Page 15 of Erotic Temptations 1
He turned, holding it up for inspection. “Padding. Official-issue. This will stay put, even if you have to bench-press as linebacker.”
“Did you have this the whole time?” I shot back, torn between relief and annoyance.
He shrugged, eyes sparking. “I was curious to see how long you’d last with that pillow duct-taped to your waist.”
This was flirting. Maybe. Unless my brain was assigning meaning to every look. Either way, I couldn’t help but laugh, tension draining away. I let him wrap the new belly around me, fingers steady as he cinched the Velcro. At his touch, every nerve in my torso seemed suddenly, stupidly aware of itself.
He stepped behind me, smoothed the costume at my back, and adjusted the belt until my make-shift stomach sat perfectly round and proud.
“Much better,” he said, voice lower. The words hung there, strange and loaded, for a split second.
He raked his hands down the costume sides, smoothing any stray wrinkles. Each brush of his hands sent a prickle straightthrough the polyester. I held my breath, waiting for his hands to go lower, but he just stepped back and fished a new pair of gloves from the supply shelf.
“Arms,” he ordered. I complied, letting him slide the gloves over my sticky palms. His fingers lingered, just a second too long, adjusting the seams. He handed me a wipe. “For the drool. From the baby, not me.”
Mason was a charmer. I’d let him drool on me. Now that he wasn’t scowling, I actually wanted to make eye contact.
“Noted,” I quipped, dabbing at my sleeve. I was suddenly hyper-aware of every inch of my skin, the way my neck felt hot, the way I kept glancing at his mouth.
He ducked around, found the Santa hat, gave it a shake, then gently fluffed it before placing it on my head. The effect made the suit feel…complete.
I caught a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the steel closet door. Red suit, jolly belly, perfect white gloves. Mason’s eyes met mine in the reflection. The way he looked at me made it hard to breathe.
He hovered just beside me, closer than he needed to be. “You look legit. Happy?”
“Almost,” I said. “I’ll be happy when this is over and I’m allowed to go home and throw this thing into a bonfire.”
“Santa shouldn’t play with matches.” That smile again, softer now. I wanted to ask if he ever relaxed, but right then, I sort of hoped he wouldn’t. The way he watched me made me feel…I didn’t even know. Seen? A few hours ago I didn’t want him to see me. Now I didn’t want him to look away.
Today was one confusing day.
He motioned me toward the hallway. “Let’s give them a show.”
We stepped back into the chaos of the mall. The volume seemed to have doubled. Every sound echoed—shriekingchildren, bored teens, a tinny version of “Last Christmas” playing on a speaker with the flu. Cinnabon smelled stronger now, pushing out every other scent except for a hint of floor wax.
The photo area had filled up again. The line coiled around a stack of fake presents. Parents scrolled their phones in bored solidarity. Kids bounced in place, half-dressed for snow and half-delirious on sugar.
I squared my shoulders, determined to get through this with as minimal drool as possible.
* * * *
Possible lap-launcher incoming,Mason signaled with a small hand motion as the last kid walked away with a puzzled expression. He’d asked for a rocket. I told him to become an astronaut. His father clarified a toy rocket. I stood by my career advice.
The next child in line had to wait until the last one cleared the red carpet, like they were at some sippy-cup celebrity premiere where the paparazzi consisted of tired parents who couldn’t figure out how to use filters.
I used those precious seconds to position my arm and leg in strategic defense mode. No more human cannonballs. My thighs had the bruises of a UFC fighter, and twice now I’d nearly sung “Jingle Bells” in falsetto. They could drool, try to force-feed me their mushy Cheerios, and leave mysterious stains on my suit that I was choosing not to investigate, but I drew the line at soprano auditions.
A demonic gleam entered the eyes of the approaching boy right as Mason gestured them forward. My arm shot up faster than a teenager's hand at a Beyoncé concert. What was with these tiny savages? The only thing I launched when I was five was Bryce’s stupid green army men after he stuffed them in myMr. Potato Head. The man had a wife and children, for Christ’s sake.
The kid bounced off my forearm like he’d hit an invisible force field. I placed him on my lap with a smile that screamed “Santa loves you” while my eyes said, “Try that again and you’ll get coal until college.”
Mason had invented our little defense system after I’d taken an elbow to my foam-padded dignity. He’d analyze each approaching sugar-bomb, then flash me the “incoming missile” signal if the kid looked like they were gearing up. His success rate? A solid four out of ten. Not an exact science, but better than letting these tiny terrorists decimate Santa’s tender regions.
Meanwhile, I was figuring out how to stop a squirming toddler from plummeting off eight inches of lap. The fake belly hogged most of the real estate on my short legs. One wrong wiggle and this kid was going to discover that gravity didn’t care if you’ve been naughty or nice.
Just what I needed. “Mall Santa Yeets Toddler” trending on TikTok.
Thank the North Pole the dad snapped his precious memory and collected his sugared-up monster before the next wiggle could make me infamous.