Unlike me, Kate is good about waiting. She likes to be surprised, so I don’t have to put in the extra effort of hiding her gifts to keep her from sneaking a peek.

I walk into the living room—and stop dead in my tracks. I was planning on going home only for a few minutes, to let Kate know I’d be at the office the rest of the evening. But those plans get tossed out the window.

Because reclining in the chaise longue is a gift that beats the hell out of anything I’ve ever seen sitting under a tree.

My wife, Kate Brooks-Evans.

Kate Brooks-Evans in lingerie.

Kate Brooks-Evans in see-through, Christmas-themed lingerie.

Her smooth legs are crossed at the ankle, bare except for the spiky heeled, shiny black boots that end below her knees. A sheer red nightie, trimmed in fluffy white fur, covers tiny red panties—held together by two silk bows tied at her hips. A shiny black belt cinches her flat stomach, and more white fur embellishes the strapless neckline, bringing my attention to her perfect breasts and pink nipples pressing against the gauzy fabric. Kate’s luscious dark hair falls over her shoulders, curled at the ends, and a fleecy red-and-white Santa hat sits on top of her head.

She smiles mischievously. “Welcome home, Santa.”

“Mrs. Claus,” I smirk, “you’ve changed.”

“It was time for a makeover.”

I start unbuttoning my shirt. “Want to sit on my lap . . . or my face . . . and tell me if you’ve been a nice girl this year?”


Kate chuckles. Then she tucks her legs under her, rises onto all fours, and crawls down the chaise toward me.

It’s so damn sexy my cock stiffens so hard that you could hang an ornament from it.

“Well, I’ve tried to be nice, but every time I look at you, the naughty just takes over.”

Kate bites her lip—’cause she knows it drives me crazy—and watches my every move as I toss my shirt on the floor. Her eyes caress my arms, chest, and abs, then focus on my fingers as I slowly unbutton my jeans and lower the zipper.

I shrug. “I’ve always thought ‘nice’ was way fucking overrated.”

With my typical lack of shyness, I push my pants down and step out of them. My dick juts out proudly, eye level with Kate, straining for her attention. But before she touches me, I remember James—our five-year-old.

“Where’s the evil elf, by the way?”

“I dropped him off at your sister’s. He’s decorating gingerbread cookies with Mackenzie and Thomas.”

“And biting their heads off?”

“Of course.”

Here’s an interesting fact: how you eat a gingerbread man says a lot about your personality. Head-first eaters are ambitious, independent, and magnetic. Feet-first are the more artistic, creative types, and those who start with the hands are kind and nurturing. Same rules apply for chocolate Easter bunnies.

Maybe you’re wondering how I came to know this information?

I looked it up. Because James is a head-first eater.

And Kate and I were . . . unsettled . . . by all the headless chocolate bunnies lying around last Easter.

But—good news—he’s not a serial killer in the making, he just has the same driven, bound-to-be-a-success temperament as his parents.

During my research, I also discovered that sociopaths and CEOs share a lot of character traits—but we’ll talk about that another time.

There are other, more crucial matters at hand.

“So, we have the whole apartment to ourselves?” I ask.

Kate licks her lips happily. “Yep.”

My dick gets even harder, thinking of the possibilities. “That means we can fuck in the living room? The hallway? The kitchen?”

A center island is the perfect height to comfortably eat a woman out while she’s perched on the counter.


I think not.

Kind of makes you rethink the meaning of “eat-in kitchen,” doesn’t it?

Kate replies, “Yes. Yes. And definitely yes. I’ve missed kitchen sex.”

I’ve missed bending her over the arm of the sofa and pounding her from behind.

Oh—and sleeping naked. I haven’t slept naked for a year and a half. Not since my son crawled into our bed in the middle of the night and asked why I wasn’t wearing pajamas. Telling him the truth—that it’s liberating and makes it more convenient to screw his mother—was out of the question. So I just said I forgot.

He thought that was funny. And I’ve slept in boxers almost every night since.

When people tell you having kids changes things—they’re not screwing around.

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