A Perfect Man for Christmas
An erotic serial in 12 parts
Blog HOP
8th Day of Christmas
by Kay Manis
“Thanks
for the ride.” Wynter flashed Michael a mischievous smirk and
slammed his car door, rattling the leather console.
She
was going to pay for that. No one fucked with his baby…and by baby,
he meant the Porsche 918 Spyder that purred underneath him.
Wynter
tucked one of those fucking swans under her arm as she sauntered into
the hotel lobby. She said you could attract more men with a swan than
honey. “Don’t wait up!” She blew him an obnoxious kiss and
waved good-bye as her luscious hips swayed from side to side. She was
on a mission and as Michael wanted to stop her, he couldn’t.
Michael
growled. Damn foolish woman is going to banish all to Hades.
“May
I park your car, sir?” The valet saddled up to his Porsche, licking
his lips in anticipation.
Yeah,
right, you little pimply-faced kid. Like I’m gonna let you spin out
the tires of my million dollar sports car.
Michael
gazed out the passenger side window and watched helplessly as Wynter
disappeared into the mass of half-naked men inside. What the fuck?
Was there a stripper convention at this hotel? The men parted like
melted butter and stared at her backside as she waltzed through the
crowd. She was good. Too good. Fuck.
“Fine,”
he growled through gritted teeth at the valet.
He
stumbled back as if Michael had struck him.
Michael
shoved the car door and held it open for the twerp but stepped in
front of him before allowing him inside his precious baby. His
massive body towered over the boy’s small frame. “If there is one
scratch on this motherfucker, one teensy, tiny scratch when I get it
back, I’ll rip your head off, shit down your neck and feed you to
the fucking swans at my girlfriend’s house. Got it?”
Wait,
what? Girlfriend? What the fuck? Did he just call Wynter his
girlfriend? He hadn’t had a partner, a girlfriend, hell, a wife for
that matter, in over two hundred years. If Wynter fucked this
assignment up, that would all change though.
“Y-yes,
sir,” the boy stuttered. “N-not a scratch.”
The
poor kid sounded like a bumbling fool. Maybe Michael should put him
on his payroll. He laughed at the lunacy.
Michael
watched as the valet slid into the driver’s seat and drove away at
a snail’s pace. Good boy. At least he wouldn’t have to cast a
spell that kept the kid’s pecker limp for the rest of his life.
With
a heavy sigh, Michael waltzed through the hotel doors, not surprised
to see a flock of men around Wynter. They looked like the squawking
birds in her back yard.
Girlfriend.
Michael laughed to himself. Wynter was nothing more than a piece of
ass, a mission. She could have all the men she wanted as long as she
found the perfect one before Christmas.
As
if sensing his presence, Wynter’s gaze caught his. One side of her
plump lips curled into a delicious smirk.
Mission.
Mission. He reminded himself. She’s just a mission. A means to an
end…your end if you
fuck this up.
Suddenly
the shrill sound of women screaming came from behind him.
Michael
turned on his heels.
Not
one, not two but…wait…Was that eight
fucking chicks flooding out of the elevator? Their screams echoed
through the hotel as if their hair extensions were on fire. They were
dressed the same, in hotel uniforms marking them as maids.
“A
Dios, mio!” one shouted.
“Help!
Help!” A pixie minx with red hair slammed into him. “Get it out
of here!” She pointed back toward the elevator.
“What’s
going on?” One of the strippers who’d been enthralled by Wynter
saddled up to him.
He
eyeballed the guy up and down, his menacing gaze obviously speaking
volumes as the stripper stepped away.
He
pushed the maid away and gazed down into her blue eyes. “What’s
going on?”
“It’s
a…”
“Yes?”
he asked.
“Mierda
es un reno!” a Hispanic woman screamed, jumping up and down, her
hands slapping against her hips.
“Did
you say moose?” His Spanish was rusty, but he was pretty sure that
was the translation.
“No!
Es un reno! Salga de aquí!”
“Holy,
hell,” Wynter whispered next to him. “Is that a fucking
reindeer?”
“Yes.”
The redhead nodded, her body trembling. “And the man in the ivory
suit asked if we wanted to ‘milk his reindeer.’” She used air
quotes. “He made it sound--” Her eyes darted between Wynter and
him as she leaned in closer. “--sexual,” she whispered.
“Kris
Kringle,” he and Wynter said in unison.
Eight
maids a’ milking.
That
motherfucker was the biggest practical jokester Michael had ever met.
“Enough with the symbolism, Kris,” he moaned.
“Ho,
ho, ho!” Kris’s robust voice echoed through the lobby as he led
the reindeer through the posh hotel like it was an everyday
occurrence. “I didn’t mean you’re a whore, Wynter.” Kris
laughed as he nudged my arm. “Although you have been on my naughty
list for quite some time.” His white eyebrows waggled as he ogled
Wynter.
Michael
wanted to punch him in the nuts. Kids may adore him, but Kris Kringle
was the biggest man whore on the face of the earth.
The
reindeer picked that moment to lay a massive Christmas “gift” on
the imported Italian tile floor.
“Ewww!”
everyone groaned.
“Word
in the Underworld is that you’re looking for the perfect man,
Wynter.” Kris smirked and held out his arms. “Here I am.”
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