Her Night With Santa by Adriana Herrera

Chapter 1

Farnaz

“Uncle Mel, are you sure I can crash in this house for the night?” I ask nervously as I drive up to the massive gate of the beachside mansion.

“Yes, sweetheart.” My uncle’s voice assures me through the Bluetooth speakers of my rental car. “It’s fine. You have the codes for the gate and the door, and that’s all you need. No one should be there until tomorrow night, and by then you’ll be on your way to us. Seriously, no big deal. Kris was thrilled to help.”

I make a sound of agreement as I look around in case there’s a guard or something, but the place seems deserted. When your uncle is a literal legend it can be hard to assess when things are regular “no big deal” or “king-level” no big deal. My uncle Mel, aka King Melchior is one of the three kings of the Magi, who for millennia have delivered gifts to Christian brown children worldwide. Not the OG Melchior, he passed centuries ago, but my uncle is his direct descendant and the acting Melchior for gift delivering purposes. And his friend “Kris” is none other than Santa freaking Claus. The jolly bearded dude who hooks up kids with gifts in the colder parts of the world. Which means I’m punching a code to enter Santa’s secret beach villa…on Christmas Day.

It’s a bit of a mindfuck, but I roll with it because my Uncle Mel has never steered me wrong. And as promised, the black wrought iron gates begin to open as soon as I press the green button on the keypad. “Looks like the code for the gate worked.”

“Excellent.” My uncle exclaims happily. “We’re off to the slopes then. Your mother wants you to call her when you get settled in.”

“Okay.” I say weakly, not feeling ready at all for a conversation with my mother.

I love my family, and usually our annual ski trip in the Alps the week after Christmas is one of the highlights of my year. But things have been tense given some of the life changes I’ve made recently. Especially my decision to leave my six-figure design job to start my own adult toy company. That career change is the reason I’m in the Dominican Republic and not in a Swiss chalet with my loved ones.

I was invited here to present my designs to potential investors in Santo Domingo. Even though there’s no offer yet, things look promising. So, despite the rushing around of the last forty-eight hours—and the blowout that ensued after I informed my mother I wouldn’t join the family until late on Christmas Day—the trip was worth it.

I was supposed to fly out first thing this morning out of Punta Cana. But when I got to the airport after driving all night from Santo Domingo, I was informed all flights were grounded due to a snowstorm on the flight route. Which was when I made the frantic call to my uncle—he knows people everywhere—and he found me a place to stay. And if I’m honest, I’m kind of thrilled. Bad weather has done me a solid in the form of some peace and quiet before a week of family time.

“Farnaz are you still there?”

“Yes,” I nod as if he can see me. “I’ll text you once I’m in the house.”

“Enjoy yourself. Kris has exquisite taste, and he loves hosting. Use anything and everything you fancy.”

I give him a distracted yes and make my way into the property. I drive in slowly expecting security guards to jump from every direction or at least to find a groundkeeper trying to block me from driving in, but nothing happens. I stop in the middle of the circular driveway a little in awe. This place is fucking amazing. Being the niece of a king has its perks, don’t get me wrong. But my uncle’s tastes are a little bit more on the baroque side. This place is sleek and modern. A lot of glass and metal, and white. Lots of white.

I feel a little disappointed I only get one night here, because just from the peek I get as I drive in, the private beach looks spectacular and I know there must be an infinity pool somewhere. I do a little shimmy in the seat of my rental as I think about the fucking baller afternoon I can have in this place. I have this gorgeous mansion by the ocean all to myself until the morning and I’m going to go hard on the hedonism.

Once I park the car in one of the spaces of the six-car covered garage—the toy business in the north must pay really well—I go to the door I assume leads inside the house. The code works on the first try and I quickly grab my two bags and head inside.

“Wow.” I say to no one as I look around the huge foyer like I’m a heroine in a Nancy Meyers movie. I tuck my suitcase and my carry-on in the corner and literally turn in a full circle. This place is a perfect beach getaway. Decorated in a simple and minimalist style—and with sunlight streaming in from every direction—it just beckons me to take a load off and relax.

There’s an upstairs, but I’m too blown away with the room I’m in now to go exploring yet. The floor plan is an open concept and from where I’m standing just off the main entrance, I can see the living room which faces an entire wall of floor-to-ceiling glass. The view of the private beach is stunning, and yep, there’s the infinity pool.

Off to one side of the room is a dining room table for twelve, and right behind it is a kitchen that would make any professional chef weep with joy. Even though the décor is on the low-key side—I guess it makes sense for Santa to have more of a Scandinavian vibe going on—the furniture looks comfortable. Lots of teak and white everything with red accents. I grin thinking that Santa clearly does not play with the branding.

My phone buzzes in my pocket and I smile when I see the one-word message from my uncle.

Uncle Mel: So?

Farnaz: You did me a solid unc!! OMG This place is TIGHT. Do I really need to leave tomorrow morning?

I type only half-kidding. It’s past noon and I already know I’m going to want more time here.

Uncle Mel: Don’t even joke, your mother’s already being a handful because you’re going to be a day late. But enjoy your little reprieve there. Treat yourself darling, you deserve it.

I smile at the message knowing my uncle means it. For a man who is a literal legend, he’s the most down to earth guy I know, and always has time for his family. He has like a dozen nieces and nephews and still manages to be regularly in touch with each of us. He’s also the only one in the family currently not looking down his nose at me because I’m thirty-five, unmarried and just bagged my perfectly good job to design ergonomic butt plugs and vibrators.

