“Get up. It’s time to go.”

“I’m already up,” Santos, aka Santa Claus, replied while rolling his hips, which earned him a scowl from me and a giggle from his companion.

I turned to the blond bimbo. Okay, to be fair, I had no idea if she was a bimbo. Santos had the ability to pull pretty much all women from rocket scientists to, er, candy cane lickers under his seductive spell. Truth be told, they all became candy cane lickers once he set his sights on them.

“Listen, honey, he’s a one-and-done kind of guy. He’ll use you to get his rocks off”—Christmas euphemisms were Santos’s thing, not mine—“and walk away and never talk to you again. Is that what you really want?”

She eyed the still-impressive bulge in his shorts. “If I get an orgasm out of it, I’m game.”

Mentally, I slapped my palm against my forehand. In actuality, I ground my teeth. “You’ll be out of luck. Giving, at least in that respect, is not how he rolls.”

“Hey—” Santos started.

“How do you know?” Blondie interrupted.

“Yeah, do tell,” Santos added. “Did I miss something along the way? Did I stuff your stocking and neglect to eat your milk and cookies? Maybe we need a do-over.” He eyed me like I’d seriously ever give him a first time let alone a do-over.

“Never have I ever, and never will I ever,” I proclaimed. “I know of him. His reputation. We’ve run in the same circles for a long time.” A few centuries too long, but who was counting?

Blondie’s focus shifted to my outfit. “Why are you wearing so many clothes?”

“Yeah,” Santos said, “you should take them off. Unwrap that present for me.”

Blondie giggled. I glared at her. “Do you even realize that he’s flirting with me?”

She shrugged. “He flirts with everyone. And everything he says makes Christmas sound so dirty.” There she went, staring at his candy cane again.

I bent and grabbed a sheer wrap and tossed it at her before slapping Santos’s leg. “Time to go, Father Christmas. You’re under my protection now.”

He groaned. “You aren’t seriously still doing that whole saving souls gig, are you, Des?”

“As you well know,” I retorted, “since you’ve been dodging me for days now.”

“Sugar plum, if I’d known you were chasing me, I would have slowed my sleigh so you could have a ride.”

“Don’t fucking call me that.”

He waggled his eyebrows. “Should I call you Mrs. Claus instead?”

“Don’t ever fucking call me that.”

The jerk had the gall to laugh at my obvious indignation.

“Do you ever stop?” I demanded.

He rolled his hips again. “Wanna climb my North Pole and find out?”