

  I shrug. “I’ve always thought ‘nice’ was way fucking overrated.”

  With my typical lack of shyness, I push my pants down and step out of them. My dick juts out proudly, eye level with Kate, straining for her attention. But before she touches me, I remember James—our five-year-old.

  “Where’s the evil elf, by the way?”

  “I dropped him off at your sister’s. He’s decorating gingerbread cookies with Mackenzie and Thomas.”

  “And biting their heads off?”

  “Of course.”

  Here’s an interesting fact: how you eat a gingerbread man says a lot about your personality. Head-first eaters are ambitious, independent, and magnetic. Feet-first are the more artistic, creative types, and those who start with the hands are kind and nurturing. Same rules apply for chocolate Easter bunnies.

  Maybe you’re wondering how I came to know this information?

  I looked it up. Because James is a head-first eater.

  And Kate and I were . . . unsettled . . . by all the headless chocolate bunnies lying around last Easter.

  But—good news—he’s not a serial killer in the making, he just has the same driven, bound-to-be-a-success temperament as his parents.

  During my research, I also discovered that sociopaths and CEOs share a lot of character traits—but we’ll talk about that another time.

  There are other, more crucial matters at hand.

  “So, we have the whole apartment to ourselves?” I ask.

  Kate licks her lips happily. “Yep.”

  My dick gets even harder, thinking of the possibilities. “That means we can fuck in the living room? The hallway? The kitchen?”

  A center island is the perfect height to comfortably eat a woman out while she’s perched on the counter.

  Coincidence?

  I think not.

  Kind of makes you rethink the meaning of “eat-in kitchen,” doesn’t it?

  Kate replies, “Yes. Yes. And definitely yes. I’ve missed kitchen sex.”

  I’ve missed bending her over the arm of the sofa and pounding her from behind.

  Oh—and sleeping naked. I haven’t slept naked for a year and a half. Not since my son crawled into our bed in the middle of the night and asked why I wasn’t wearing pajamas. Telling him the truth—that it’s liberating and makes it more convenient to screw his mother—was out of the question. So I just said I forgot.

  He thought that was funny. And I’ve slept in boxers almost every night since.

  When people tell you having kids changes things—they’re not screwing around.

  But all thoughts of our child fly out of my head as Kate envelops my dick in her warm, wet mouth. My head lolls back, relishing the sensation of her stroking tongue. But after a few seconds, I have to look and take in the sensual sight of Kate’s head bobbing up and down, doing what she does so very well.

  My hand skims her spine. I lift the sheer red fabric, exposing her firm ass, scarcely covered by the red silk panties. My stomach contracts in hot pleasure as she sucks me harder. I pull on the red ribbons tied at her hips and the panties fall away. Then I knead the soft flesh of her ass before sliding my fingers between her open legs—into her warm pussy. She’s already slick for me; her muscles tighten around my fingers as I pump them slowly.

  I pull my hips back and I slide out of Kate’s awesome mouth. I cradle her face with my hands and bring her up to meet my lips. We kiss playfully, my teeth scraping along her jaw to her neck, licking and sucking—both of us moaning. I wrap an arm around her waist and lift her to her feet, dragging us to the couch.

  Without a word, Kate assumes my favorite position—bent at the waist, her stomach draped over the arm, feet apart, her delectable ass high and waiting. Her hands brace against the cushions and my hand rests on her shoulder. My other hand grasps my dick and makes two teasing passes across the opening of her sweet cunt. She wriggles back against me, reaches out her hand, and pushes behind my thigh—trying to maneuver me where she needs me to be.

  Always so eager.

  Although our sex life is fantastically frequent, we can’t be as . . . vocal . . . as we once were. Not with a kid in the house. So I plan on taking advantage of this opportunity to hear Kate’s voice in all its hedonistically desperate beauty.

  I cover her—my chest flush with her back—nudge her silken hair with my nose, and bring my lips to her ear. “Do you want me to fuck you, baby?”

  “Mmm,” she groans. “Yessss.”

  I nip her earlobe. “Tell me.”

  “Fuck me,” she whispers.

  Yeah. She’s gonna have to do better than that.

  I straighten up, smiling, and tease her again with the head of my dick. “I’m sorry, I didn’t quite get that.”

  Her hips squirm with frustration, and she yells, “I want you to fuck me, Drew!”

  Almost.

  “God, now . . . do it . . . please. Fuck . . .”

  Beautiful.

  I push inside her with a moan and her back arches. I rest my hand on her hip, holding her in place as I rear back. Then thrust in long and slow and deep.

  “Yes,” she keens loudly. “Just like that.”

  I look down where I move in and out of her—disappearing into her gorgeous, welcoming body. It’s a view that never gets old.

  “Christ, you feel good, Kate. Always so goddamn good.”

  It’s true. And it’s got nothing to do with the fact that Kate’s is the only pussy I’ve ever been inside without a rubber.