“Mm.” I moan loudly, as it occurs to me I have all the prototypes I brought for the meetings in my suitcase. Every toy I could possibly want and an afternoon and night to myself in this secret hideaway. My pussy throbs at the thought of all the times I can make myself come.

Time to get on with my solo sexcapade.

I type another thank you to my uncle, turn off my phone, then hurry up the floating stairs in search of the bedroom. There’s a door down the hallway and when I walk inside, I squeal…again. Gleaming wood floors, and a California King four poster bed with a view of the ocean. I literally clutch my chest when I take in the blue sky and the swaying palm trees.

“I’m going to get off so many times in here.” I say as I caress the fluffy snow-white comforter. Immediately I run down to get my bags and take a quick look at the kitchen supplies. Like my uncle promised it’s fully stocked, including half a dozen bottles of champagne.

“Feliz Navidad to me.” I sing, as I make my way up to the bedroom. First a shower, then a snack, and then...some super quality time with my favorite wand and nipple clamps.

* * *

Kristina

“Okay ladies, time for some well-earned R&R.” I inform my team of reindeer as we dock into the climate-controlled stable I had especially installed for them at the villa. Reindeer are not indigenous to the Caribbean, but these bitches roll with anything as long as they get pampered, and here they always do.

I jump off the sleigh and make quick work of getting them all settled into their stalls with food and water.

“Only the best for my girls.” I tell them as they chomp happily on their fresh greens. My team only has female reindeer. Most people don’t realize that female reindeer have antlers too. Just like most people don’t realize that for the last decade all the children who write lists to Santa Claus have been getting their presents from a butch lesbian with a penchant for winged eyeliner and red lipstick.

I sigh tiredly as I make my way out of the stable and head to the villa. I’m exhausted, not just from the last twenty-four hours—which literally took me all over the world. But the last few months of round the clock planning and coordinating the Toy Run. I’m good at my job, no I’m better than good, I’m a fucking beast. But the work takes its toll.

And yeah, in the beginning some of my perfectionism came from feeling like I needed to prove myself. Being the first female Santa in more than a thousand years, means I have to do my job better than any of the dudes that did it before me. And even with the full support of my dad, I still feel the pressure of living up to the legend. So, I go hard, and by the time afternoon rolls around on Christmas Day, I’m done for.

This place is my sanctuary. Santa’s most secret hideaway. A villa in a secluded beach in the Caribbean where I come to rest for a week every year after the run is done. Seven days to myself when I talk to no one, see no one, and do nothing other than lounge around, eat, swim, and sleep. I fiercely protect my time here, never letting even my beloved father come for a visit until I’ve had my week of solitude. I almost weep as I arrive at the door, knowing the staff has made sure the house has everything I could possibly need. And right now what I need is a long soak in the tub, a glass of wine, and a nap.

I take off my designer boots—this Santa rolls in custom Louboutins—which are a little muddy and wet, and leave them by the side of the door before punching in the code. As soon as my stockinged feet hit the warm teak floors of my house, I feel the stress of the last six months start to melt away. I smile at the view of the turquoise ocean and sigh contentedly. This is what I need.

Me, myself and I for a few days. And sure, it could perhaps be nice to be here with someone. To be welcomed with a glass of bubbly and some sweet kisses. But this job is too demanding. Not many people understand the responsibility I feel and the countless hours of work it takes to execute the Toy Run. It’s not easy having a partner when you work Santa’s hours. For now, I settle for this gorgeous view and a few days with nothing on the schedule.

I start undoing the buttons of my jacket as I walk up the stairs. The thick wool lined with fleece is very handy when I’m cruising through the night sky delivering toys, but it’s too warm for the tropics, even in the air conditioning. As I reach the landing I notice a smell, maybe orange blossoms? Weird. Maybe Margo, our housekeeper, changed the cleaning products?

I notice that the door to my room is closed. Also unusual, since Margo leaves all the rooms open and cracks the windows so that fresh air flows through the house before I arrive. I don’t like stuffy places. I start walking very slowly toward my room. The orange blossoms smell gets stronger as I reach the door, and is that a buzzing sound?

“Oh fuck, that’s good.” I hear a woman’s moan come from inside my bedroom.

What the hell is going on?At that very moment my phone buzzes in my pocket, and I take it out to find a message from my father.

Dad: Don’t be alarmed! She’s only there for the night.

I shove the phone back in my pocket, with too many questions flying through my head to reply to him. For some unfathomable reason instead of barging into my bedroom and demanding to know what this person is doing in my room, I quietly turn the knob and step inside.

Holy snowballs! There’s a gorgeous, curvy, caramel skinned goddess on my bed with a vibrator pressed to her pussy, wearing nothing but nipple clamps. I feel a rush of liquid pooling between my thighs, and I’m certain my brain’s shorting with this much new information to process all at once.

First, who is this woman? Second, why am I staring and not alerting her to the fact that I’m here watching her? Third—and most importantly—is that little bit of neon pink I’m seeing between her cheeks a butt plug? Because if that’s the case, then I really need to rethink this whole solitude for a week plan.

There’s no time to search for answers because right as I open my mouth she sits up and looks at me, right before her eyes flutter closed. The intruder is coming on my bed, while I’m standing by the door. And I know then and there that my plans for the week have just gone to hell.