Santa's Naughty Little Secret

Ava Hart's Point Of View. Christmas was supposed to feel warm, magical, families laughing around a Christmas tree but for me, it had always been a reminder of everything I did not have anymore. I had lost my parents at a very young age. Everyone talked about family gatherings and childhood memories, while I learned to celebrate with whatever was left of my heart. I smiled, acted normal, pretended the season did not ache, but it always did and this year, walking into the Carters’ lodge, I felt that similar ache. Mia Carter had been my friend since the first week of college, the loud, dramatic, messy and somehow always lovable who sat beside me in economics class and whispered, “Wake me up if I snore,” right before falling asleep on my shoulder. Within a week, she was calling me “bestie,” dragging me everywhere, insisting we were soulmates long before I believed it. She was a chaotic charm wrapped in eyeliner and impulsive decisions, but somehow, she became the sister I never had. She came from a complicated family. Her parents had divorced when she was fourteen, and she had stayed with her mother ever since. I had heard stories about her dad over the years, strict, private, too serious for his own good but I had never met him. This Christmas was her first time celebrating with him after years, and because Mia could not handle any situation alone, she grabbed my wrist, packed my bags for me, and decided I was coming along whether I liked it or not. “Ava, I swear if we don’t reach in ten minutes, I am going to eat the car,” Mia groaned, as she tapped the steering wheel with her small, ring-covered fingers. Her messy brown curls bounced with every frustrated huff as she drove us along the snowy mountain road. “We had sandwiches two hours ago,” I laughed, watching her hazel eyes widen like I had personally offended her. “That was TWO hours ago!” she argued, clutching her stomach dramatically. Her round cheeks puffed as she pouted. “I am starving to death, woman.” “You are dramatic,” I muttered, earning another exaggerated eye roll from her. Her long lashes fluttered like she was auditioning for a movie. “I am hungry, there’s a difference,” She shot back, flipping her curls over her shoulder with a sharp flick of her wrist, the tip of her nose scrunching in irritation. “Look, that’s the lodge. We are almost there,” I said, leaning forward and pointing at the glowing lights ahead. “Thank God,” Mia yelled, her whole face lightened up with a wide grin, sparkling hazel eyes, and dimples popping like she had just seen heaven itself. We rolled into the driveway ten minutes later. The lodge looked unreal up close, warm lights lightning up, against the dark, smoke curling lazily from the chimney, wreaths hanging on the tall wooden door. The moment Mia turned off the engine, the front door swung open and there he was. Mia’s father. Blake Carter, standing in the doorway like he had been waiting for us. Mia let out a dramatic sigh beside me, already unbuckling the seat belts, “Finally,” She muttered, as she shoved the door open and stepped out into the cold. He looked nothing like the man in the framed photos Mia still kept on her dorm desk. He wore faded grey sweatpants slung low on his hips and a white T-shirt stretched across his chest, sleeves tight around biceps. He lifted a hand in greeting, with an easy smile, and warm lake-blue eyes, but the moment, his gaze landed on me climbing out of the passenger seat, a strange emotion flickered across his face but it was enough for heat to pour straight between my thighs. Mia launched herself at him, hugging him hard. I hung back, clutching my duffel bag like a shield, trying, but failing not to stare at the way his shirt rode up, the moment he hugged her back, exposing a strip of tanned skin above the waistband of those sweatpants. He set Mia down and turned to me. “Ava,” He said, his voice was low and rough. “Welcome to the Carter Lodge. You look amazing.” His gaze dragged over me, slow and deliberate, lingering on my legs in these stupidly tight jeans, on the way my coat hugged my waist, on my mouth the moment, I nervously wet my lips. Heat flooded my cheeks, my chest, lower. I felt it pool hot, between my legs, an ache I had no right to feel. “Hello, Mr. Carter,” I managed, while tucking a strand of my hair behind my ear. My voice came out softer than I intended. “It’s Blake,” He corrected, soft but firm, the kind of tone that made my knees want to part all on their own. “Dad, please tell me you made food. I am literally dying,” Mia groaned as she dragged her bags out, her cheeks were flushed from the cold. “You had sandwiches two hours ago.” Blake raised an eyebrow at her, his expression was calm, but lips curved in a faint, teasing smirk. “EXACTLY!” Mia threw her hands up dramatically, her blue eyes widened like she was genuinely offended at the timeline. “Still dramatic, I see,” He muttered, while shaking his head with a faint smile, the smile softened the usual stern lines of his face. “That’s what I told her,” I laughed under my breath, nervously. Blake looked between us, amused, while his eyes narrowed slightly with a warm, fatherly fondness for Mia and forbidden desires, the moment they shifted back to me. “I don’t think anyone has ever died from a two-hour gap between meals, Mia.” “Watch me,” She muttered, while stomping past him into the house, her boots thudding loudly on the wooden porch. “Long drive?” Blake chuckled, turning back to me. His broad shoulders blocking most of the doorway, posture relaxed but somehow powerful. “Yeah,” I nodded, trying not to stare at him directly. I crossed my arms, pretending I was cold and not flustered. “But it’s worth it. The place looks beautiful.” “I am glad you like it,” He said, his gaze softened, and his lips pulled into a gentle, barely-there smile that made his entire face look younger. For a moment, neither of us moved. I stood there shivering, trembling, flustered and unsure. My n*****s felt aroused, and they ached against my thin sweater. "Come inside. The dinner is ready," He said in a low voice and shifted, just enough to let me pass, while one big hand was curling against the door frame. Those thick veins stood out along his forearm. Christmas had officially begun, and I was already soaked, already ruined, already walking straight into the kind of trouble that might end with my panties in his pocket and his c**k buried so deep I forget my own name.