He carried me towards the velvet throne, the very seat where countless children had made their Christmas wishes. The irony was not lost on me, but all humor was overshadowed by the sheer, unadulterated passion that consumed us. He gently lowered me onto the plush fabric, the soft velvet a luxurious cushion against my bare skin. My elf tunic, now rucked up around my waist, offered little in the way of modesty, but modesty was a forgotten concept.
He knelt before me, his eyes never leaving mine. His hands moved to the buttons of his shirt, slowly, deliberately, undoing each one. The movement was a torture, an exquisite prolonging of the inevitable. The crisp black fabric fell open, revealing the expanse of his chest, broad and muscular, covered in a fine smattering of dark hair. My fingers