  It’s her. The life we’ve made together—the way she matches me in every way—her desire, her humor, her mind.

  Her soul.

  I used to think that stuff about soul mates was bullshit. The idea that out of the billions of people on Earth, there was only one that you’re supposed to be with. That you belong to. Sounded like a fairy tale, a stupid chick flick, or a terrible romance novel that my sister would read.

  But now . . .

  Now I believe there’s something to it. Maybe not for everyone—but definitely for us. Because I just can’t fathom having this profound, intense love that borders on obsession—the good kind—with anyone except her.

  It’s crazy. Like . . . a miracle.

  The rhythm of my hips speeds up, ’cause it feels too fucking amazing not to. And Kate drives back against me
, meeting me thrust for thrust and moan for moan.

  But then I find the strength to grasp her waist with both hands.

  And still our movements.

  I pull out and Kate groans, “Don’t stop.”

  I spin her around, cup her ass, and press her against me with a squeeze. She stands on her toes to trail hot kisses across my throat.

  “I want you on top,” I explain with a grin. “I want you to ride me.”

  Kate wiggles her eyebrows. “So you can watch my ‘bells’ jingle.”

  I laugh. “Exactly.”

  She pushes my shoulders, backing me up to the couch. I sit down heavily and she wastes no time climbing aboard. I surge up into her—deeper from this angle—and once again thank God for the wonderfully tight grip of Kate’s snatch.

  She closes her eyes and rocks against me. I yank the strapless nightie down, freeing her breasts, and they jiggle as she rotates her hips in tantalizing circles. I palm them in my hand, so soft and full. Kate gasps as I pinch her already puckered nipples. And she groans when I replace my fingers with my lips. Suckling greedily, I rub my tongue against the pointy peak, savoring the exquisite taste of her skin. Kate rises and falls on me quicker—bucking harder.

  When I grasp her nipple between my teeth, she holds the back of my head—pressing me against her—pulling my hair. I moan around her flesh and lave at her breast.

  And then Kate stiffens, and the sound of her screaming my name echoes around the room as her inner walls clamp down. My fingers dig into her hips as I thrust up once, twice more, then I’m pulsing inside her, grunting and cursing against her chest.

  For a few moments we stay right there—catching our breath. Until Kate leans back and gently brushes my black hair from my forehead. “Were you surprised?”

  “Very pleasantly, yes.”

  Her smile is joyful. “Good. It’s nice to finally give you a present that you didn’t already know was coming.”

  I kiss her soft lips. Then glance down the hall toward the kitchen. “Speaking of coming . . .”

  Later, after some quality countertop time, Kate and I lay bare ass on the chaise longue, under a downy red throw blanket—recuperating.

  I check my watch. Shit. I have to go, though a big part of me—the large lower part—wants nothing more than to stay right in this spot with my wife. But I kiss Kate’s forehead and force myself to stand. I grab my discarded shirt from the floor, slipping my arms into it.

  Kate rests back on her elbows. “What are you doing?”

  I can’t find my underwear, so I slide on my jeans without them—being ever so careful with the zipper. “I’m going to head into the office for a few hours.”

  “But . . .” Kate stutters. “. . . but it’s Christmas Eve.”

  “I know. But Media Solutions is finally ready to have a sit-down with Hawaii. We’re going to video conference at nine our time. That only gives me three hours to prep.”

  Media Solutions is a conglomerate I’ve been courting for weeks, and I’ve finally got them right where I want them on a deal that’ll revolutionize social media. Think Twitter, reality TV, and YouTube combined—posting broadcasts from and on your television, the star of your own channel.

  Narcissistic techies will bow down like it’s the second coming of Steve Jobs.

  I give Kate a wink. “But your holiday seduction was definitely worth the lost work time. That Mrs. Claus outfit is going straight to the top of the spank-bank pile.”

  She blinks and sits up straight. The blanket falls down, exposing one creamy breast . . . and suddenly three hours seems like a whole lot of extra time.

  I can make do with two.

  “I’m not worried about your lost work time, Drew. Why are you working at all?” Her enunciation sharpens—the way you’d talk to an old person who’s hard of hearing. “It’s Christmas Eve.”

  Kate Brooks-Evans is many things—a loving wife, an amazing mother, a brilliant businesswoman. It’s that last one that has me expecting her to understand my rationale.

  “If I don’t do this tonight, I lose the deal.”

  “Then you should have told them it’s their loss, not yours.”

  “And you think that’s what you would’ve done if you were in my position?”

  “Absolutely.”

  I button my shirt. And call bullshit. “Easy to say when the deal isn’t actually on your desk, Kate.”

  She doesn’t confirm or deny my observation, which means I’m on right on the money. She stands and wraps the blanket snugly around her body. Kate hiding her assets from my appreciative gaze is never a good sign. “We’re supposed to be at your sister’s in an hour for dinner. They’re expecting us.”

