Santa, Sir

Beyond a Contract

“Good girl.” He placed me on the bench in the shower before he turned on the water. I used this time to look at him. For a man nearly twice my age, his body could rival a twenty-year-old. He has scars, but his tattoos frame them like a badge of honor. There's so much about him that I don't know, and I wonder if I ever will. He tested the temperature of the water before he pulled me to him.

He washed me before he washed himself. He dried me off and helped me get dressed. He threw on a t-shirt and sweatpants before he walked me to my car. I saw him grimace at it, but he said nothing. He opened the car door. After I sat inside, he buckled me in. “Drive safely and get some rest. We will pick this up tomorrow.”

I smiled softly as I nodded. “Yes, Mr. Rourke.”

A flicker of something dashed across his face but disappeared faster than a snowflake hitting hot pavement. “We will discuss what we call each other and when it's appropriate, another time. You did well tonight. Rest and stay hydrated. Goodnight, Katie.”

“Goodnight, Bad Santa, Sir.” He chuckled as he tapped on my hood. It was time for me to go. I must admit, part of me didn't want to, and that small part scared me.

Ronan's POV

The week since Katie signed the contract settled into a rhythm, an intricate dance between the festive chaos of the mall and the quiet intensity of our shared evenings. The North Pole, usually a temporary assignment I tolerated, now served as an observation deck. I watched her, always watched her, cataloging every nuance of her behavior.

She moved with a newfound confidence, a subtle shift in her posture, a sharper edge to her already quick wit. The green felt tunic, once a symbol of her exasperation, now seemed to embrace her, highlighting the curve of her waist, the defiant tilt of her head. My orders, delivered with the booming authority of Head Santa, no longer met with a flinch. Instead, her eyes would flash, assessing, before she executed them with impeccable precision. The sarcasm remained, a thread of spun gold running through her dutiful replies, but it was now a challenge, not a shield.

Our evenings, however, were where the real work began. Each night unfolded a new layer of her, a new facet of her submission. I'd started small, simple tasks at Rourke Customs: cleaning the parts room to my exacting standards, organizing my tool bench, preparing my dinner. She approached each one with a meticulous focus, her brow furrowed in concentration. She questioned nothing, only absorbed instructions, her hands moving with an almost delicate strength.

Tonight, the thought of the workshop felt… insufficient. I paced the upper level of my apartment, the fire in the hearth casting shifting shadows on the exposed brick. My private space. My sanctum. A place I'd rarely shared, never with a submissive. This was where the true tests lay, where the boundaries blurred and hardened into something unbreakable.

My phone chimed with her text: Here.

I paused my pacing, a slow, deliberate breath filling my lungs. No frantic knocking, no hesitant call. Just a simple declaration. She arrived precisely on time, as always. Obedience was woven into her very fiber, even when she believed she resisted.

I descended the metal staircase, each step a declaration. She stood in the main bay, a small canvas bag clutched in her hand, her eyes sweeping over the custom bikes glinting under the industrial lights. She wore dark jeans, a form-fitting charcoal sweater that accentuated the lines of her shoulders, and worn leather boots. Practical. But there was a spark, an aliveness in her that hummed just beneath the surface.

She turned as I reached the bottom step. Her gaze met mine, unwavering. No fear, no coyness. Just an open inquiry.

"Late night, Head Santa?" she asked, her voice calm, a slight challenge in her tone.

"No Santa here, sub," I corrected, my voice low, a promise and a warning. I stopped a few feet from her, letting my presence fill the space. "Just your Dom."

A shiver traced her spine, a subtle ripple beneath her sweater. I saw it. She didn't deny it, didn't try to hide her reaction.

"Right," she said, her eyes flicking to the sleek black motorcycle nearest her, then back to me. "So, what's on the agenda for tonight, Dom? More inventory checks? Or are we finally graduating to polishing chrome with a toothbrush?"

"Patience, Katie," I rumbled, a ghost of a smile touching my lips. "We graduate tonight." I watched her, gauging her reaction. Her jaw tightened, a tremor in her composure. Good. Anticipation.

"Oh?" Her voice was soft now, the sarcasm fading, replaced by a raw curiosity. "And to what, precisely, do we graduate?"

I gestured to the door at the far end of the workshop, obscured by a rack of spare tires. A heavy, reinforced door, unmarked, uninviting.

"Through there," I said, my voice dropping, imbued with the weight of expectation. "To my private space. Where your true training begins."

Her gaze followed mine to the door, then returned to my face, searching. "The… inner sanctum?"

"Something like that," I confirmed. "A place where the rules are stricter. The expectations are higher. And your surrender… absolute."

She swallowed, a faint bob of her throat. "Absolute," she repeated, the word a question, a recognition.

"Every part of you," I stated, closing the distance between us until I stood directly in front of her, my scent enveloping her. "Mind, body, and spirit. It all belongs to me in there. Are you ready for that, Katie?"

Her chest rose and fell, a quickening rhythm beneath her sweater. She looked at the door again, then back into my eyes. The challenge was clear. The choice was hers.

"I signed the contract, Dom," she said, her voice quiet but firm. "I will say 'jingle bells' if it's too much. Until then… I'm yours."

A slow, satisfied grin spread across my face. She understood. She accepted.

"Good girl," I murmured, my hand reaching out, my fingers brushing against the side of her neck, feeling the rapid pulse beneath her skin. I let my thumb trace the delicate line of her jaw. "Let's go."