Page 10 of Don't Shoot Me Santa

Aaron nearly fucking came.

Two words, spoken with that quiet authority Kenny used when he wanted Aaron wrecked without ever laying a finger on him. A reward. A benediction. A promise wrapped in satin and precision.

He trembled. His cock throbbed in his jeans. And a whimper scraped the back of his throat.

And Kenny—fucker—knew.

Of course, he knew.

Smug and satisfied, he stepped back. Turned. Walked away as if nothing had happened and left Aaron standing there, wrecked and buzzing and trembling in the ruins of his restraint.

Aaron blinked after him, stunned and soaked in heat.

Then, breathless, hoarse, because ofcoursehe was Aaron, and because Kennylovedhim for never going down without a fight, Aaron shouted, “Masochist!”

Kenny chuckled. “Think you mean sadist.” Then he raised his coffee in a lazy salute and climbed the stairs, leaving Aaron in the wreckage.

Chaos padded in a moment later, tongue lolling, tail wagging, and barked at Aaron’s feet. Aaron crouched, ruffled the fur between his ears.

“You wanna go for a walk, huh?” He grabbed the lead from the hook on the wall. “All right then. C’mon, boy.” He clipped the lead, scratched gently behind the dog’s ear, and said, “Good boy.”

Then froze.

Rolled his eyes.

Groaned.

“Fuck praise. Fuck edging. Fuck fucking psychology.” Then, as he walked to the door, he yelled up the stairs and raised his middle finger. “Andfuck you!”

“Could you grab some stamps while you’re out?” Kenny called down. “Need to send these Christmas cards.”

Aaron cursed under his breath, then yanked the door open.

Kenny’s voice trailed down the stairs. “That’s a good boy.”

Chapter two

Baby, It’s Cold Outside

The wind clawed at the windows with a wrath Kenny still hadn’t got used to.

It was the old cottage.

Stubborn and charming in equal measure, the place had stood on the headland for nearly two centuries, built of chalky stone and low-slung timber, with a patchwork slate roof and crooked chimneys that moaned when the gales came in off the Channel. The sash windows rattled in their frames, warped by age to let the sea air sneak through. The draughts wound themselves around Kenny’s ankles, a ghostly presence that never quite left in winter. Especially as he hated wearing socks. Slippers, yes. But socks? They got in the way. Clumsy. Thoughtless. A barrier when instinct or desire struck. He needed to move quickly, to strip fast when Aaron whispered the right thing, or showed he was ready. He planned those moments, of course. Kenny was nothing if not methodical. But socks were a nuisance.

He smirked to himself, leaning back in the battered swivel chair he’d picked up at a charity shop in Ryde. They’d madea vow early on: to live simply, sustainably. To recycle, upcycle, and maintain some kind of respectful equilibrium with the world, hoping it might stop trying to crush them.

Two years in, and they were doing all right.

He reached for his phone and typed out a message.

Operant conditioning update: prolonged deprivation appears to increase subject’s reactivity to minimal stimulus. Hypothesis: by now, a single “good boy” whispered at the door would result in spontaneous orgasm. Further testing required. Don’t forget the milk x

He zoomed it off to Aaron with his gut warming and his cock stirring and, oh, yes, lots of ideas for what came next.

He didn’t need a reply. He could already see Aaron’s reaction. Pink-cheeked, lips parted, probably staring at his phone in utter aggravation. That tight inhale. His frustrated groan. The twitch in his jeans. Kenny felt it all curl in his belly, warm and slow. Not the rush of urgency. No. Better. Sustained. Controlled. He didn’t want Aaron to come home desperate. He wanted him to come home soft, ruined, and grateful.

Further testing, indeed.