  Her mouth is pursed, her cheeks are flushed, and there’s a fire in her eyes that . . . well . . . that gives me a renewed boner. Always has, always will.

  My dick likes to argue. Sue him.

  “Go without me. You can represent. Drink eggnog with my mother, pretend to listen to my old man talk about holidays past.”

  Her voice rises. “I don’t want to represent! I want to spend the evening with my husband! There’s a time for work and a time for family, and tonight is supposed to be about family.”

  “It is about family!” I counter, my voice doing a little raising of its own. “In the next several hours I’m going to make a shitload of money for our family.”

  She shakes her head. “Oh, please. This has nothing to do with the money, Drew. Not for you.” Then a new thought occurs to her. “And what about James’s gifts? For weeks we’ve been pushing off putting his big presents together—the bike, the trampoline . . .”

  Damn it. I forgot about those.

  “I’ll see if Matthew can come over later and help you out. Until he does, after James is asleep, start to do it on your own.”

  “If I’d known I was going to be alone, I would’ve gone home to see my mother.”

  I step closer. “First of all, this is your home. Second, we talked about this—I’m not dragging James out to Bumfuck, Ohio, for Christmas. We’d be in line at airport security longer than we’d actually be at your mother’s!”

  “We spent last Christmas with your side—”

  “And if your side wanted to see us that badly, she could’ve hauled her ass to New York. She’s one person—our three beats her one. Majority rules, sweetheart.”

  “Screw your ‘sweetheart’—I am so angry at you right now!”

  I roll my eyes. “And we both know you’ll get over it.”

  Kate’s mouth widens in a gasp. And a black boot comes hurtling at my head. She has the aim of a major-league closer, but in the last few years I’ve become a master ducker.

  Smash.

  Another lamp bites the dust.

  “You’re an asshole!”

  “A fact you were well aware of before you married me.” I shrug. “No take-backs.”

  Kate growls.

  So hot.

  Then she stomps down the hall into our bedroom and slams the door behind her, rattling the picture frames on the walls.

  And they say men are the violent ones.

  I sigh. I just don’t have time to deal with this right now. Don’t look at me like that—I’m not trying to be a prick. I love Kate; I hate that she’s mad. But give me a break—it’s one day. Why does she—why do women everywhere—have to make such a big fucking deal over one day?

  I put my shoes on, then walk down the hall and brace my hands on the frame of the bedroom door. And talk through it.

  “Okay . . . so, I’m gonna head out.”

  I wait. I listen.

  Nothing.

  “So that’s how you’re gonna play this? Not speaking to me? Real nice, Kate—very mature.”

  Still nothing.

  I admit—her cold shoulder bothers me. Not enough to change my plans, but enough for me to try to talk her out of the silent sulk one last time.

  “You’re not even gonna kiss me good-bye? What if I get pushed in front of a subway train
by a deranged homeless person? It could happen. And if it does, you’re going to feel awful.”

  That does the trick. The bedroom door is yanked open.

  Kate stands there, with one hand on her hip and a sugary sweet smile on her face. “And we both know I’ll get over it.”

  Then she slams the door in my face.

  chapter 2

  Although I don’t believe I have any actual firsthand knowledge, it’s colder than a witch’s tit outside. Wind cuts through the city streets and the sky is a gloomy gray, hinting at a coming snowstorm.

  On the corner, a block from my building, a scraggily faced man in layered, shabby clothes shouts about the apocalypse—the end of days—and how we all need to turn our lives around before time runs out. It’s not an uncommon occurrence; guys like him litter the city. But today it seems weirdly . . . foreboding.

  I open the door to the building and am greeted by Sam, a security guard in his early twenties who typically helms the night shift.

  “Merry Christmas, Mr. Evans.”

  “Same to you, Sam.” He swipes my ID badge and I ask, “They put you on Christmas Eve?”

  He shrugs. “I volunteered. Hard to argue with time and a half. Plus it gives the fellas with families time to spend at home.”

  Guilt pokes at me like the spring of worn-out couch. But I ignore it. “You don’t have any family?”

  “Not yet. My girlfriend and I are going to my mother’s for dinner tomorrow. She’s out in Yonkers.”

  I slide my badge into my pocket and pull a fifty out of it. “I’ll be here pretty late tonight. In case I don’t catch you on the way out, have a happy holiday.” We shake hands and I slip him the fifty. Because I subscribe to my father’s line of thought: an employee who feels appreciated—and well compensated—is a productive employee. And if I want anyone to be productive, it’s the guy responsible for keeping the building safe.

  He smiles gratefully. “Thanks a lot, Mr. Evans.”

  I nod and head up the elevator to the fortieth floor.

  The offices are dark, the only light coming from the full-size Christmas tree in the corner and the illuminated electric menorah on the table beside it. The whole floor is quiet and still.