The best Christmas Gift

Meeting Santa

She lets me take the lead, gripping my fingers as I march us through the mall on a mission. I can blank out happy kids’ faces for the sake of her.

The queue at the grotto is so bloody long, I almost suggest we go for brunch instead, but I don’t do it. We’re surrounded by kids desperate to see Santa Claus, but none of them are as desperate as Lorraine is.

Santa’s little home has a cute path leading up to it with artificial grass and snow, and she’s virtually jumping on the spot every step of the way.

She fans her face as we get close to the grotto doorway, mouthing to us just how nervous she is as she steps inside. Her excitement lights up her whole face.

There is no doubt Santa remembers her, because it’s nearly ten minutes before Belinda gets called in for her turn. It’s supposed to be five minutes tops in with Santa. A lap seat, a quick conversation, a hug for a pic, and then out the other side like a conveyor belt, but not for Lorraine.

He’s probably been drooling all over her charitable savior or not. Belinda’s must be an especially quick visit, because I called in after her in a flash. I regret my decision to visit Santa myself when I have to duck and squish past cardboard to make it through the doorway.

I practically fill up the entirety of this cozy grotto with my massive curves. It’s a much smaller little house than it looked from the outside.

Hey there, Santa! I smile at the man sitting in the sleigh chair. He’s a convincing actor, with a thick beard and a padded red suit, and he can’t be all that intimidated by my size, because he taps his knee and beckons me over. Sure, I say. “You can have my butt, if you insist.

It’s when I drop into the natural straddle that I get shivers up my back – tiny whispers that give me goosebumps all up my arms.

I drop my ass onto Santa’s thighs, and his knees dig up into the back of mine in a very memorable fashion – even through my jeans.

It’s weird. Really f*****g weird. But it’s not just that which has my memory on autopilot, it’s the way he shifts.

It’s the way he positions his hands on my waist and tugs me back against him. So distinctive… even at the slightest touch.

No. It can’t be. Have you been a good girl this year? Santa asks me, and my heart thumps so fast it feels like I’m having palpitations.

I must be breaking a sweat. The way his thighs feel under mine, and the way he shuffles, and the way his hands sit could be written off as coincidence, maybe, but some things can’t…

His voice can’t. Not in that tone. I know it so well I struggle to breathe. He pulls me backwards, and the tiniest bounce is enough for another slammer of recognition.

"I’ve been sitting in Santa’s lap plenty of times outside this grotto… I just didn’t know it… “Don’t be coy, he chuckles.

Have you been a good girl this year, or a naughty one? Let me guess. "You’ve been a naughty one, haven’t you?” His tone cracks, just a touch, and it’s one of those crazy moments of you know that I know that you know.

I must be open-mouthed as the camera flashes. I twisted around in the damn sleigh seat and stared into the eyes of the bearded man I should never have crossed paths with.

Not like that. His eyes are dark, mahogany pools with a hint of green. His brows are so heavy.

Eyes I’ve never seen before.

Brows I’ve never admired. “You’re right, I’m definitely on your naughty list, I say, trying to stay as chill as possible. You should know it though, Santa. You know which of my naughty boxes are ticked, don’t you? He plays it cool. Calm. Collected.

What’s your name? He asks me. My eyes bore into his, my voice barely a whisper. You already know my name. Santa gives a ho, ho, ho to the guy behind the camera.

What an apt expression. f**k knows what the photographer thinks of this. I shoot him a glance, but it’s just a teenager on his phone, barely interested now that he’s flashed the snapshot.

My picture is printed out on the table right next to him. Bizarrely, the guy’s lack of interest only adds to the intimacy here.

It’s baking hot. Ho, ho, no, Sugar. What’s your current name? Santa asks me. The thought of telling Santa my real name feels like a confession. “Britt,” I say. Brittany: Yes, Brittany. And what do you want for Christmas, Brittany?

His stare is so deep and so firm, even with his stupid beard on. The natural energy floods in and crackles like static between us.

I want Santa for Christmas. Real f*****g bad. I want the man who has ravaged me so hard I could barely move afterward. The highest-paying beast who has pushed me to the limits and then some. The only man to ever put my safe word on the tip of my tongue.

The brashness of Sugargirl has gone. I’m just Brittany here. The real Brittany. Brittany without walls of balls to keep me safe.get up from Santa’s lap and grab my photo on my way out with thanks, merry Christmaaaaas!

And then I’m gone.

How I fight for air when I’m out the other side, a mess of ragged breaths as Lorraine and Belinda step up to join me, both of them beaming. They’re oblivious to the state of me. Absolutely f*****g oblivious.

Amazing, isn’t he? Lorraine says. You were right, Brittany, he remembered me. Thanked me again for coming to his rescue last year. Belinda sighs. Damnit.

I wish he was an active client. I’d love him to empty his sack , even if he is in a pillow suit. Those eyes. What do you mean if he was an active client? I ask.